Avenged by an Angel (Eternal Mates Paranormal Romance Series Book 16) Page 13

  The First Archangel spoke before he could demand the male change his mind. “Now, now… with the right intelligence, it is possible he could limit his exposure to the curse and complete his mission.”

  The blond angel turned wide amber-to-silver eyes on his comrade and barked, “There is also a chance we lose another Echelon rather than gain one.”

  “That is a risk I fear we will have to take. I do not think he is going to give up on this mission. It is not in his nature.”

  It definitely wasn’t in his nature to give up on a mission, but this was different. This was about Emelia. He would never give up where she was concerned. They could lock him away and he would find a way to escape and hunt the dragon. Nothing would stop him from avenging her.

  “He must give up.” The Second Archangel rounded on the First, gold flashing in his eyes as he narrowed them on the male.

  “I will not,” Wolf said with all the conviction he felt burning in his breast. “I cannot.”

  If he did, it would destroy him.

  The blond sighed. A hint of a smile curled the First Archangel’s lips on hearing it. The male wanted him to go to Hell. Why? He had expected both males to argue against his desire to go to that realm again.

  “Going to Hell made you stronger, Second Archangel. Think of the strength the Fourth Commander could gain if he was allowed to be exposed to the darkness of that realm. We need our warriors to be the strongest they can be.” The First Archangel glanced down at the map, his voice dropping to a whisper. “The time is drawing near.”

  What time?

  Wolf wanted to ask, but kept his mouth shut. Rumours had been circulating for centuries that the First Archangel could see events in the future given the right conditions, but the cost of his gift was high. Angels with such a power often lost memories dear to them whenever they used it, and there was always a darker price to pay too.

  The rumour mill had speculated about the specific conditions required to trigger the First Archangel’s gift.

  The latest one had been born in a time when the First Archangel had been holed up in his apartment for a lunar cycle, apparently recovering his strength, and his mind.

  The First Archangel’s gift demanded a high price indeed if those rumours were true.

  Not only did the male have to suffer great physical pain in order to trigger it, he had to endure tremendous emotional pain too.

  The whispers in the city said he achieved that by torturing an innocent female in order to feed the beast that was his gift and sate it.

  If that was true, and not little more than the wild fancy of bored angels, then the male would do better to avoid using his gift. He was risking black feathers for each sin he committed, each one that corrupted his soul. A corrupted Archangel had no place being in a position of power.

  “I will grant you access to any records you might need.” The First Archangel held his gaze, a dark edge to his purple-to-blue eyes that had Wolf shaking himself out of the grip of his thoughts before the male grew suspicious.

  It wouldn’t do to anger the First Archangel. Wolf didn’t need to hear the rumours about his temper. He had witnessed it first-hand. The male had a darkness inside him that matched Wolf’s own, which he was sure was half the reason the angel liked to tease him about his personality.

  They were alike in too many ways.

  Reflections of each other, but different in one critical way.

  Wolf would never torture an innocent.

  He wanted to avenge one.

  He bowed his head. “The map I found was not of much use, and the accounts of Hell I found were few and far between, and more fanciful than anything helpful. I think many of the angels who penned them made up details.”

  The Second Archangel shook his head. “That much I can tell you is true. What I saw upon entering Hell did not match the image that had been painted for me in the records. It was a bleak, black wasteland, not a verdant, green world filled with life.”

  “You probably landed in Hell proper. The elves have brought nature and light into their corner of the dark realm, and there life flourishes under their care.” The First Archangel frowned as he scanned the map and then jabbed a finger against a point on the left of it. “It is said the sky near the elf kingdom is always brighter, the light from it bleeding over into some of the demon realms.”

  As far as Wolf knew, the elves were neutral. Perhaps if he visited them, he could get information about the dragons. He was sure that with the constant wars in Hell, the elves would know of them, would have fought them.

  He frowned as he recalled what he had seen in Emelia’s mind.

  There had been flashes of tall males dressed in black armour formed of scales that moulded to their bodies, revealing their physiques. Males with pointed ears.

  And no horns.

  She had fought on the side of the elves.

  If he could discover their location or even the signature of the pathway that would allow him to teleport directly into their lands from one of the many portals in the mortal world, he wouldn’t need to explore all of Hell in order to discover the location of the dragons. The elves could give him all the information he needed.

  He strode past the Second Archangel, and the male’s gaze landed on his back.

  “Where are you going?” the blond said.

  “To get started.” He paused and looked over his shoulder at the male. “The elves fought on the side of Archangel in a recent war in Hell, a war in which the half-breed also fought. If I locate the elves, I can locate the stronghold of the demon king.”

  The Second Archangel smiled coldly. “And the female.”

  He nodded. Not a lie.

  Only he didn’t intend to retrieve Sable and bring her in to serve the Echelon.

  He intended to convince her to help him avenge Emelia.

  He just had to convince the demon king not to kill him first.

  CHAPTER 15

  There were rumours circulating in Hell. In every village he visited in the dragon realm, and every town he passed through in the free realm, those rumours followed him.

  An angel was in Hell.

  And that angel had been asking about elves.

  And then he had been asking about demons.

  And now he was asking about dragons.

  Zephyr patrolled the ledge of his cave high in the black mountains, far from his clan’s village, his mind churning with thoughts of the angel. He had questioned every person he had met who had spoken of the angel, had pieced together the truth from among the rumours.

  An angel was looking for one dragon in particular.

  A green one.

  Him?

  Why would an angel want to find him?

  His mind conjured only one answer to that question.

  Emelia.

  Just thinking about the petite brunette had him furious and aroused, aching with a need of her that he had little control over. She had been taken from him what seemed like a forever ago now, ripped from his grasp by that interfering huntress and her demon king.

  His claws extended and he curled his hands into fists, so they bit into his palms. The sting was pleasant, comforting even, and he relished it as his anger spiked again, flooding him with a need to shift and hunt.

  But with the anger born of the hole she had left in his chest upon slipping from his hands came another anger, a rage so deep it threatened to tear him apart.

  It made him want to rip himself to pieces with his own claws.

  Because he had realised too late what Emelia was to him.

  His fated one.

  On a low, vicious growl, he raked claws down his bare chest, unable to stop himself from cleaving his own flesh open and spilling blood. Green scales rippled over his skin and his teeth sharpened as physical pain became emotional agony so vast and endless, it felt as if it was going to consume him.

  He sank to his knees on the edge of the ledge overlooking a fork in the valley and stared at the horizon, beyond the cragged peaks of
the black mountains.

  He slowly lifted his eyes, tilting his head back as he raised them to the grey vault of Hell, and that ache that burned inside him worsened, scouring his chest and hollowing him out.

  “Emelia,” he whispered, and then threw his head back and roared, unleashing every drop of his rage and despair in it until his voice gave out and he had no more breath in his lungs.

  He sagged and clawed at the black rock beneath him, on either side of his green-leather-clad knees.

  “Emelia.”

  He idly stroked the ground, rock she had slept upon, that had carried the scent of her long after she had been taken from him. That scent had faded now, the last piece he had of her gone.

  He needed her back.

  He had been cruel to her, but from the very start, he had been aware on some primal level that she was different to the other females he had been given as a spoil of war, free to do as he pleased with them. The desire to treat her as he had treated his prizes in the past had been muted, the carnal hungers, the thought of taking a female against her will, breaking her mind and her body non-existent. He hadn’t understood why until it had been too late.

  He had teased Emelia, had toyed with the little mortal in ways he could never forgive himself for now that he knew what she was.

  His fated one had deserved better treatment, should have been shown respect and tenderness, wooed until she surrendered to him and consented to be his.

  He had made mistakes with her, but all was not lost. After realising what she was to him, he had taken steps to make amends, to show her that he could be a good male for her.

  “And it had been working,” he snarled, anger surging through his veins to burn away the softer emotions that had been building inside him, stirred by merely thinking about his mate.

  She had been softening.

  He shoved his bloodied fingers through his wild green hair and pulled it back until it hurt, his lips peeling off his fangs in a grimace as the despair he tried so hard to deny pushed to the surface inside him.

  She would never be his.

  She would never look at him the way Loke’s female, another mortal huntress, had looked at the blue dragon that day she had been brought to the clan village and Loke had come to rescue her from their chief’s grasp.

  Acid had flowed in Zephyr’s veins that day, anger so fierce, he hadn’t been in control of himself, hadn’t been able to stop himself from poisoning her mind against Loke when he had been given a chance.

  He had lied to her, painting a terrifying picture in her mind, wanting her to see the darkness male dragons were capable of so she would believe Loke was the same at heart, that given the chance, he would take her against her will, would abuse her as he had Emelia.

  He had lied to everyone that day.

  All because he had realised Loke had something he never would.

  He had his fated mate.

  Zephyr wanted his.

  Emelia was beautiful, strong, and drew him to her like nothing else in this world. He wanted her as his female. Attempting to break her will to make her want him had gotten him nowhere with her, although he was sure he had been close at times, when she had looked at him with soft green eyes and had spoken sweetly to him.

  He had gone to the village for her sake, desperate to make amends after they had argued, seeking a way to make her happy.

  To please his female.

  Witnessing the way the blonde huntress had behaved, how she had fought for Loke and had clearly wanted him, had aggravated him.

  So he had fought Loke for the right to the huntress.

  He had wanted to take her from him, to slake his urges on her while he worked to wear down Emelia, stopping himself from making advances toward his mate by satisfying them with the other female in secret. He had wanted an outlet for his anger.

  But he had failed in that too.

  He stroked his fingers across the fading slashes on his stomach and chest, feeling an echo of the pain that had burned inside him that day.

  When Loke had defeated him.

  But his defeat had only been the start of his suffering.

  He had returned to his cave with a present for Emelia, the carcass of an animal he had managed to kill despite the injuries Loke had dealt him. He had hoped the present would calm Emelia, an olive branch that, in his mind, she would accept and would then be pleased to see him.

  He had found her crying, and gods, it had destroyed him, because he had known her suffering was his fault.

  He had wanted her to look at him with those soft eyes again, the way Loke’s female had looked at him, so he had tried his hardest to be gentle with Emelia, compelled to tend to her wounds, injuries he had caused. She had allowed him to take care of her, and he had thought he had been making progress with her.

  So he had tested her.

  He had offered to let her leave, hoping that she wouldn’t take the chance to escape him.

  That she would want to remain with him.

  When she had made a break for the ledge, something inside him had snapped, and he had stopped her, had restrained her and forced her to stay, his heart breaking at the thought she wanted to leave him. She had lashed out at him, had battered his chest as he had restrained her, gently holding her so he didn’t hurt her again, taking her blows and her cruel words, even though every one of them had cut at his heart.

  He needed her to love him.

  She had to love him.

  He shook his head.

  He hadn’t considered the consequences of his actions, though, his instinct to keep her with him so powerful that it overruled everything else. She had grown quiet, distant, and had refused to eat. She had withdrawn from him, and the thought he had broken her had terrified him.

  He had grown to want her fiery attitude and defiance, her barbs and blows, anything other than the dreadful cold silence.

  So he had tried to be kind to her again, sure that it would make amends and bring her back to him.

  Bring her closer to him.

  When she had begged him for something she could eat, something familiar to her, he had gone on a mission to get her what she needed.

  Because he hadn’t been able to bear watching her fade away, drifting towards death little by little.

  He had wanted to make her strong.

  Happy.

  But in doing so, he had sentenced himself to pain, to a life that felt hollow, empty without her.

  Because he had returned to find Emelia gone.

  He needed her back.

  She belonged to him.

  She would come to want him too. He just needed to get her back. He just needed her, and he would stop at nothing to have her.

  She would be his mate.

  CHAPTER 16

  Things were not going according to plan. It had taken Wolf days of scouring the records in his superiors’ library to piece together enough information to pin down the location of the elf kingdom. Upon attempting to enter that kingdom, he had found the way barred. Every time he had tried to use a portal in the mortal world to reach it, or had attempted to teleport into it by using his own powers to form a bridge to that realm, he had been bounced back.

  The closest he had come to the elf kingdom was standing at the border with his hand pressed against an invisible force. His knees had given out shortly after that, and while the pain had been less intense, the drain on his strength and his powers had been just as fierce as before.

  So he had adjusted his plans.

  He had taken to charting Hell, roaming unseen through the lands dressed as a traveller in a dull grey cloak that covered fawn trousers and a black shirt suited to the region known as the free realm. A few well-placed questions to the locals had revealed the elves had locked down their lands against selected breeds of immortals close to a month ago.

  Around the time Sable had slipped from his grasp.

  Apparently, the elves wanted nothing to do with him.

  Understandable given what he had learned.
<
br />   The elf prince was mated to a mortal female who was a friend of Sable’s. The two had frequently been seen together in some of the towns in the free realm, where a multitude of breeds gathered to form their own unique society. According to those he had questioned, the two females always travelled with an entourage of at least a dozen elf warriors and demon guards, and neither female had been seen since the elf kingdom had done something to close the doors in Wolf’s face.

  Still, he wasn’t going to be deterred.

  Each visit to Hell provided him with new information, and he was slowly growing acclimatised to the dark realm, was able to move around with only a little pain now, and had even managed to endure the effects of the curse for a full hour before having to retreat back to his apartments to recover.

  His strength was still a shadow of itself, and his wings were not to be trusted—a close call with the jagged side of a mountain had proven that, bringing him close to being skewered around thirty times when he hadn’t been able to control his ascent—but he was making progress.

  He had given up on the elves, and had charted several demon realms instead, hoping to find the right one.

  None of them had belonged to the Third King and all of them had seen him chased from the lands by a horde of warriors intent on cutting him down.

  He had learned that hearing the demon tongue in Hell was far more excruciating than hearing it uttered when he was in the mortal realm, and had decided that gaining an audience with Sable might not be a sensible course of action after all.

  He had the feeling it would end in his death.

  So he had adjusted his plans.

  Again.

  The last two visits to Hell, he had settled himself in three different taverns in two different towns and had made subtle inquiries about dragons.

  Which brought him to now.

  The female sitting across a tacky ancient oak table from him, her back to the enormous obsidian brick fireplace, smiled winsomely and leaned forwards, flashing a lot of cleavage in her tight violet corset. Her jaw-length black hair swayed with her, brushing rosy cheeks.

  “After that, he just sort of left, you know?” She swirled a pewter tankard around, and he was tempted to pinch his nose closed as another potent wave of alcohol threatened to singe it. She looked down into her black drink, pulled a face, and swayed it towards him, missing how he reared back to avoid getting splashed with the foul brew as she slurred, “Fucking bastard.”