Doomsday Can Wait (21 page)

"Do you want to change?" he whispered.

I stiffened. He'd said one day I'd mate with him as a wolf. I wasn't ready for that, didn't think I'd ever be. Becoming a wolf wasn't part of who I was, the way it was a part of what he was.

His expression as he watched me, wolf eyes sharp, man's mouth amused, made me realize he was trying to get me to run again.

"No chance," I answered, and his lips thinned.

"Phoenix," he growled.

I wrapped my hand around his penis, and the deadly call of a rattlesnake filled the air. I concentrated on him, on this, on us, and the urge to flick my tongue at him passed, although the urge to flick my tongue around him was irresistible.

I sank to my knees, took him in my mouth. He wouldn't be able to resist, either.

The rattle increased, drowning out the sound of the water. I touched his thigh, ran my fingers across the head of the tiger depicted there, and felt the long, dry grass brush my fur-covered body.

I used my teeth, not too hard, just enough, and was rewarded with a soft curse. I glanced up. The fluorescent lights were dim; the steam swirled around us like fog at sunset. I should probably shut off the water, but I liked the mist. It sparkled in Sawyer's hair like diamonds in a midnight sky.

His head was thrown back, his face tight, his hands clenched at his sides as if he were afraid to touch me. We couldn't have that.

"Hey," I murmured, and his chin slowly dipped toward the sleek, slick pane of his chest until his half-open eyes met mine. The wolf had receded, though it lurked, waiting to pounce.

I rolled my tongue lazily around his tip and his cool gray gaze flared. Then I took him into my mouth, as far as he would go, and I sucked.

His back arched as he pumped and withdrew, but still he didn't touch me.

I wore all my clothes; he wore none. I licked him one last, long time, then drew my tank top over my head, flicked the front snap on my bra, was reaching for the button on my jeans, when he hauled me to my feet by my elbows.

'That's enough," he said.

I leaned forward, brushing my breasts across his chest. With Sawyer nothing was ever enough.

"There's no reason for this, Phoenix."

"There has to be a reason?"

He appeared confused. "Yes."

Poor man.

"Fine," I said. "How about this?" I took his clenched hand, pulled on his fingers until he released the fist, then I placed his palm against my chest, where my heart thrummed fast and sure.

"I don't understand."

"The reason is desire. My body and yours together because we have a connection."

"We do?"

He might be ancient, yet he was a child in so many ways. Had he ever been touched in love? Had he ever had sex simply because he wanted to?

He thought I hated him, and I couldn't claim differently because sometimes, hell, most times, I did. But there
was
a connection between us. Had been even before I'd become like him.

"I'll show you," I murmured.

I began with kisses, soft and sweet, lips only, just a wisp as our breath blended together. He sighed, relaxed, closed his eyes when I trailed my fingertips across his lids. Leaning against the sink at my urging, he let me touch him and kiss him everywhere.

His skin was slick with steam; so was mine. He tasted of the sea. My fingers raced along his ribs, given speed by the moisture that beaded like dew.

His hands clenched in my hair. I didn't have much. Not like him. He held me closer, traced his thumbs across my brow, my cheeks, as if memorizing the bones beneath.

I leaned in to press my mouth to his neck, to inhale that fire-and-wind scent of him, and he wrapped his arms around me in the first hug from him I'd ever known. Together, we stilled. I wasn't sure, but I thought his lips brushed the crown of my head. For just an instant, my eyes burned, and my chest felt as if it would burst. This just might be the dumbest thing I'd ever done.

I didn't have time to dwell on it. Sawyer's patience was gone. Or perhaps he'd felt something, too, and it scared him as much as it had scared me. At any rate, he tugged at my zipper and I took the hint, losing the jeans, underwear, shoes, and socks.

The water had gone cold at last. I reached in and shut it off. Sawyer watched me, arms braced against the sink, biceps bulging, erection jutting forward. I started for the door; quick as a snake, he reached out and drew me back.

"What—" I began.

"No time for that," he said, swinging me around, lifting me onto the countertop, and stepping between my legs in one smooth movement.

All thoughts left my head as he filled me completely. My legs hung awkwardly, so he put his hands beneath my knees and hitched them up and over his hips. The change in angle made him slide ever deeper.

I opened my eyes, just as he slapped his hand to the switch and the room went dark, the only light a slim band creeping beneath the door.

The steam that had moistened our skin now chilled, but I didn't feel cold. I didn't feel anything but Sawyer inside of me. Harder and faster he pumped. I cradled his head as he took a nipple in his mouth, his hair spilling over my wrists, the ends tickling my belly.

Each press of his lips and tongue brought an answering tug between my legs. He suckled as if he'd draw something from me—my heart, my soul, sustenance. Then he used his teeth, biting down just short of pain, before kissing his way to my face, brushing his lips across my eyelids, my mouth. His palm cupped my cheek; his breath stirred my hair, and I stilled, something flitting through my mind like a prophecy.

But his thumb stroked the seam of my lips, the pressure insistent, as he continued to flex his hips, filling me, emptying me, filling me again. I forgot thoughts and feelings and prophecies of doom or glory as I caught his thumb between my teeth. I suckled him as he'd suckled me, bit him just a little, then let him go. He reached between us with that thumb, using the moisture from my own mouth to rub my throbbing center until I came.

As I did, he grasped my hips, buried his face in my neck, and did the same. Smoothing my palm down his damp back, I pressed my cheek to the top of his head.

We stayed that way, I'm not sure how long, until he kissed me. Just once on the lips, in the dark, and then he turned away. "I'll order food," he said.

Airport hotels, which catered to the business traveler, usually had room service, and this one was no exception. One of the reasons I'd chosen it.

"Great." My voice was too cheerful. I hopped off the counter, restarted the shower, hoping like hell the water heater recycled at the speed of sound, then I cleared my throat and tried again. "Whatever you want is fine with me."

There, that sounded better, as if what had just happened had meant nothing.

Even though we both knew that it had.

The shower was just warm enough to endure, just cold enough to be unpleasant. When I drew back the curtain, my duffel sat on the toilet seat. I glanced at the closed door. Nice of him.

I was running out of clean clothes. Tomorrow we'd have to hit Wal-Mart. Not surprisingly, I'd seen one just across the street. The superstores seemed to be multi-plying like bunnies. I kind of liked it. Wherever you were, there they were. It was comforting.

Sawyer had put the athletic shorts back on. He didn't have much choice. He'd also draped a dry towel around his shoulders.

"Still cold?" I asked as I came into the room.

He shrugged, not looking at me, and one end of the towel slid down his back.

"You okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

I shouldn't mention the woman of smoke. I didn't want to upset him again. Except I had to.

"Your mother—" He glanced up sharply. "Sorry. The psycho bitch from hell said they have their own prophecies."

"So I've heard."

"What are they? Where are they?"

"There have always been whispers of a book, com-posed by a Nephilim that wrote down the prophecies it received in visions from Apollyon."

"Revelation in reverse."

"Balance," Sawyer murmured, echoing Carla.

It made sense in a weird sort of way. Christ versus Antichrist. Angel versus Devil. God versus Satan. Bible versus—

"What's their book called?"

"I don't know."

"Who's got it?"

He spread his hands.

I had so many questions. I paused a minute to get my thoughts in order. "Who in hell is Apollyon and where is he now?"

"Confined in Tartarus."

"A Grigori."

"The
Grigori," he corrected. "Apollyon means 'Abaddon' in Hebrew."

"I'm a little rusty," I said.

"The Destroyer. The one who will rule when the Grigori are released again on earth."

"The Antichrist." I frowned. "But your mother's jockeying for that job."

For once, he didn't correct my use of the term. "Your point?"

"How can she be trying to become the Antichrist by opening Tartarus when the Antichrist is already locked up there?"

"The prophecy of the Antichrist has always been that he—"

"Or she."

He inclined his head. "—will not just appear on earth, but will have lived here and become a great leader, who is eventually possessed by Satan."

Understanding dawned. "When Tartarus is opened and the Grigori are released, Apollyon—Satan—will possess the one who released him."

"Yes."

"I wouldn't think the woman of smoke would take kindly to that."

"To rule she'd do anything."

And who knows, maybe she had another plan up her sleeve. Though what it could be, I had no idea, which was typical lately. I never knew what was going on.

"I'd really like to get my hands on that book," I murmured.

"You and everyone else on heaven and earth." At my curious glance he continued. "One of the prophecies in the book states the army that carries it is invincible."

"Son of a—" I broke off. "Like the Arc of the Covenant?"

"Balance," he reminded me. "If the forces of light have an icon that promises invincibility ..."

"Then the forces of darkness get one, too. How in hell  re we supposed to win this war again?"

"Who says that we will?"

"The proph—" I choked as I realized what he meant. For every prophecy existed a counterprophesy. They canceled each other out.

I'd been working under the assumption, the belief, the  faith, that in the end our side would triumph. But that was because the good guys said so.

The bad guys said so, too.

Sawyer's eyes met mine. "Faith means nothing if the outcome is preordained."

"What?" He was reading my mind again, and I was too shook to think straight.

"Faith is belief in the unbelievable. Rock-solid conviction that the unseen is real. Support of a truth that could very well be untrue."

"A prophecy."

"Exactly. To win, Phoenix, you have to believe that you will."

CHAPTER 21

In order to win, I had to believe that I would.

Easy for him to say.

We slept in separate beds, which seemed stupid after what we'd shared, but it wasn't my idea. I wouldn't have said a word if Sawyer had climbed in beside me. I wouldn't have said a word if he'd wanted to
be
inside me.

But he'd pulled back emotionally, and he seemed to be following up by pulling back physically. I figured he didn't know how to handle feelings. How could he?

And right now I didn't have time to psychoanalyze, even if I were capable of it. I had enough issues of my own.

I had a hard time sleeping, and not just because of the new info on prophecies—good, bad, and potentially worthless. Every time I started to drift off, the wind howled like a furious woman, rattling the window so loudly there were times I thought it might shatter. Since I thought there
was
a furious woman out there trying to break the protective spell Sawyer had cast over us, I had my doubts that what I heard was the wind.

And then there were my unvoiced fears. Would we win? Could we win? Who would die and how many?

I finally fell into an exhausted and fitful rest. I should have known that Ruthie would come.

I opened the white gate, walked up the pristine sidewalk, caught the scent of summer wind and burgeoning flowers. In Ruthie's heaven, the sun always shone, and the rains never came. It was heaven, after all.

She was in the backyard with the kids, at least a dozen. Had they all come from Lake Vista? Did it even matter? I hated when Ruthie had a full house. It was like a big guilt party thrown just for me.

I sat next to her on a bench near the wall, where the overhang cast a bit of shade. Our arms brushed. She was solid; so was I. Everything here was just the same as it was on earth, even when it was different.

For instance, Ruthie looked the same, but she was dead. The house looked different from the place she'd died, yet it was still her house. These visions were like dreams—a combination of the familiar and the bizarre. Yet, somehow, I understood they were also real.

"Do you know anything about a book of Satanic prophesies?"

"Mmm-hmm," Ruthie murmured, eyes closed, head resting against the white aluminum siding.

"This wasn't something you thought I should be clued in to?"

"What for?" Ruthie opened one eye. "No one's ever found the thing."

"How do you know?"

"You think if they had it, we'd still be breathin'?"

"You're not breathing," I pointed out.

"Not because of the Book of Samyaza."

"I suppose Samyaza is just another name for Satan."

"Yes." Ruthie opened both eyes and sat up, casting a quick glance at the children.

They'd begun playing king of the mountain on a grass-covered hill that hadn't been there five minutes ago. When I'd arrived they'd been playing softball on a diamond that had now disappeared. Talk about a heavenly playground.

"Samyaza was the leader of the earthly angels," Ruthie continued. "His name means 'adversary' in Hebrew."

"Adversary, destructor. What's Hebrew for 'asshole'?"

Ruthie turned her head. She wasn't above smacking me in the mouth if the occasion warranted it. I could tell by her expression, I was skating perilously close to such an occasion.