Ares had been raised to be a warrior—and he’d been a damned good one, had learned the art of war from the human he’d believed to be his father, which honed the instinct he’d been born with, thanks to his demon mother and battle-angel father. But then, when the Seals were doled out according to “best—and worst—fit” for each sibling, he’d also been supplied with a massive dose of insta-expertise.
The desire to fight a good battle had always been there. No blaming that on the stupid prophecy.
Time to kick his own ass and do what needed to be done. The fate of all mankind rested on his shoulders, and if he traumatized one little human female to save the world, so be it.
He was about to let down the khote when Cara grabbed the phone, dialed, and said in a droning voice, “Larena, it’s Cara. I need to know what dreaming about a black dog means. It was howling, in a cage. And if the name Sestiel means anything to you, that would help, too. Thanks.”
Caged? That meant that Sestiel was in possession of the beast and not the other way around. Was he hoping to bond with it? Even though fallen angels belonged to a small handful of beings who could tame hellhounds, now that the beast was bonded to Cara, no one else could control it, tame it, or bond with it. Sestiel must not be aware that his hopes for a hellhound protector, at least from this specific hound, were dashed.
But Ares’s hopes were still alive. The hound could be the one he wanted, and Ares’s blood sang with anticipation that he might finally have his revenge. That Cara would become collateral damage didn’t matter, and Ares had a feeling that even when he took off the armor, the hatred for the beast would far outweigh any prick of conscience he’d have for the consequences to the human.
Cara hung up and ambled into the bedroom, clearly on autopilot. Curious, he followed, and when she began to strip, he decided that popping into the open now might not be a good idea.
He’d been raised during a time in which nudity wasn’t given a second thought, and he rarely batted an eyelash at an unclothed body. Sure, like any red-blooded male, in the heat of the moment he appreciated a naked woman, but it took a hell of a lot more than simple nudity to stir his loins even a little bit.
And yet, as Cara peeled off her pajama top, he definitely found himself stirred.
As if she felt she was being watched, she angled away from him, but too late. Her high, full breasts and dusky rose nipples were already seared into his memory. And he had to admit that the view from behind was just as tantalizing.
Cara’s skin was pale, as though she didn’t spend much time outside, but aside from a few freckles, it was flawless, milky and smooth, and he had an intense urge to touch it, see if it was as supple and warm as it looked. Her toned muscles flexed with every movement—she was stronger than she looked, as his still-tender balls could attest.
Bending over, she shoved down her pajama bottoms and underwear, and Ares, who had always preferred battle over sex, who had grown bored of sex because it offered no challenges, nothing new… nearly swallowed his tongue. He was a breast man, but Cara had one fine ass.
And wasn’t ogling a woman who was still suffering from shock real fucking noble. Not that he’d ever claimed to be noble.
She padded to the bathroom, and again, as if she could sense his presence, she closed the door. And locked it.
Through the flimsy plywood, he heard the shower start, and though he could cast a Harrowgate to get into the bathroom, he had a better idea.
He summoned a gate to take him to his Greek stronghold, changed into khaki cargo pants and a white linen button-down that he left untucked. He wanted to appear casual and nonthreatening, and for half a second he even considered throwing on his leather flip-flops. No male looked like a badass in flip-flops.
But they also weren’t made for saddle stirrups, and he wanted to be prepared to ride, so in the end he shoved his feet into a pair of combat boots, grabbed a wad of American money, and called it good. He figured he had a few minutes to spare before Cara finished showering, so he checked his email, hoping for intel or gossip from his spies and underworld sources. Any information about Pestilence’s location, his activities, movements… anything… could be a major breaththrough.
“There’s a new meningitis outbreak in Uganda and a bubonic plague flare-up in the Philippines.”
Ares rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger before shooting an annoyed glance at Reaver. The blond angel loved popping into rooms unannounced. He stood in the doorway to Ares’s office, his arms folded over his broad chest, his sapphire blue eyes glowing with intensity.
Ares scanned CNN’s website. “It hasn’t made the news yet.”
Reaver waggled his brows. “The DBS always scoops everyone else.”
Ares was tempted to argue that the underworld often had its finger on the pulse of bad news before Reaver’s so-called Divine Broadcasting System did, but it wasn’t worth his time. Angels didn’t like to admit that demons ever got one up on them. Then again, Reaver wasn’t your usual halo. The guy had spent some time as a fallen angel, and he’d worked at the demon hospital, Underworld General, for years before he’d earned his wings back. Because of that, he had a unique perspective on demons, and he even remained friendly with some of them.
Weird.
“I’m sure Thanatos is assessing the outbreaks for signs of Reseph’s hand.” Thanatos, as the Horseman who would become Death should his Seal break, was naturally drawn to scenes of mass casualties, just as Ares was drawn to large-scale battles. They often haunted the same scenes.
“And what are you doing?”
Ares leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out and crossing them at the ankles. “You know, you would be a lot more helpful if you maybe—here’s a novel idea—helped.”
“You know the rules.”
Yeah, yeah. “The rules are fucked.”
“That’s what I love about you warrior types,” Reaver drawled. “You’re so articulate.”
“We don’t need to be. Our swords speak louder than words.”
The angel just shook his head. “Have you found the bearer of your agimortus yet?”
“I keep getting brief buzzes through my Seal, but by the time I follow the lead, he’s disappeared again. Do you know where he is?”
“He’s hidden even from me.”
“You wouldn’t tell me if you knew,” Ares growled. “But I have his name. Does Sestiel ring a bell?”
“Sestiel?” Reaver rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “He fell a few hundred years ago. He succumbed to human temptations and neglected his duties one too many times. Last I heard, he was trying to earn his way back into Heaven.”
“Who does he hang with?”
Reaver made a golden ball of light appear in his palm, bouncing it lightly. Ares hated when he did that—one slip of the Heavenly Illum, and the entire island would be engulfed in bright daylight twenty-four-seven.
“You are familiar with Tristelle?”
Ares nodded. The female Unfallen had been around for as long as Ares could remember, seemingly content to walk the line between good and evil.
“Sestiel has been trying to redeem her for decades.” Reaver winked. “And no, this information isn’t helping you, since it’s common knowledge.”
Excellent. Tristelle might be able to provide some clue to Sestiel’s whereabouts.
His scalp prickled, and Harvester took form next to Reaver, who let the light go out as he looked her up and down. “What happened to you?”
“None of your business,” she snapped, and… okaaay. The evil Watcher had always been testy, but her bitchiness was usually couched in sarcasm. But then, in the two thousand years she’d been a Watcher, he’d never seen her so… beat up.
Strike that. Not just beat up, but beaten. Her black wings, too wrecked to fold against their anchors, drooped so low that they dragged on the floor, her head hung as though her neck pained her, and Ares swore that for just a second, her eyes looked haunted. Thing was, angels healed quickly, so whatever she’d tangled with had to have been of equal or greater power—and there were very few beings in either category.