CHAPTER 12
Rook caught Isadora as she fell, stopping her from hitting the fractured ice. A grimace tugged at his lips as pain ripped through his right wing and he dropped to his knees, landing with her in his lap.
He curled over her, clutching her to his bare chest, and breathed hard, trying to shut down the white-hot fire pulsing through his bones, ricocheting along the length of his wing and into his shoulder.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice raw from screaming when the damned witch had come close to killing him.
He could still taste the water of the lake. It laced his tongue together with the tang of his own blood.
Next time he fought a witch, he wouldn’t underestimate them. He would go all out from the start, regardless of the consequences.
He drew back and gazed down at Isadora, canting his head as he took in her ashen cheeks.
When she woke, would she remember what she had seen?
He had been close to going fully demonic and he was sure she had witnessed it, had seen the transformation coming over him.
Would she despise him? Fear him?
The thought had crossed his mind at the time, but he had pushed through the pain it had caused him, reaching for his other form because he had needed the strength it granted him.
He had needed the power to protect her.
He gently rubbed her cheek and then her arms, trying to get some warmth into her frigid skin. She was too pale, looking too close to death despite being apparently immortal. He curled his left wing around her and held her closer, attempting to warm her with his body despite the fact his wings were soaking wet and he was freezing, his limbs shaking violently as the cold sank deep into his bones. He needed to get her somewhere safe, and warm, where she could recover.
He slowly rose onto his feet, agony rolling through him as he straightened his tired legs and lifted Isadora in his arms. He struggled for breath, fought to shut down the pain and keep it under control, and trembled as he held her close to him.
He couldn’t give in to the exhaustion washing through him. Not yet.
Isadora still wasn’t safe.
He needed her safe.
He needed to protect her.
He gazed down at her again and how vulnerable she was struck him like a thunderbolt, had him holding her closer and aching to curl both of his wings around her.
Another feeling struck him too.
How good it felt to hold her.
When she had cuddled up to him last night in the cabin, seeking his warmth, he hadn’t been sure what to do. In the end, he had sent his breastplate away and surprise had claimed him when she had snuggled closer to him, coming to press against his bare chest. Her delicate hands had scalded him as they had settled against his pectorals, and her scent had invaded his lungs, branding itself on his heart, a soft fragrance he found impossible to describe, but one that was the opposite of everything he breathed in Hell.
She was light. Flowers and sunshine. Blue skies and the infinite ocean. She was nature in its most beautiful form.
Hell was nature in its ugliest incarnation.
He could see that now he had met her.
He lowered his head and breathed her in, the scent of her surprising him once again as it seemed to restore some of his strength, gave him back a sliver of it, enough that he could move with her.
He walked towards the edge of the ice and his black heart ached when she gave him a sweet sign of life by shifting closer to him, seeking his warmth.
Rook had been greedy last night when she had sought his heat, and he was just as greedy now. He eagerly used the excuse of warming her to hold her closer still, to encourage her to burrow her face against the crook of his neck. Her warm breath skated across his skin, sending a sharp thrill through him that had his blood heating so fast he no longer noticed the cold.
Every inch of him heated in response to the feel of her, how she pressed against him and how good she smelled.
He lowered his head as they reached the shore of the lake and hesitated for only a heartbeat before he brushed his lips across her forehead. She tilted her head up, a little sigh escaping her.
“Rook,” she husked, her voice barely there.
“I’m here.” Where he would always be.
Where he was meant to be.
He felt that deep in his bones, in the pit of his soul, as he gazed down at her again.
This was where he belonged.
And that terrified him.
What if the reason the Devil wasn’t calling him back was because he was right where his master wanted him to be?
She had said angels like him had taken her before.
He cast that thought aside. He wouldn’t take her to Hell. He wouldn’t do it. His master could use the most powerful compulsion at his disposal on him and he wouldn’t do it. She had been through enough.
He couldn’t cast his next thought aside so easily.
Why had the Devil wanted her?
Whatever the reason, he couldn’t have her.
He was weak right now, but he would protect her.
He gently set her feet down on the snow, kept her tucked close to him with his right arm and held his left one out before him. The air shimmered a metre in front of him, causing the trees in the distance to ripple violently as the portal built. A dark spot formed in the centre and spread outwards, threads of it chasing through the swirling air to devour it. When the oval was as tall as he was, the oily black burst into white flames and a glow lit the night, throwing the shadows out long all around him.
He looked down at Isadora to check she was still out cold, because while a part of him was aware she had already witnessed what he was, the rest held on to hope that she didn’t know. He didn’t want her to see the portal. He didn’t want her to discover he was a Hell’s angel. Foolish dreams that would never come true.
It was too late to try to hide it from her.
Although, there was a chance the forgetting spell that had come back with a vengeance to bruise her fair skin and tear a pained cry from her ashen lips would steal the memory from her.
Would she remember what she had seen when he had been fighting the witch?
Would she remember him?
He had seen the flicker of recognition in her eyes after she had turned the witch into a smouldering black streak on the ice. She had known him. Really known him. Not just the Rook she had known since he had rescued her, but the one she had known before. The Rook he couldn’t remember.
But then those bruises had formed and panic had crossed her delicate features, and she had collapsed.
Damn, he wanted her to remember him, even when he knew she wouldn’t.
She stirred again and he smoothed another kiss across her damp brow. She calmed and pride welled up again, causing a flicker of light in his black heart, one that made him want to kiss her again just so he could absorb the way she reacted, how she relaxed and sought more, tried to lift herself to press against his lips.
He strode towards the portal, aware he was going to have to swallow a lot of that pride when he hit the other side.
Paris.
As much as he hated the idea of turning to an angel for help, he had to go through with it. If there was even the smallest of chances that Apollyon’s witch could help Isadora, he would take it. He would do whatever he had to in order to make sure Isadora received the care she needed.
Because there was nothing he could do for her.
In his current condition, he couldn’t even protect her.
He was useless to her until he healed, and even then he wasn’t sure he could keep her safe, not if his suspicions were correct and his master wanted him here with her for some reason.
Rook stepped out of the portal onto the roof of a large pale stone building in the centre of the city. It was quiet around him, the elegant streets empty save a few vehicles moving along them. Clouds hung heavily in the air, glowing orange from the city lights, and the scent of snow laced the night.
He held Isadora closer as she trembled in his arms and wrapped his wings around her as best he could. When fire blazed through his right one, he gave up trying to move it and settled for having his left one around her, keeping her warm.
He stared at the twinkling city that stretched around him. Waiting. Feeling even more useless.
Hell’s angels couldn’t communicate telepathically with angels of Heaven.
He had come to Paris, but he had no clue where Apollyon lived, was banking on the angel feeling his presence and finding him.
“Hang on, Isadora,” he murmured and brushed another kiss across her brow when she moaned and curled closer to him.
It was a risk, but he had to take it.
He kept his eyes on her as he called on his demonic form, willing her to remain asleep because he was sure she would freak the fuck out if she woke to find herself in the arms of a Hell’s angel.
He had to do it though.
His demonic form would send a stronger signal across the city, one Apollyon was more likely to notice.
Although, any other angel in the city would feel his presence too.
He gritted his teeth as his wings transformed, the crimson running from them to leave black feathers, and grunted as those feathers fell to reveal the leathery membrane beneath. His vision wavered, the fire that rolled through him so intense he struggled to breathe through it.
The hands that gently cradled Isadora turned as black as basalt as he grew in size and his eyesight sharpened as his irises shifted to scarlet.
He expected the switch to his demonic form to alter him in different ways, to harden his heart and turn it cold, but as he gazed down at Isadora where she rested against his blackened skin, he felt only warmth and hope.
The king of fools.
She could never love him.
A flash of the way she had looked at him on the lake before she had passed out overlaid onto her.
Although, maybe she already loved him.
Or at least she had loved the angel he had once been.
“Rook.” The deep male voice startled him from his reverie and he growled at the intruder, flashing all-sharp red teeth. Apollyon landed, his black wings furling against his back, and held his hands up. “I apologise.”
Rook held his ground as the angel advanced, but tucked Isadora closer to his chest, unable to deny the need to protect her from the male.
Because he didn’t want the angel to take her from him.
Because he was falling for her.
Or maybe he was just remembering that he loved her.
He glanced down at her, and lingered, unable to tear his gaze away from her.
“Is that Isadora?” Apollyon moved another step closer and canted his head to his left, causing his long black ponytail to sway that way as he tried to peer past Rook’s leathery wing.
Rook nodded.
“I found her. She remembered me… but then she forgot. I think it’s a spell.” He couldn’t stop the words from spilling from him as he looked at her, as he dared to hope again that somehow she would remember him and would look at him with that glimmer of affection in her eyes again. “She remembered me again after she had fought a witch and killed him.”
“Some sort of magical exhaustion,” Apollyon muttered and studied her as Rook moved his wing, allowing the angel a glimpse at her. “Serenity has studied such things. How a spell can be affected when the witch is weakened and how it reacts when the witch regains their strength.”
Isadora had truly remembered him then. In that moment, when she had looked at him with so much love in her eyes, she had known him.
“Hell’s angels took her before.” The words slipped from his lips and when he glanced at Apollyon, the male didn’t appear surprised to hear it.
“I know. I am sorry, Rook, perhaps I should have told you before… but I needed to give you a reason to find her, and the truth wasn’t it.” The look in Apollyon’s blue eyes backed up that apology, so while it was tempting to bust the angel’s balls over the fact he had been holding out on him, he let it go.
There were far more important things he needed to do. Taking care of Isadora ranked the highest, but now that Apollyon was with him again, questions were forming in Rook’s mind and they wouldn’t be ignored.
“The truth? You said I was a guardian angel once… her guardian angel.” He dropped his gaze to her again as the pieces fell into place. “I followed her there, didn’t I?”
“You did. You went to save her.”
“And I failed… or did I succeed?” He brushed his fingers along her arm where he held it.
She had survived, had escaped the realm he now called home, and she had lived, at least a thousand years, because he had been in the service of the Devil for that long.
“I thought she was dead,” Apollyon said, drawing his focus back to him. “I thought you were dead. But then I saw you again, a long time ago, and I knew something terrible had happened.”
Because he had fallen.
Because of her?
He didn’t remember her. Was that a spell? Had she made him forget her, or had someone else?
No, it hadn’t been her. She had been shocked to see him, and she had remembered him. He had witnessed the pain, the grief that had filled her eyes, and the relief. Apollyon wasn’t the only one who had thought him dead. She had too.
So who had taken his memories of her from him?
His gut gave him the answer to that question, but it didn’t give him the reason.
His master.
The Devil had the power to manipulate those in his service. It was possible the male had made him forget his past life, one he should have recalled as the other Hell’s angels did. Why? What purpose had it served?
Another piece of the puzzle slipped into place.
Isadora knew a spell that had made her immortal.
He looked at his hands, focusing not on them but on his wrists and the ink his vambraces concealed, and the answer to their origin and meaning hit him hard.
She had made them. It had been her voice in his mind, promising him forever, when the marks had burned back in Hell.
She was bound to him.