He’d feel that way toward anyone. Torture was an abomination, and it was little wonder he felt guilty for handing her over. And he had no excuse for shoving her up against a wall and having sex with her before they took her. He hadn’t been able to stop himself, and he’d told himself that if he could come inside her and then give her to the Truth Breakers, then the prophecy must be a lie.

And so he had. He’d proven what he needed to prove, and whatever knowledge she had wedged in her brain about where Lucifer lay trapped had been extracted and stolen. Uriel had it now, though presumably he’d already known it in the first place. When the Supreme Being had passed the reins to the last archangel, he’d ordered him to watch over the universe he’d created. There was no telling what the details were.

Uriel had seized his new role with a vengeance, wielding ancient power to smite evil wherever he could, sending plagues and floods and fires and devastation wherever he saw fit. Some humans saw it as God’s curse; more enlightened ones declared such tragedies the law of nature, to be endured with God’s help. They had no idea that God’s minion had visited disaster upon them.

Just as he’d fed on Azazel’s own fear that he was doomed to spend eternity as the mate of a horrific demon. And Azazel had been fool enough to let him.

He was tired of waiting. He was doing his best to get along with Allie, but she was still a strongminded female who was slowly turning the laws of Sheol upside down, while Raziel watched carefully, seldom restraining her. She ruled the infirmary; she ruled the house and the women. She was the Source for the unmated Fallen, she was omega to Raziel’s alpha. But he was getting tired of her shit.

He was perched on the outcropping, high over the ocean and the vast building that housed the Fallen. The moon was shining down, mirrored by the dark sea, and he suddenly surged upward into the dark sky, then settled lightly on the damp sand. The time had come.

He didn’t recognize the young girl sitting at the desk in the anteroom of the infirmary. Clearly she’d been left on duty, and he put the Grace of sleep on her lightly, so that she’d wake in a few hours. He didn’t want to put Rachel at risk by knocking her caretaker out so thoroughly, but if she needed help Allie would know and leave her bed. Rachel would be in no danger.

He pushed open the door silently and slipped inside. She was asleep, as she had been those first days after he’d brought her and he wouldn’t leave her bedside. He could recognize her now. Her battered face was no longer swollen, the bruising faded to an ugly yellow. She was healing, slowly but surely.

She no longer had tubes connected to her body, though she looked very small and frail in the big white bed. It wasn’t right. He thought of her as strong, powerful, not a vulnerable human.

She still had bandages around her arms and legs, and her torso looked swollen under the sheet, either from bandages or her injuries. He didn’t want to wake her.

He sank down in the chair Allie had banished him from and watched her, contemplating her injuries. Allie’s gifts as a healer were extraordinary; such was always the case with the Source, and Rachel would be well very quickly, much faster than with normal human medicine. Raziel and Allie had decreed that she would stay. They hadn’t taken her into account.

If he’d learned one thing, it was that Rachel had a mind of her own. The problem was, she wouldn’t be safe anywhere else. Uriel hadn’t finished with her, and only the walls of Sheol could keep him out. At least for now. Uriel had spent millennia trying to figure out how to breach them, and he’d only succeeded with the Nephilim a few years ago. Sooner or later he was going to come up with an answer, though, and there would be little they could do.

She stirred in her sleep, murmuring something, and he jerked his head up, holding his breath. She slipped back into sleep again, and he relaxed, glancing toward the monitors that kept track of her pulse and her blood pressure—only to see that they were spiking.

His eyes swiveled back to her, and she was looking at him with such complete terror that it shocked him.

“Do not scream,” he said, his voice soft so as not to alert anyone.

She was shaking, and he wanted to put his arms around her and pull her against him, soothing her. Except he was the one who was frightening her. “I can’t.” It was barely more than a breath of sound in a raw, damaged voice, and he remembered that Uriel had said her voice had broken.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, starting to rise, but she shrank back, and he quickly sat down again so as not to spook her. “I wanted to see how you are.”

There was no missing the flash of contemptuous disbelief in her face. “Why should you care?” she whispered.

That was one question he couldn’t answer. “Allie is a very gifted healer.” By now he’d gotten used to praising Allie, though it still stuck in his craw just a tiny bit. “She brought you back from the brink of death.”

“No thanks to you,” she whispered. He’d forgotten she didn’t remember he’d saved her. It was hardly enough penance for allowing them to put her through such hell in the first place.

“No thanks to me,” he agreed. “But I promise you, you have nothing to fear from me. Not ever again.”

“And you lie so well.” Her voice was getting weaker, and he knew he was putting a strain on it.

“I never lied to you. I am incapable of lying.” It was the truth. He’d explained nothing, but he hadn’t lied.

“Get out of here.” The words were barely audible, but there was no missing the hatred in them.

It was no more than he’d expected. Not the fear—that had been a surprise. But the hatred and anger were normal. He’d betrayed her in every way a man can betray a woman, sent her off with torturers with his seed inside her. In truth, he was the monster.

No, he wasn’t going to tell her he’d changed his mind and gone after her. Too little, too late.

He rose, and stretched out one hand to touch her, wanting the feel of her to be absolutely certain, but she shrank away in such terror and revulsion that he pulled back, knocking against the chair as he went.

“Don’t come back,” she whispered.

He closed the door silently behind him.

I STILL COULDN’T CRY. GOD, if ever there was a time when I needed to weep, this was it. He was the monster, not me. How could anyone make love with someone and then hand her to her executioner? Not that it was making love. In fact, it was sex, hot and rough and primal, and I’d wanted it just as much as he had. I couldn’t remember much—maybe I’d even instigated it. I knew I’d been waiting, longing for him to touch me again, kiss me again.

But I couldn’t remember where we’d been. There was water, and a door behind my back. It was night, but it seemed as if it was always night in the Dark City. Wasn’t that what they’d called it?

Beloch had been nowhere to be seen. My memory was full of holes—he’d been kind, hadn’t he? Almost fatherly, in his book-lined study with the comfortable smell of pipe tobacco. He couldn’t have known that they were—

I couldn’t think about that. About the things they’d done to me. I’d discovered I could refuse to allow certain things into my memory. There were too many lifetimes, too many horrors to withstand, but I could choose to banish those I couldn’t bear. I needed to banish the Truth Breakers, and the knives, and the cooing sound they made.

Gone. It was that easy. Just as I’d banished the hundreds upon hundreds of years of lying down with monsters. It wasn’t this body, and it was over. Gone as well.

I could get rid of Azazel just as easily. Wipe out the memory of his strong hands touching me, his mouth against mine, the way he lifted me on top of him and pushed inside me.