The fog of pain was slowly lifting. The world was coming back into focus, and I could see I was in a hospital bed, with all the requisite tubes going into and out of my body. I observed them with distant interest. It was as if they were attached to somebody else. This broken body had betrayed me by giving me so much pain, and I preferred to keep myself aloof.
I could smell the sea. I had always been afraid of the ocean, the pull of the riptide, the waves that could crash over you and beat you down into the suffocating water.
Odd, because I was accused of suffocating infants.
In fact, old memories felt more real than my current state, half in and out half of a pain-infused nightmare. I knew my curse now. Not to kill innocent children. But to catch them up and cradle them and carry them to safety when something ended their lives.
The untouched ones were the hardest. It was called many things—witchcraft, crib death, SIDS. I carried them in my arms and washed them with my tears, each loss as wrenching as if it were my own child. It was a cruel and monstrous punishment, but there was more to it.
I comforted the women who were barren. I held them in my arms when they slept and sang to them. I went to their husbands and whispered to them, and they would rise up and take their wives and sometimes, just sometimes, the women’s bellies would fill with the children they longed for. But too often they mourned, and the husbands went elsewhere, and I could only grieve with them.
I lay down with monsters. I had a body that was used until it wore out, and then I was given another, and then another, as the foulness of their bodies defiled my human one. Their members were misshapen, barbed, clawed, and hideous, and each night my body would tear in pain, in punishment. But that was over. Long gone, and this body was new. I remembered only the acts, not the way I had felt. I was spared that much as I slowly came alive again.
I lay down with human men, always on top of them. My sin was asking questions, and my punishment was great. I lay down with human men and used them because they wanted me to, and I felt nothing.
And I lay down with a fallen angel, and felt too much.
I kept my eyes half-closed, watching the woman as she moved around my bed. She was pretty, wearing a brightly colored dress that swirled around her ankles, and she looked happy. Had I finally found a place where people could be happy?
There was color everywhere—the blue of the sky outside, the rich brown of the woman’s hair, the rainbow dresses she wore. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed color during my sojourn in the Dark City.
Day turned into night and then into day again. At times I dreamed my enemy, my betrayer, was there watching me, and I wanted to cry out. But when I opened my eyes he was gone. It was only a nightmare.
I remembered everything. I remembered him. And I remembered how to hate.
“You’re awake, aren’t you?” the woman said, her voice low and musical. I considered ignoring her, but she’d tended me so carefully that I knew I had to answer.
I tried to speak, but no sound came out of my throat. For a moment I wondered if my voice was gone forever, torn away by my screams, but then a rusty sound emerged. “Yes,” I said, shocked at the gravelly sound.
“That’s good,” the woman said cheerfully. “Don’t try to talk any more. You tore your vocal cords, and the best thing you can do is rest your voice. I’m Allie, and this is Sheol. Home to the Fallen.”
The Fallen what? But I knew the answer. One of the fallen angels had saved me, circumvented Azazel’s execution order.
“You’ve been sick a very long time,” she continued, taking my hand in hers, the hand that didn’t have an IV in it. “But I’m happy to say the worst is over, and you’re well on your way to a full recovery. It will take time, but you’re getting stronger every day.”
Good to know, I thought hazily, sliding down in the bed. She still held my hand, and for some reason I didn’t pull away. I’d never liked being touched, but this woman calmed me, soothed me. Healed me. The way I had calmed, soothed, healed the barren women of the world.
“There are about forty of us here, men and women. My husband is Raziel, the leader, and I’m sort of chief cook and bottle washer. I’m the healer, the shoulder to cry on, the voice of reason occasionally, though my husband would disagree with that. You’re safe here, I promise you that. There’s no way Uriel, or Beloch, or whatever he was calling himself, can get in here. This is sacred ground, and he’s not allowed. And none of his nasty little bullies can get in either. No one’s able to reach us unless we invite them in.”
“Like vampires,” I whispered.
Allie suddenly had an odd expression. “I guess you could say so. But bottom line, no one can bother you here.”
I thought of Azazel. Was he still in the Dark City, enjoying the fruits of his betrayal? Or had my rescuers killed him during the attempt to free me? Come to think of it, how did they know I would need freeing? Hell, they were angels, albeit fallen ones; they could probably know anything they damned well wanted to.
I was getting tired, and I pulled my hand free, resting it on my stomach. Big mistake. I moaned in pain, snatching my hand back. My entire stomach felt like someone had carved their initials—
I had a flash of exactly what the Truth Breakers had done to me, with their blades and their hands and their fingernails, and my stomach twisted in horror. “I need to sleep,” I croaked.
Allie nodded. “I understand. You don’t need visitors right now.”
Visitors? Who would be visiting me? I didn’t know anyone here. I closed my eyes, shutting her out, the calm voice, the soothing touch, the healing presence. I wanted nothing and no one. Just sleep.
AZAZEL HAD LOST TRACK OF time. He sat by the water in the darkness, silent, knowing he could do nothing to help her. He simply had to wait, and waiting was torture.
Torture, he mocked himself. He remembered torture, remembered his time at the hands of the Truth Breakers, centuries ago. He had survived, but just barely, and he had strength and endurance far greater than mere mortals. And no matter what Rachel was, the body she inhabited was human, and therefore vulnerable.
What he’d gone through long ago would have killed a human three times over. He didn’t know how Rachel had managed to survive, but it had been a close thing. Another five minutes and she would have been gone. And he didn’t know how he could have borne it.
He felt her approach. The Source, Allie, the woman who had taken Sarah’s place. The woman who had been Sarah’s friend, even for such a short time, and had Sarah’s blessing. Sarah hadn’t had an angry, resentful bone in her body. She would be ashamed of him.
He started to rise, for the first time showing her that courtesy, but Allie gestured to him to sit and took the seat next to him, staring out at the sea. He held his breath. She had come to tell him that she had done her best, but that Rachel had died. Died in pain, hating him.
“She’s going to be fine,” she said softly. “She’s sleeping now, but she was awake for a while, and even able to talk a bit.”
Azazel started out of his chair, but she put her hand on his arm, her gentle touch staying him. “She’s not ready for visitors,” she said. “And before you see her, we need to talk.”
His old animosity reared up. “What about?”
“You need to understand what kind of shape she’s in. What she remembers and what she doesn’t.”
Her skin felt like ice, and he turned his face away to look at the dark, churning water. “Tell me.”
“She remembers everything. In bits and pieces, but I’m not sure how clear she is.”
“Everything?”
“She knows she’s Lilith. She remembers her curse, and what she had to do to work through her penance. Unlike the Fallen, it doesn’t appear that her curse is eternal, and someone has finally released her. At least, it seems like it.”