CHAPTER 2
Rook caught up with the angel just as he reached the plateau that overlooked the bottomless pit. The fortress rose beyond it, piercing the black vault of Hell, flickering golden light from the broad river of lava that snaked across the land below him illuminating it. A desire to reach that fortress and forget the intruder pounded inside him, tugged at his chest, but he ignored it.
The angel was his means of securing the position he desired.
His only desire.
He grinned as he closed in, beat his wings harder and narrowed the distance between them down to a few metres.
His crimson eyes briefly leaped beyond the male to sweep over the plateau, and his grin stretched wider. The angels of this male’s ranks who normally called it home were nowhere to be seen.
The fool had no backup.
Did he honestly believe himself strong enough to take him on alone? Powerful enough to battle an entire legion of Hell’s angels? Not just a legion, but the legion. The First Battalion. They had carved their name in bone and written it in blood. They were decimators, destroyers of any who stood in their way, an unstoppable force.
And he was their second in command.
The angel landed and jogged forwards a few steps, towards an outcrop of black rocks that rose near the right edge of the plateau, surrounding the pool.
Rook swept down and landed close behind him.
The male slowly turned and Rook scowled at him, his audacity grating on Rook’s last nerve. Still the angel showed no fear. He strode towards the angel, filled with a need to beat it out of him, to punish him for daring to be so calm when he was achingly close to the Devil’s fortress.
His master’s voice curled around him, burrowing deep into him and filling him with strength. He tipped his chin up and called on his demonic form again. His bones lengthened, muscles bulging beneath his skin as it blackened, and he flashed his teeth as they sharpened and turned crimson.
“I almost recognised him for a moment there.” The voice was male, and foreign, didn’t issue from the angel before him.
He wasn’t alone.
Rook snarled, refusing to let the fact the angel had a comrade dissuade him. He felt no fear. He felt only resolve, the deepest of desires. He had come to claim this angel as his prize, and he would continue with that mission. In fact, he would claim this angel’s companion too.
The Devil was sure to be pleased.
The owner of the voice stepped out from behind the jagged mound of basalt and casually leaned a hip against it as he folded his arms across his broad chest. The tawny-haired male’s rich brown eyes were sharp and focused as they assessed him.
Rook assessed him in return, not missing the fact he wore mortal clothing of a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up his corded forearms and black jeans paired with leather boots.
Definitely not missing the fact the male seemed to have lost something.
His wings.
A fallen angel.
“It’s definitely Rook?” The brunet looked to the dark angel.
“Yes, Einar… I’m sure of it.” The angel glanced over his shoulder at the one called Einar. “Although he claims he does not know any witches.”
Einar’s eyebrows rose. “Maybe they messed with his head.”
Rook growled. “You’re the ones trying to fuck with my head.”
The brunet glanced at his companion. “He certainly sounds like the Rook we knew.”
Rook refused to let his words sway him. Neither of them knew him. He had met the dark angel before in Hell and that was the only reason he felt familiar. He didn’t know this fallen angel.
“Your trick is elaborate, I give you that.” Rook walked to his left, slowly circling the two males, studying them and gathering all the information he could without engaging them. “Do you think bringing a fallen angel will sway me and make me believe you’re not out to hurt me… or perhaps you think it will make me believe you’re some sort of ally of my kind? I hate to disappoint, but it won’t work.”
“No one is out to fool you, Rook.” The dark angel stepped forwards and the twin blades in his hands dematerialised. “And neither of us mean you harm.”
He focused on the fallen one as he slowly edged around, closer to him. It was possible the male was concealing his wings, pretending to be fallen. As the dark angel moved out of his line of sight, clearing the path between him and Einar, the power the black-winged deceiver emanated grew weaker, enough that Rook got a clearer sense of Einar’s power.
It was bound.
Rook had met fallen angels, most of them shortly before they pledged themselves to his master and became like him. This male had all the markers they had borne, a sense that whatever power they had once commanded, it was muted now, hidden beneath layers of pain that ran soul-deep.
“My battalion is coming.” Rook’s gaze darted between them, gauging their reaction to that news.
Neither seemed fazed.
He wanted to grin as it dawned on him that they weren’t going to flee. They intended to fight. The fallen angel would be an easy target, and his pain-in-the-ass comrade would be distracted by protecting him when the battle happened. Capturing them both was going to be almost too easy. He could almost taste that promotion.
Before the metaphorical night was through, he would be one of only a handful of angels trusted by the Devil as his right-hand men.
From there, he would work his way up through that group, tearing down any who stood in his way.
Although, achieving the role of his master’s closest advisor and most-trusted angel would be impossible.
It belonged to the brute, Asmodeus.
An angel who Rook had never seen, had only heard the bloody rumours about. He was legendary. A monster who terrified the demons that inhabited Hell, and one who even some of the Devil’s angels feared.
“Take this.” Einar’s bass voice snapped him back to the foolish angels who were about to become his ticket to glory and power.
Rook scowled at the white card he offered, one that was barely the size of the male’s palm.
Einar glanced at his comrade. “I don’t think he’s going to make this easy, Apollyon.”
“It is a shame that Taylor refused to set foot in this realm. We could have used her help.” The black-haired angel took the card from Einar, and questions about the female he had called Taylor fled as the male shifted his blue eyes to land on him.
Apollyon.
Rook knew this male’s name.
It was almost as legendary as that of Asmodeus.
This angel was destined to battle the Devil at set intervals, his master’s freedom hinging on whether he won or was defeated. Rumour had it that if he won, the Devil could walk free of Hell. Rook couldn’t vouch for how true that was. He only knew tales of the Devil being defeated and confined within his fortress until the power that held him there weakened, allowing him to stray into the lands surrounding it.
“Just take a look.” Apollyon turned the white card towards him.
Rook’s eyes fell to it.
A strange sense of longing swept through him.
Confused the hell out of him.
He didn’t know the ethereal female someone had sketched on the card.
Her pale eyes seemed to hold him though, as if she possessed some power over him, and he couldn’t tear his away from her.
“This is Isadora,” Apollyon said in a low voice, “and she needs your help. You were her guardian once.”
The spell shattered.
His gaze snapped up to meet Apollyon’s.
Instantly dropped back to her again as a thousand questions boiled inside him, twisted him in knots he tried to untangle and free himself from. Whenever he came close to convincing himself it was all a ruse, the threads of those questions tightened around him, holding him fast.
He stared at the female. Isadora.
Her name rang in the chaos of his mind.
“Isadora is the witch I told you about. The one who needs your help, Rook.” Apollyon’s tone was measured, each word spoken carefully, as if the male feared rousing him from his reverie.
It wasn’t possible.
Nothing could stop him from looking at her.
Isadora. A witch. His ward?
He shook his head. “I’ve been an angel of Hell for centuries… no witch can live that long. They’re as mortal as the humans. You’re lying to me.”
Yet he still couldn’t tear his gaze away from her.
“We don’t know how she has survived so long,” Einar said and he sensed the male move away from the rocks, coming to stand beside Apollyon.
“We only know that she is in danger, Rook.” Apollyon.
That same collected tone, each word spoken in a way that irked Rook for some reason. Always with the damned control. For once, Rook wanted to see him let loose. He wanted to see him raise hell.
Why?
The desire winked out of existence before Rook could find the answer to that question. It meant nothing. He focused on the drawing of the female. Isadora. Was she something?
She was nothing.
He felt he should feel that, but it didn’t stick. The sensation she stirred in him remained, setting him on edge, making him restless with a need to do something.
Fight the angels and claim his position as one of the Devil’s trusted men?
Or save her?
“We need to find her.” Apollyon moved the picture closer to him. “The people who have her might be hurting her right now.”
He growled, the violence of it shocking him together with the urge that bolted through him, lit up his blood and had him stretching his leathery wings—he needed to find her. The thought of her coming to harm had his fangs lengthening, his lips peeling back off them as he gripped his blade.
He needed to save her.
He shook his head, staggered back a step, and wrenched his gaze away from her picture. It was a lie. A trick.
“You have to believe us, Rook.” Einar stepped towards him but Apollyon held his arm out at his side, blocking the male’s path to him.
Rook growled and snapped his fangs at them as he burrowed the fingers of his free hand through his thick black hair. He gripped his skull so hard that it hurt, squeezing it tightly. It was better than the pain of the thoughts spinning through his mind, ones that had him unsure whether he was coming or going, confused about everything as twin needs warred inside him.
Capture the angels and secure his position.
Or save her?
He stumbled back another step.
His master’s voice reached him through the clamour of his thoughts, luring his eyes away from the deceivers to the fortress beyond them.
The First Battalion filled the sky between him and the castle.
His men were coming.
Relief swept through him, threatening to rip his strength from him. He pushed the weakness aside and readied his blade, resolve flooding him as he turned back towards the angels.
They looked over their shoulders.
“Time to leave.” Einar grabbed Apollyon’s arm and the dark angel glared at him. “If we’re dead, we can’t help her.”
No. Rook wasn’t going to let them escape.
He launched at them on a snarl.
Apollyon turned his glare on him and power pressed down on Rook, slowing his movements as it buffeted him, had his muscles growing sluggish as his body fought against the strength of it. He growled and kept pressing forwards, each step harder than the last. The bastard was stronger than Rook had suspected, commanded power far beyond any angel he had met before.
But he wasn’t going to let that stop him.
He just had to delay the male long enough for his legion to reach them.
Apollyon spread his huge black wings, grabbed Einar around his waist and lifted into the air with a single powerful beat.
Rook unleashed a roar and lumbered towards them, intent on stopping them from getting away.
The dark angel was over twenty metres above him by the time he mustered enough of his own power to push back against the overwhelming force of Apollyon’s. The second he was sure his wings wouldn’t fail him, Rook beat them and kicked upwards, propelling himself towards the angel.
Apollyon glanced down, his face dark as the black slashes of his eyebrows knitted hard above his blue eyes.
“Think about it, Rook,” the male bit out and grimaced as he flew harder, increasing the distance between them. “Really think about her.”
He cast his free hand towards Rook and the white card whirled out of his grip, twirled and pirouetted as it danced down towards him. Another wave of power hit him so hard he was knocked from the air. He plummeted to the ground, passing the picture and disturbing its flight.
He grunted as he slammed into the black basalt, his knees taking the brunt of the blow, sending pain ricocheting up his femurs and spine. The sketch of the female swirled into view and gently came to rest before him.
Really think about her?
He reached out and plucked it from the ground, lifted it and stared hard at her face, that odd feeling lingering inside him. He canted his head to his left. Did he know her?
He had never seen her before.
The sensation of Apollyon’s power faded as another rose to replace it.
That of his master.
He swiftly pushed onto his feet and found himself slipping the picture of the witch into the waist of his armour as he twisted to face the fortress.
At the edge of the plateau, the toes of his polished black Italian leather shoes barely touching the flat slab of rock, stood his master.
The Devil.
The black-haired male adjusted the cuffs of the obsidian shirt he wore beneath his tailored black suit jacket, an air of irritation about him as his crimson eyes tracked the two intruders. Something crossed those eyes as the portal opened, a vast crack in the vault of Hell.
Rook looked up, glimpsing blue beyond all the blackness.
The mortal world.
He dropped his gaze back to his master, and the brief longing that had lit his eyes was gone, replaced with pure darkness as they narrowed.
“What did they want?” The Devil lowered his eyes to Rook, his deep voice deceptively mellow.
“I believe they meant to use the pool.” He wasn’t sure why he lied, but fuck, it unsettled him, had him twitchy as he shifted back, letting his demonic form fall away. “One of them was fallen.”
“A fallen angel in Hell that doesn’t belong to me?” The Devil arched his left eyebrow. “And what made you interfere?”
Rook hiked his shoulders. “I thought to capture them.”
The truth.
“Alone?” The Devil’s eyebrow lifted higher and the crimson in his eyes faded, revealing the gold of his irises.
He couldn’t risk lying any more to his master, needed to find a way to deflect the male’s questions away from what the angel and the fallen one had wanted. He liked his head where it was, on his shoulders, and the position of it was likely to change if the Devil discovered he had lied.
At the very least, it would screw up his chances of achieving command of the First Battalion.
That legion of Hell’s angels hovered in the air behind his master.
“No.” Rook jerked his chin towards his men. “They were late.”
“And were not dispatched by you when you first encountered the maggot. I had to dispatch them. Why?” Shadows flitted across the Devil’s sculpted features and Rook braced himself.
His master was known for his mercurial temperament.
He wouldn’t get any warning if the Devil decided to take his head. Maybe that was a good thing. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know in advance if he was going to die and end up serving Heaven again, stripped of all his memories to start anew as an angel.
Had he been a guardian angel as Apollyon and Einar believed?
Had the witch been his ward?
He pushed those questions aside. “The angel thought to taunt me. It distracted me. You summoned them before I could.”
“A trait very unlike him. Apollyon does not taunt. So what was the real reason he came to you?” The Devil looked as if he wanted to close the distance between them and a flare of crimson ringed his pupils when he looked down at his feet.
The power that kept him confined was fading, but evidently his master couldn’t move further from his fortress than his current position.
Not wanting to enrage the one he served, Rook obediently moved towards him, showing the Devil that he didn’t intend to remain beyond his reach. He did not fear his master, was his to command, and he trusted the male.
He stopped when he was within reach of the Devil, bowed his head and pressed his left hand to the chest of his crimson-edged black breastplate. “He attempted to make me believe I know him. When I resisted and mentioned the legion had been dispatched, he fled to this plateau where I pursued him and he revealed a fallen angel was with him. I believe he intended to fool me into following them from this realm by making himself appear an ally of the male… one who is like me.”
“You are powerful, Rook. There are those in this world who would like you removed from my company.” The Devil lifted his left hand, smoothed his palm along the straight line of Rook’s jaw, and viciously closed his fingers around his throat. He forced Rook’s head up so their eyes met. “But are you sure that is the only reason they were here?”
Rook managed a nod.
The Devil’s grip on him tightened, short black claws pressing into his flesh, and he choked as he fought for air.
His master smiled coldly. “I would hate for you to lie to me, my dearest Rook.”
“No lie,” he ground out as he struggled to breathe. “I wanted to… capture them… to please you… all I wanted.”
The Devil’s gold-to-crimson eyes brightened as his smile gained warmth and he released Rook’s neck to pat his cheek.
“You have always pleased me.” He turned away from Rook, all of the warmth leaving his voice as he added, “make sure it continues to be that way.”
He disappeared.
Rook waited for the legion to leave before he let his legs give out, landed on his knees on the plateau and stared at the fortress.
Why hadn’t he told his master about the female?
It had been on the tip of his tongue, at the front of his mind to do so, but something had stopped him. He pressed a hand to his bare stomach. It swirled and swayed, uneasy as he considered telling the Devil about the witch.
Rook pushed onto his feet, a need to be alone rushing through him. He kicked off and spread his wings, swiftly covered the distance between him and his basic quarters in the camp belonging to the First Battalion. He ignored the questions of his men as he landed, strode through the busy camp and ducked through the open door of the black stone building that was his home.
He shut the wooden door behind him and slumped onto the flat slab that served as his sole piece of furniture.
Why had the thought of telling his master about Isadora given him a bad feeling, one that lingered even now?
Why couldn’t he bring himself to tell the Devil everything? His master was just that—the one who commanded him, deserved his absolute and unwavering loyalty.
But he had lied to him today.
More than once.
And he hadn’t done it to keep his head on his shoulders or ensure he could still achieve the position he desired.
He had done it to protect the witch.
He looked around, checking no one was outside the open spaces in the walls that acted as windows in his small hut, and focused his senses to make sure everyone was at a distance.
Satisfied he would be undisturbed, he leaned to one side and carefully pulled the white card from the waist of his armour. He settled it in his palm and hunched over, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at it.
Stared at her.
Isadora.
Why had he hidden her from the Devil?
Apollyon and Einar were wrong. He didn’t know her.
She was beautiful though, bore no resemblance to the human females he had met in the past. There was an otherworldliness to her, something about her making her appear more fantasy than reality. He shook his head at that. She was a drawing, and for all he knew, she wasn’t even real. She could be another lie, told to him by the angel to make him falter and tempt him away from Hell.
Whoever had drawn her had done well though, evoking an image that was mysterious and enticing, and strong yet delicate. Delicate? She was a witch. Witches were powerful, dangerous, and known to be vicious, ruthless in their pursuit of power.
He didn’t remember ever meeting one, but once or twice in his lifetime, he had visited places where there had been some. Whenever he had discovered witches were present, he’d had an odd urge to avoid them. Something about them made him wary, had him wanting to keep his distance and ensure they didn’t see him.
He wasn’t sure why.
Had a witch done something terrible to him in a past life?
Had it been her?
Rook scrubbed his eyes and shoved the sketch under the pillow that rested at the end of the bench furthest from the door. She was a lie. A fabrication. He had to forget about her.
He considered burning her picture by tossing it into one of the arteries of lava that criss-crossed the valley not far from him.
For some reason, the thought of destroying it caused a tight knot in his breast.
He settled on ignoring it instead and focusing on resting, because he had patrols to lead later and an interrogation to oversee at the prison. He didn’t need the angels or the witch distracting him. If they wanted to save her, they would find a way. There was no reason for him to get involved.
Rook unbuckled his greaves and removed his boots, and then stripped off his vambraces, placing them close to the head of his bench in case he needed them. He could easily manifest them on his body rather than manually donning them, but he was tired, in need of rest, and wanted to conserve his strength. He rolled his shoulders and reached for the buckle on the right side of his breastplate, tilting his head downwards at the same time.
He froze.
Stared at the four-inch band of ink that wrapped around his forearm just above his wrist.
His eyes charted the intricate black and violet swirls, picking out the hints of blue and red that hid among the design. He’d had them for as long as he could remember, but he didn’t recall where or when he had got them done. They were beautiful though, captivated him whenever he looked at them, and the more he stared at them, the stronger a feeling inside him grew.
They meant something.
He had studied tattoos in his free time, had visited establishments that specialised in them in the mortal world, but no one had been able to tell him what they meant. Some settlements in Hell had males of his kind who were dedicated to inking their brethren with designs related to both Earth and this realm.
Whenever he considered approaching them to ask about his own ink, a chill swept through him and he found himself covering the designs with his vambraces again, keeping them hidden.
He wasn’t sure where that feeling came from. He just knew it was important that none of his kind knew about them.
It was important no one saw them.
He forced his wings away, twisted at the waist and lay back on the solid stone slab. He sighed as he rested his head on the pillow and pressed his right foot against the far wall of his cramped quarters, and bent his left leg at the knee.
He studied the swirls within the matching bands that circled his forearms and let himself get lost in them.
What did they mean?
Why did he feel it was important that no one saw them?
He wanted answers, but he would find none in Hell. Would he find them in the mortal realm if he ventured there again?
An urge to leave Hell and fly in the azure sky of the human world surged through him, one he felt sure stemmed not from a need to know what his ink meant but from something else.
He pulled the picture of the female from beneath his pillow and lifted it, held it above him and frowned at it.
Did he know her?
He didn’t think so, but as he looked at her, a feeling hit him, one that was powerful and commanding.
He wanted to know her.
He wanted to leave Hell and search for her.
He needed to see if he could find her.
Because if he could, then she might be able to answer all the questions that plagued him. She might be the key.
One that would unlock a past he couldn’t remember.