The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(34)
He took it. He’d never get enough of her. Never. She was his. Only his.
If you can keep her safe, a voice in his head taunted. From Mab, from Rand, from her Ordeal. If you can’t...
No. He could. He would. He shoved fear of the future into the back of his mind and tried to anchor himself in the moment. He focused on Cybele—her heat, her touch, her face. Her eyes were shut. She was close to coming. He gripped her hips and moved faster. Plunged deeper. He’d defend her to the death, with everything he was, with every shred of magic he possessed.
And if it’s not enough? If I’m not enough? If Mab wins... If Cybele becomes Rand’s thrall... His ruminating thoughts hurtled him into a place of raw, burning anger. In the space of one breath to the next, his fury snapped into a towering blaze and hit flashpoint.
White light seared the inside of his eyelids. Cybele’s inner muscles spasmed. Her body arched. She cried out. His cock was like granite. He grabbed the headboard with both hands, thrusting like a madman. She whimpered. He growled.
Another flash of light. His eyes opened to see the room dissolve in a shower of sparks. His body convulsed. Cybele called his name. He heard the sound of cracking wood.
His orgasm hit him like a small explosion. Pure sensation consumed him. His body convulsed. His ears rang.
The world went white.
***
This was not, Michael thought ruefully, his finest hour.
No self-respecting archangel found himself perched on a tree limb, eyes riveted on a bedroom window. Well, not on the window itself. On what was happening on the other side of the glass.
He should feel guilty. Curiously, he didn’t. After all, Raphael had ordered him to keep an eye on Arthur Camulus. He was doing just that. Even so, it was rather disingenuous to claim his orders required him to watch a Nephil adept and his dormant female companion engaging in copulation.
Truly, his voyeurism wasn’t appropriate. Not in this universe, nor in any other.
Michael didn’t care. If he cared, he’d have to stop, and he wasn’t remotely ready to do that. Inappropriate as his peeping might be, it was also interesting. Internet sex, he was discovering, didn’t hold a candle to the real thing.
Besides. Raphael was probably overreacting about Arthur. His big brother did tend to create storm clouds out of the slightest wisps of fog. Michael had discussed the whole thing with Gabriel after Raphael had flown off.
It was true that Arthur’s direct ancestor, the Nephil Merlin, had possessed far too much magic. The magnitude of Merlin’s power had been a direct result of his unguided Ordeal. The situation had allowed the sorcerer to manipulate human events to a disturbing degree. For example, Merlin’s powers of illusion had been so strong, he’d been able to substitute a fierce stranger into the bed of a loyal wife. The deceit had been so skillfully wrought that Lady Igraine hadn’t so much as suspected she was fornicating with young, brash Uther Pendragon, rather than her own husband. At least, not until it was all over, and her lover’s true face was revealed.
Merlin hadn’t stopped with that little bit of mischief. He’d followed it up with stealing the offspring of Igraine and Uther’s sinful union. He schooled the boy in all manner of war skills and forbidden magic. Eventually, via some improbable trickery regarding a sword and a stone, Merlin had arranged for Arthur Pendragon to become King of the Britons.
True, King Arthur had been a fine warrior on his own merit. But no mere human, no matter how brilliant his warcraft, could’ve won battle after battle the way Arthur had. Not without the demonic assistance. This, Merlin had provided in spades. If King Arthur was a legend—and he was—he owed it all to Nephil magic.
Yes, Merlin had been very dangerous. In the end, though, he’d done himself in. Not much surprise there. Nephilim were, as a rule, their own worst enemies. Give them a little rope, and they’d hang themselves every time. Arthur, Michael suspected, would prove no different. In fact, he probably couldn’t help it, even if he wanted to. As a Nephil, Arthur was, by definition, a cursed abomination. The soulless son of a fallen angel, to whom even Hell was denied. What could one expect of such a creature but sin? With no afterlife to look forward to, he was bound to create havoc on Earth.
Chilled by the thought of such mortal finality, Michael returned his attention to the window. Though every Nephil was bound for Oblivion, the two on the other side of the window didn’t at present seem troubled by an existential crisis. On the contrary. To all appearances, they were having a very, very good time.
It only made sense, he supposed. If one was doomed to a fleeting, insignificant existence, one could be expected to seize life’s every pleasure before the final curtain fell.
“Arthur! Oh, Arthur!”
His gaze narrowed. Nephil sex certainly appeared pleasurable. More so, even, than human copulation. No wonder. Nephil males were large, in all aspects of their anatomy. According to the Internet, size mattered.
Adjusting his grip, Michael eased farther along the tree branch. His wings fluttered, assisting his balance. Arthur’s sex partner was unlike any female—human, demon, angel, or Nephil—Michael had ever laid eyes on. She was tall and lushly formed, graceful and long-limbed. Her breasts were glorious when clothed. Nude, with rose-brown nipples on full display, they were mesmerizing. Her skin was like fresh cream. Her hair—long, blond, and curling—rivaled the sun.
Cybele. Arthur had called her Cybele.