Enrapture | The Angels Series Book 2 | Slow Updates

Chapter Two

Without his sword, he was vulnerable. He had his inner light, but the pulsing signature was unknown to him. He would be a fool to go after it improperly armed. His general’s sword held great power, even beyond his own understanding. He never fought without it. Focusing his mind, he tried to call the sword to him. Nothing.

He gruffed and turned away from the signature, not wanting to face it and discover its great power. He continued to drag his boots through the obsidian sand, scanning the desolate land before him. The air was dank and cool and the skies – if you could call them that – were as usual, shrouded in darkness. The sun didn’t reach this realm, and it wasn’t lit with torches like the more civilized parts of Hell.

Michael’s thoughts began to wander to that dark place. That place where he found no reason to go on. That place where he blamed himself for everything that went wrong. Where was the confident Saint Michael now? He scoffed, remembering the way Gabriel had always accused him of arrogance and vanity. If he could only see him now.

Shamed. Dejected. Belonging nowhere. A growl of frustration escaped him as his thoughts wandered back to Uriel. The Seraphim’s booming voice echoed in his mind, telling him to do what needed to be done. How could he have allowed him to get into his mind? The Lord had pulled back the angel’s army for a reason, yet Michael had failed to put two and two together in the heat of the moment.

If there was anything he knew about Uriel, it was that he loved bloodshed. He obeyed the Lord’s commands, but to what extent, no one knew. Nobody spoke to God directly. Only Uriel.

Damn it! Michael thought, feeling angrier than ever. He should have known those orders didn’t come from God. He should have known they had been Uriel’s way of getting what he wanted.

He was beginning to doubt his own position in Heaven. They kept so many secrets, even from him. He knew of many things they had altered in the minds of the angels. He had been granted the authority to know some of these truths, but who’s to say they didn’t erase some of his mind? He could trust no one. He belonged nowhere.

He didn’t want to be part of the grand scheme and cover-ups that Heaven created. He wanted to be part of their undoing. Yes, there was something much larger at play here.

Michael suddenly realized that he had wandered toward the mysterious signature and found himself standing at the mouth of a cave. The power surged suddenly, and he immediately recognized that its aura was ancient. Nearly as old as he was. He braced himself and called his inner light forward, allowing the yellow light to engulf his hands in flames. He entered the cave and followed the signature to the very back.

He found a labyrinth of cavernous tunnels and allowed his senses to guide him through the correct ones. The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end and he felt a warmth surround him.

“Welcome, Saint Michael,” a disembodied voice reverberated all around him. He spun around in place, trying to source its location. He felt something akin to a magnetic pull in his chest and, despite his better judgement, allowed it to lead him deeper into the caverns. There was an opening at the end of the dank tunnel, and a dull light caught his attention. His hands and light at the ready, he stepped through the opening and immediately took a defensive stance.

His eyes landed on the center of the large room and grew wide. His arms turned to jelly and dropped to his sides. His heart thudded loudly in his chest – loud enough for any immortal being to pick up on – and his mouth suddenly pooled with saliva.

Standing at the center of the inner cave was a woman. A breathtaking, curvaceous, olive-skinned woman.

Her slender body was clad in a white tunic-like dress with gold trimming. Around her slim waist was a wide, gold belt engraved with intricate designs. Her dress was sleeveless and the collar dipped low in a seductive V while still concealing her breasts which swelled beneath the thin fabric, not hiding their ample size. She had long, thick hair that was dark in color – like chestnuts – which tumbled down her slender back and brushed her waist. Her face was slim and oval-shaped, cheekbones high and defined, lips full, nose straight and prominent in that noble sort of way. Her eyes were large and round – the color of honey. Her eyebrows were thick and defined, and her long, curly eyelashes framed her entrancing eyes. He dragged his gaze down the length of her, soaking in every beautiful detail. Her waist was narrow and transitioned into hips that flared out delightfully. The hem of her dress brushed her knees and left her sculpted calves to be devoured by his hungry gaze.

He was about as useful as a rock right now. All he could do was stare – and drool. She smiled at him and he felt a warm rush spread from the center of his chest to the rest of his limbs. Limbs that were becoming less useful and more comparable to noodles. That was, with the exception of the stone-hard pillar that jutted out between his legs.

His eyes widened with horror and he quickly threw his hands over his crotch – immediately regretting it when he drew her attention to that very spot by doing so.

He was a wreck.

Where was his composure when he needed it? He groaned and straightened his posture, trying desperately to regain even an ounce of his dignity. She had disarmed him so quickly and so effortlessly. What sort of creature was she? Their eyes locked again and the warmth filled his chest once more, this time eliciting a step from him. Before he knew what he was doing, Michael had crossed half the span of the room and found himself standing only mere feet away from her.

She was about a foot shorter than he, he guessed around five-seven. He was entranced by her. Completely enthralled. His insides felt warm and gooey, as though he had been filled with warm syrup. Her plump lips parted and his ears were filled with the sweet sound of her voice.

“You are weary from travel, Saint Michael. Please, take respite and comfort here. I mean you no harm.”

Michael regarded her and allowed her words to soak in. She offered him help? And she knew his name. Suddenly, his fleeting sense returned to him and he shook off the warmth that seemed to draw him to her. It was like waking up from a spell.

“How do you know who I am?” he demanded, setting his face into a frown and rising to his full height. He would not let himself be fooled by whatever power she might hold. He recognized sorcery when he encountered it. She had definitely been working a spell on him.

“I am a shaman,” she replied, not at all intimidated by his sudden change in mood, “and I know much about you, Saint Michael. Please, allow me to help you. You have been traveling for too long.”

Michael eyed her suspiciously. She claimed to be a shaman, yet her aura was older and much more powerful than that of any shaman he had encountered before. He couldn’t detect a lie in her pulse, for it remained steady and unwavering. His senses told him she was being sincere, so he set his doubts aside. For now.

The woman stepped to the side and revealed a large bed to him with fur pelts on top. He raised a brow, acknowledging that he had not seen fur used as covers for many centuries. No matter. He nodded his thanks and took a seat on the edge of the bed. When he looked up, he was shocked to see the woman standing only inches away from him. Her breasts were level with his eyes and he longed to tear her dress away and take them into his mouth.

What?

He was shocked at his own thoughts and shoved them away. She bent toward him, her lips hovering just inches away from his. She smelled of gardenias. Her fingers brushed his brow and dragged along the curve of his face.

“Rest,” she whispered, and he felt her tiny hands force his back onto the bed. His eyelids drooped and the room around him seemed to blur. His body grew heavy and he willingly submitted to the call of sleep, despite not fully trusting this beautiful stranger. The warmth returned to his chest and throbbed, leaving him feeling unusual, yet content. 

On a sigh, he succumbed to the darkness.