“So it is,” she whispered, reaching up and pulling his head down to hers. Their kiss was full and sweet, and she was warm and ready, tilting her hips up for his thick, gorgeous slide, closing her eyes and losing herself in the sweet dark magic of desire. The ebb and flow, thrust and withdrawal, building and building, almost to the point of pain, and then glorious release, cascading down.

Later, when she lay spent and breathless on the huge bed, she watched him rise and stretch, a man, an angel, a blood-eater well pleased with himself and his life. He cast her one salacious grin before heading into the bathroom, and she managed a weak grin back. She only wished she had his energy.

After seven years their bond had only grown stronger, so tight that nothing could break it. Not even the laws of nature, she thought with a trace of grim determination. She didn’t care what the rules were. She was never going to die, never going to leave her immortal husband. She flat-out refused.

It was the way of things, she was told. The Fallen didn’t make mistakes. Once they’d chosen a partner, that connection became unbreakable. As the wife grew older and older. And the husband stayed young forever.

She was lucky, though. She was the Source, the spiritual leader of the Fallen, the mother, the nurturer. And the source of blood to sustain those without partners, even the grumpy and unaccepting Azazel, husband of Sarah.

As the Source, she would live much longer than the short human span. But after a couple of hundred years she would die, and Raziel would go on. And she couldn’t bear it.

She sat up. She considered herself a practical woman, and she limited her brooding to a few minutes daily at the most. Right now there was no time for it. She had a naked husband in the huge walk-in shower, and she needed to bathe as well. And he was so good at soaping her up.

She needed to eat, and to get ready. Something was coming that would require everything from her. Something was coming that would change everything.

She needed to be ready.

IT WAS ENDLESS, FLYING THROUGH storms and dimensions, past the angry roar of a demigod, her broken body wrapped carefully in his arms. She didn’t awaken, which was a blessing. She was afraid of flying, and he’d had to knock her out the last time he carried her, or her struggles could have sent them hurtling toward the ground. He would have been fine, but a crash could have killed her, and he hadn’t wanted to risk it.

Right now she was barely breathing. There was a ring of blue around her lips as she struggled for breath, and he wondered if they’d damaged her heart.

No, he was the one who’d done that. Stupid and cloying as the idea was, he’d seen the look on her face when the Nightmen arrived and known that was exactly what he’d done. He’d broken her heart.

But what choice did he have, one he’d brought her to the Dark City? He had survived his incarceration there long ago, and he’d lied to himself, told himself that she would survive as well.

He’d been an idiot not to realize the lengths to which the archangel Uriel was willing to go. An idiot not to recognize the Dark City for what it was: Uriel’s perverted afterlife, a heaven made for those who had already lost their souls. And he’d delivered her straight into Uriel’s bloody hands.

He was half-afraid Uriel would do something to try to stop him; but if an angel, fallen or otherwise, chose to leave the Dark City, no one could prevent him. The laws of free will still held, no matter how Uriel despised them. He would find a way to circumvent them sooner or later; but so far he’d only been able to send the Nephilim in an abortive attack upon Sheol.

Azazel wasn’t going to think about that, about the unbearable day seven years ago when Sarah had died. He had to concentrate on getting Rachel to safety, getting her the help she needed. He had to let go of mourning and concentrate on the living, at least for now.

He landed on the beach lightly. The early morning mist was rising from the sea, and the sand was deserted. He looked up at the huge, cantilevered building that housed the Fallen and their wives, its blank windows reflecting the deep blue of the sea. He would have to wake them. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t made a sound for the last hour, but she was still breathing. He held on to that much, and started toward the wide entrance, cradling her carefully.

She stepped out onto the lawn. She looked straight at him, clearly waiting for them, and he felt his usual anger flare up. But it was no match for his need.

She took one look at Rachel and immediately became efficient. “The infirmary is set up for her, and I have Gabriel’s wife, Gretchen, waiting. What happened?”

He followed her into the hall, responding to her businesslike tone. “She was tortured.”

“The Truth Breakers?”

He was surprised she even knew of their existence, but then he’d forgotten the bond that grew between the Fallen and their mates. Raziel would have told her everything. “Yes.”

“Poor child,” she murmured.

“She is not a child,” he said sharply. “She was once the Lilith, the first woman, and a murderous demon. Even if she has forgotten her past, she could still be dangerous.”

“Then why are you holding her so carefully?” the woman shot back. “I don’t care what her history is, right now she’s a wounded child and she needs help.”

“Yes.” He didn’t have to ask her, didn’t even have to call her by name. She would do what he needed, because that was who she was. The Source, as his Sarah had been. The healer, the nurturer. The only person he could trust who could help her.

He laid Rachel carefully on the hospital bed, but she didn’t awaken. There was a hitch in her shallow breathing; he could sense her pulse, the blood in her veins, and they were sluggish, fading. She was dying.

He turned to the woman he hated, the woman he refused to call by name. “Please,” he said. “Please, Allie. Save her.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “I will.”

I FELT AS IF I were drowning in something thick and viscous. I couldn’t fight my way out of it—the more I tried to push toward fresh air and sunlight, the more it fought me. I was dying and I knew it. I couldn’t breathe, and the sun was too far away. I fought. I wasn’t ready to die, but I could barely form a conscious thought. I didn’t know who I was, where I was, I only knew that the pain was unbearable, and I would scream until they came and put something in a tube, and then I could rest again.

There were people around me, shadowy shapes tending to me, tending to the body I hid inside, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. I wanted to crawl off to a cave and heal myself, but I sensed that was no longer possible. I needed help, and I had no choice but to accept it as I learned to ride the pain; it ebbed and flowed, crushing me in an iron fist and then releasing me. I had to fight so hard to live through the storm. I had been through worse, I knew it instinctively, even if I couldn’t remember where or when. I had survived unspeakable horrors, but those memories were locked away in a place I never had to visit again. If I could just get through this, I thought, struggling to breathe. One more minute, one more hour, one more day, and then everything would be all right.

Even in my half-conscious state, I knew that was a lie. I knew that once I worked my way through whatever torment was being visited upon me, the respite would be brief; then life would once again pull the rug out from under me. It would never be all right. It would be pain and despair and disaster, and it would be so much easier just to let go.

I tried to. I felt the soft, sinking cushion enfold me, and it was so warm, so comforting, that I wanted to release the desperate hold I had on everything and drift into it, lost forever. I let myself float, only to have a harsh voice call me back, berating me, angry and demanding. I knew that voice, knew that tone. He should have been no inducement to live, but he was. I pulled myself out of the soft darkness and went toward him, knowing instinctively that there was the light. There was why I wanted to live.