In Bonds of the Earth (Book of the Watchers 2) Read online

  The subject matter wasn’t always familiar either—Ethiopia had its own unique traditions so yes, some Bible stories I recognized straight away, but I was startled by a depiction of the Virgin Mary beating the infant Jesus with a knotted rope. And those saints! Their hagiographies were wildly unfamiliar. I goggled at pictures of a bearded saint climbing a cliff via the body of a gigantic python, of a nun who descended into Hell to ask the Devil to repent, and of a holy man who stood on one leg for so long that the limb fell off and he grew wings instead. Even the national patron Saint George, quite recognizable slaying a dragon, featured in a long and incredibly gruesome concertina of images in which he suffered three hundred separate tortures—flayed, boiled, impaled, roasted on a griddle—and was put to death and resurrected three times.

  Eww.

  I’d never seen anything like it. I shook my head in amazement and moved on to yet another room, another glass case. The books laid open in this showed various angels. Saint Raphael spearing a whale, for reasons the accompanying card description did not make clear. The Archangel Uriel stood holding a goblet in which he’d caught the blood of the crucified Christ.

  I shivered. Why would Uriel do that? Knowing what I did of him, it suddenly seemed less an act of piety and more something deeply suspicious.

  I moved hurriedly to the next open codex. The handwritten script was broken by two pictures: the first a winged angel holding a scroll and pen, surrounded by many smaller kneeling figures who seemed to be writing. The second picture showed the same angel, still clutching his pen or stylus, but lying down on a hillside beneath a building.

  Something stirred in the back of my brain.

  “Milja?”

  Roshana? I spun so quickly on my new heels that I lost my balance and, toppling, clipped my glass against a display case. My champagne flute shattered at the stem. “Oh crap!” I yelped—and looked up into a face that wasn’t Roshana’s at all. The face of the man I least wanted to ever see again in all the world.

  The least, and maybe the most.

  It was Egan.

  4

  LET’S BE FRIENDS

  Egan Kansky. The man who’d saved me and betrayed me. The man who’d snatched me from under the noses of my Orthodox enemies and taught me to trust him, only to try to deliver me to his own masters.

  Egan, who’d done his best to bury Azazel for an eternity of torment again, for the good of us all. I’d let him hold me as we slept together. He was the gentlest, most caring man I’d met apart from my own father—yet I’d seen him coldly shoot dead the thug who tortured me.

  Egan: Irish-American, ex-military, now Vatican agent. He’d stepped in front of a bullet for me.

  There were no words for the confusion of feelings in my breast right at that moment, seeing him there before me. His square face looked a little more lined than I remembered, but his sandy-blond hair still stuck out over his forehead and his eyes were still that blue strangely flecked with gold; eyes for staring at horizons. The formal evening jacket suited him; way more than it would Azazel, say.

  “Egan?” Go away, go away, I can’t bear to see you, I thought, but the words refused to rise to my lips. “What are you doing here?”

  I was actually shaking.

  He didn’t answer. Instead he sank to his knees before me. It took a moment for me to realize what he was doing; picking up the pieces of my broken glass. Standing again, he dropped them deftly on the tray of the waiter who’d hurried over. “Thank you,” he told the young man.

  “I’m sorry,” I gabbled to the waiter, “I’m not used to wearing heels.”

  “No problem, madam. May I get you another glass?”

  “No… No, thanks.”

  The distraction reset our conversation. As we looked back at each other Egan smiled, tentatively. “Hello, Milja. How are you? You’re looking…very well.”

  I blushed, wishing that the saleswoman hadn’t persuaded me into a dress quite so short or so tight, wishing that my hands weren’t trembling. “I’m good.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  The depths of all that we dared not speak about yawned like the Grand Canyon. “You made it out then?”

  “Yes. I walked.” He gestured with open hands. “Then hitch-hiked.”

  I brushed my fingers over my face, wanting to hide.

  “How’s your hand?”

  Of course. The last time he saw me I’d just had my finger broken. “It’s fine. He fixed it.” I didn’t have to say Azazel’s name.

  Egan nodded, sucking his lips in. “Are you still with him?”

  “You don’t need me to tell you that, one way or another,” I said, finding some backbone at last. “Your people will have been keeping an eye on me, I assume.”

  He looked suddenly uncomfortable. I got the distinct impression he was winging it. “I’ve recused myself from that particular mission.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Sure, I told my superiors that I couldn’t in good conscience accept their plans for you.”

  Imprisonment. Breeding. The murder of my children. “I bet that was a fun conversation.”

  He grimaced. “That it wasn’t. But they accepted it. I’m not here on their behalf.”

  “You’re not planning to kidnap me, then?”

  He shook his head. “No. You won that round, Milja. You were right and I was wrong. You know how I feel about what happened.”

  “No.” I shook my own, defiantly. Let him spell it out. “I’ve no goddamn clue.”

  “That it’s not right to do a heinous evil for the sake of doing greater good later. I slipped into error while spending time with you, unacceptably so.”

  “What—liking me? That was an error?”

  “No.” His pale eyes narrowed with pain. “Betraying your trust. You were an innocent. I ask your forgiveness.”

  That was it: his apology. I stared at him mutely.

  “Liking you…” He blinked and looked over my shoulder. “It wasn’t what I planned. It messed things up, from the point of view of my superiors. But I don’t regret it.”

  My eyes stung and my throat felt swollen, but I knew no tears would slip down my face. “Thank you for letting me choose,” I said, my voice a wobbly whisper. “You did let me choose, didn’t you?” Between you and Azazel?

  “Yes.”

  “I chose him. Now go away. Please.” I turned my back on him, staring blindly into the reflection of the glass case.

  From behind, he put both hands on my waist. My world flipped upside down. His breath was on my hair, his warmth against my back. “Milja,” he whispered, his lips soft against my ear, “that’s not forever. You can change your mind.”

  If Azazel sees this, I don’t know what will happen.

  I shut my eyes, swaying, almost leaning back against him. I wanted him to slip his arms right around my waist. I wanted to turn within the circle of his arms and press my face to his chest, breathing in the warm sweet scent of him.

  Here’s the thing, the terrible stupid thing. Azazel loved me, Azazel was powerful as a thunderstorm, and he would protect me from men and angels even if he had to tear the world apart and drown it in blood to do that. But I never, ever felt safe with Azazel. I felt safe with Egan. Even with everything I knew and everything I guessed, even in moments of horror and rage, there was a part of me that instantly and instinctively fitted into the shield of his arm, that felt like this is my home, I belong here. I could think of no other way to articulate it to myself.

  “Choose again,” he whispered, sending shivers from the whorl of my ear down my neck and my spine, right inside me. “Please—come outside with me. We need to talk.”

  “Milja, you’re not too busy, I hope?” Roshana’s voice, clear as a bell, pierced the hot entanglement we were weaving together. Egan pulled away from me as I jumped guiltily, my eyes opening wide.

  Roshana stood flanked by two men. Only their dour expressions and the security lapel badges on their impeccable evening dress revealed thei
r status as muscle, not cash. “Do introduce me to your friend, Milja honey,” she said with bright cold jollity.

  “Egan Kansky,” I mumbled. If there’s one thing more shameful than your boss having pornographic footage of you fucking an angel, I suddenly discovered, it was your boss having pornographic footage of you fucking an angel and finding you fooling around with another guy. “He’s not my…”

  “Really?” Her smile was like a paper cut. “Mr. Kansky. I’m afraid I’m not familiar with your name. In fact…” she put a finger to her lip in mocking, coquettish innocence, “I don’t think you’re on our guest list at all.”

  Egan let his shoulders fall, visibly submitting as the two security men moved in to flank him. “Milja,” he said to me quickly, “I’ve got my phone number back. If you ever need help, you can ring me. You know that.”

  “Thanks. I don’t need any more help.” No. People were more or less queuing up to offer me help these days, and not one of them was lacking an ulterior motive.

  Roshana, triumphant, slipped her arm through mine and led me away as Egan was escorted from the room. I tried to follow him with my eyes, because it hurt me to see him go.

  Oh Egan… Why do you do this?

  Her skin was warm and silken, and though I didn’t welcome the gesture, it didn’t actually feel unpleasant. “You do like to play with fire, don’t you?” she said.

  “Me? No—That wasn’t what you think…”

  “Of course it was. It’s hard to be owned, believe me. I don’t blame you for trying to assert a little independence. Every tyrant’s wife in history has had their bit on the side.”

  Was that all it was, the effect Egan had on me? I shook my head, wide-eyed.

  “I admire your spirit, Milja, even if I don’t appreciate the risks you take with my investment.” She nodded pleasantly at other people as we strolled through the throng, greeting each by name but not letting anyone snare her in conversation.

  “Investment?” Her perfume was subtle and not too sweet. She felt soft. I was only used to the male touch, that rough skin and the hardness of muscle beneath. My mother’s embrace was so long gone that I could barely remember it.

  “I’m investing in you, honey, of course. I do like the dress, by the way.” She glanced down at my sparkly copper sequins. “You have the legs for it.”

  “Uh…”

  She waved a hand at the exhibits. “Now these must remind you of home.”

  That threw me. “Why?”

  “Your father was an Orthodox priest, wasn’t he?”

  “Serbian Orthodoxy and Ethiopian Orthodoxy aren’t the same thing!” I protested, more wound up by the fact she’d been prying into my family background than by her parochialism.

  “But they’re similar, I assume?”

  “I have no idea, honestly.”

  “Huh. Well, it’s all priest stuff as far as I’m concerned. Your father was a priest, right? What about your mother, Milja? What did she do?”

  “She died when I was a little girl. I don’t…I don’t remember her that well.”

  To my surprise Roshana shot me a swift dark frown of sympathy, almost understanding. For a moment she seemed on the edge of saying something, but then she visibly blinked her eyes clear and bright and cheerful. “Here, take a look at this.” We’d stopped facing one of the display cases right at the far end of the exhibition. Under a row of silver sistrums, two huge old Bibles lay propped open. She released my arm to point at one. “Here he is.”

  Dense calligraphy crowded a picture I struggled to comprehend. A group of doe-eyed, androgynous men in white robes stood at the top of a hill. Down the slope a white goat galloped—or fell, or flew, it was hard to tell. And at the bottom of the picture waited a devil, gray-blue in color, horned and fanged and hairy.

  “What does it mean?”

  She spoke softly, below the conversational buzz of the room. “Leviticus 16: The Day of Atonement. And Aaron shall cast lots upon the two goats; one lot for the LORD, and the other lot for Azazel. And Aaron shall bring the goat upon which the LORD’s lot fell, and offer him for a sin offering. But the goat, on which the lot fell to be the scapegoat, shall be presented alive before the LORD, to make an atonement with him, and to let him go for a scapegoat into the wilderness, to Azazel.” Her fingers danced over the glass, not touching. “That’s him.”

  “That’s not a very flattering likeness.” It was all I could bring myself to say.

  “He inspired so much fear. Hundreds, even thousands of years after he was imprisoned, people were still making propitiatory sacrifices to stop him devouring their souls.”

  I made an undignified snort, trying not to laugh. “If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that it’s not my soul he’s after.”

  She looked at me, her perfectly groomed eyebrows arched, and as she said nothing I blushed uncomfortably under that challenging gaze. I’m no good at cool and defiant.

  “What? What have I said? You’ve seen exactly what it is he wants from me. He’s not evil. And he doesn’t care what I believe or how I pray. He doesn’t collect souls; he just likes to…you know…fuck.” I dropped my voice even lower for that last word, in case we could be overheard.

  “I doubt Mikhail Vrubel would agree with you.”

  “Well.” I straightened my shoulders. “I know what that’s like. Before I freed Az… When I was at college, yes, he messed with my head. He was like a drowning man grabbing at anyone swimming nearby—you can’t blame him for that. And if you’re holding a pillow down on someone’s face, you can’t blame him for clawing at you! But Vrubel never let his angel out. That’s why it killed him.”

  “You’re saying your boyfriend’s harmless?” She seemed genuinely surprised.

  “No. I mean…not harmless.” I blinked. “He’s impatient. He doesn’t see things from anyone else’s point of view easily.” I sniffed and amended; “At all, in fact. But he’s not evil. Not really.”

  “And you’re quite happy with him?”

  I’m crazy-in-love with him. Oh God. “Oh yes.” I let out a sigh. Deliriously happy. When he’s with me. And we’re alone. And I’m not teetering over a hundred-foot drop. “For, you know, whole minutes at a time.”

  “You’re not what I expected, Milja.”

  “What did you expect—something from The Exorcist?”

  She smiled.

  “If you think he’s evil, why do you want to meet him so much?”

  Roshana’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe I like bad boys.”

  “The world’s full of those,” I snapped. Find your own, I might have added.

  “But your Fallen sweetheart isn’t one of them? Out of interest, what would he do if he caught you and that good-looking Kansky guy together?”

  I felt like she’d slapped me. “I, uh…I don’t know.” Oh there was a can of worms. Azazel’s attitude to Egan seemed to be largely contemptuous, but sometimes amused, even encouraging—and sometimes a roiling mess of irritation. Egan meantime reciprocated with flat-out loathing.

  “Would he hurt you?”

  “No!” No, I didn’t believe that for a moment. Did I?

  “Would he hurt the unfortunate Mr. Kansky?”

  “Maybe,” I admitted.

  “Then perhaps, for his sake, you should be more careful.”

  Now I wanted to slap her. For being right.

  I think she saw that in my face, because she smiled. “Remember, you’re still a good girl. He isn’t corrupting your soul, you’ve said. Not yet.”

  “You’re assuming that Egan’s one of the good guys,” I said stiffly. “You don’t know what he’s done.”

  “No, you’re right, I don’t know that. Like I don’t know why he inveigled his way into this soiree to see you. Relax, honey—I’m not terribly concerned either. He’s cute, but it’s your other boyfriend that really interests me. Have we reached an agreement on that front? Will you introduce us?”

  I didn’t want to say Yes. I didn’t want this strange cat-eyed b
eauty messing about with my lover. But she had information about things I needed to know too, if I was going to manage my precarious life. I had no one else to turn to. It wasn’t as if I could rely on Azazel for support or advice. He hadn’t even warned me not to fall pregnant. If he sensed the terrible danger in that direction, he hadn’t thought to let me know.

  “I can’t guarantee he’ll be interested.”

  “I know that. We work within our limitations. Just try.”

  “Okay, I can tell him you’d like to meet him,” I agreed reluctantly. “But you have to answer my questions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as, if I’m the first person to let a Watcher free, how do you know so much about the effects of sleeping with one?”

  She batted her lashes. “Honey, you can fuck prisoners.”

  My stomach tried to rise into my throat. I think she saw the look in my eyes, but I know she didn’t read it properly. Because beneath my revulsion the tiny voice of my conscience was stabbing me with the words: And were you all that different as a teenager, Milja?

  “Oh, not me.” Her carmine lips twisted. “But there are groups, you know. People with specialist interests. They’ve had a long time to network. Not very pleasant people, most of them. You’re fortunate they never found your family.”

  I’d thought the Churches the great villains in this drama. The vision Roshana suggested, of people deliberately abusing the captive Egrigoroi—Occultists? Perverts? Oligarchs desperate for health and physical advantage?—made me recoil a half-step from her.

  My decision was white-hot in its clarity: Oh hell, yes, I will help Azazel free them all.

  “But you’re not one of those people?” I spat the words out.

  “Me? When it comes to meat, I’m strictly organic and free-range.” She twinkled, daring me to take offence. “And I’m very glad we’ve come to an arrangement beneficial to all parties.”

  I fumbled vainly for words. I wanted another drink now, badly. I wanted Egan standing at my back, telling me everything was fine, that he’d look after me. I wanted Azazel to turn up and reduce this whole building to smoking rubble and make everyone go away and leave us alone.