Wrath of the Fallen by Eve Archer
Chapter Nineteen
Ella
I hesitated on the last step of the curving staircase, one hand lifting the front of my gown so I wouldn’t trip, and the other tucked snugly into the crook of Dominick’s arm. The light that had been streaming into the chateau from various tall windows was now gone, and the mansion glowed from the flicker of candle sconces clinging to the walls. The decor which had seemed so ostentatious and bright during the day now appeared almost gruesome in the candlelight, the figures on the colorful murals cast into darkness and the curls of the wrought iron bannisters stretching shadowy tendrils across the ceiling.
“Nervous?” Dominick’s velvety voice in my ear made me jump, sending unwanted shivers quivering along my spine.
“Don’t scare me like that,” I hissed back.
He laughed, the resonant sound sliding into my bones. “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”
I rubbed the black lace of the evening gown between my fingers, marveling at how silky it felt. I was accustomed to lace being scratchy, but the deep V-neck gown that hugged my curves and flared out to a mermaid skirt with a swish train was anything but, the feather-light fabric almost caressing my skin. “Only a hundred times when I was trying to get dressed, which you did not make easy, by the way.”
He brushed his fingers through the loose curls that spilled over my shoulders. “Is it my fault you look breathtaking in that gown?”
My cheeks warmed from the compliment, but I attempted to give him a severe look. “It’s your fault for continually trying to take it off me.”
He sighed, his warm breath tickling my neck as he nuzzled me. “My apologies.”
“You aren’t the least bit sorry,” I told him, fighting back a giggle and the urge to forget about dinner, run upstairs, and let him peel the dress off me.
“No, I’m not, and I plan to show you just how unrepentant I am later tonight.” With that thrilling threat, he straightened and looked over his shoulder to where Rami and Sara were descending behind us.
Like Dominick, Rami wore a tuxedo perfectly molded to his frame, and his occasionally unruly, wavy hair was tamed. Sara didn’t hold his hand, keeping one hand on the bannister as they descended side by side, her sleek, red dress slit high up one thigh.
Although I might have thought that the sleeveless gown with its narrow skirt, high slit, and equally high neckline was mimicking a Chinese cheongsam, the fabric was nearly gossamer, embellishments over key places the only thing from keeping it from being shocking. Instead of pushing back against the look, Sara had leaned into it, pulling her black hair up into high bun and using smoky eyeliner to give her even more dramatic cat eyes. The way Rami darted stunned glances at her, I was surprised he hadn’t fallen down the stairs already.
“Are we all ready for this?” Dominick asked when they reached us.
“Dinner with the devil?” Sara adjusted her dress slightly. “Why not?”
“He’s technically not the devil,” Rami said.
“Lucifer would be very displeased to know he was being mistaken for the prince of demons on earth,” Dominick added. “But Mastema is a powerful demon who rules over all demonic activity on this plane. We would be wise to be on our guard.”
I drew a shaky breath, willing my heartbeat to slow and the butterflies in my stomach to still. “I guess it’s too late to order room service?”
Dominick eyed me again. “Don’t tempt me.”
I’d only been partly joking, but I threw back my shoulders and gave Sara a quick smile before Dominick led us across the checked marble floor of the foyer and to mirrored double doors that stood open.
Here we go, I thought, steeling myself as we entered the long dining room. In this room, as in the foyer, candles provided all the light, burning in ornate wall sconces and in gilded candelabra on the table. Despite the massive table stretching from one end of the room to the other, my gaze was drawn up to the inset ceiling, covered with a fresco of naked, cavorting cherubs and furry, horned demons. Painted hands reached toward the center, where a massive chandelier hung, crystal and gold shimmering in the glow of the candles and sending rainbows of light spiraling across the room.
“Welcome.”
I hadn’t noticed anyone else in the room until Mastema rose from the chair at the far end. Dressed impeccably in a black tuxedo, he looked nothing like the demons depicted on the ceiling, and everything like a suave, breathtakingly handsome businessman. A powerful one. As much power as Dominick radiated, it was easy to see that here—in his lair—Mastema was truly king.
“Mastema.” Dominick inclined his head at the demon, even as his entire body tensed against mine.
The demon prince returned the slight bow. “I hope you don’t mind that dinner tonight will be a private affair.” He nodded to the six chairs arranged along the two sides of the excruciatingly long table—three on each side spread far enough apart that no one would be able to touch. “I thought anything more might overwhelm our female guests.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I was grateful that both sides of the table weren’t going to be packed with demons. Before we could sit, a door in the corner opened, and a stream of attendants in crimson red livery entered the room, positioning themselves against one wall and looking straight ahead. Although they were dressed formally, I could tell they were demons. I guessed everyone in the lair would be, although that thought sent a chill of fear across my bare skin.
Sara sidled up to me. “I think I just peed myself a little.”
I put a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing out loud, but I was grateful that she’d broken the tension for me. “You’d better not.” I cut my eyes to her revealing dress. “Not in that.”
“Please, take a seat,” Mastema said, flicking a hand toward the high-backed, upholstered chairs.
Dominick frowned at the spacing of the chairs, clearly not pleased to be unable to reach for me during dinner, but when he found my name written on a thick, ivory card at one of the places, he pulled out my chair for me. Rami did the same on the other side, glaring at Caspiel when he appeared to take the remaining seat on their side of the table. The chair on our side of the table remained empty, and there was no name card resting on the neatly folded napkin.
I’d managed to get into a few swanky restaurants in New York—Sara was the queen of getting us the best tables during restaurant week—but I’d never experienced anything like this. As soon as we were seated, the waiters stepped forward in unison, removing our name cards and unfurling our napkins onto our laps. Sara had been in the middle of doing it for herself, when a demon waiter deftly removed it from her hand and finished the process for her. She opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it and clamped her lips together.
“Like I mentioned before,” Mastema said, his voice booming from the far end of the table, where he sat in a carved mahogany chair, his hands resting on the armrests like true royalty. “I have one of the best chefs in Paris, which is saying something.”
“A demon?” Rami asked, as waiters poured wine into all our glasses simultaneously.
“Sadly, no.” Mastema lifted his own wine glass and swirled the crimson liquid. “Demon chefs have a tendency to blacken everything.”
I started to laugh, assuming this was a joke, but Mastema wasn’t smiling so I coughed into my napkin instead. Sara caught my eye and winked, which made me feel better. At least she’d thought it was funny, too.
I reached for my wine glass, eager to take the edge off this dinner but the glass wasn’t halfway to my lips when the demon prince lifted his glass high.
“A toast,” he said.
I reluctantly raised my own glass, wishing instead I was chugging the contents.
“To new alliances,” he continued, his pale eyes darkening over his glass as he gazed around the table, locking eyes with both Dominick and Rami.
“New alliances,” we all repeated, although I noticed Dominick flinch when he said it.
I took a much larger gulp than was usual for a toast, but the red wine was smooth and soft, with no bite at the finish. I’d barely set down my glass before a plate was being placed in front of me. A swath of ruby red was painted across the center of the plate with various creamy dollops and fried bits arranged artfully on top.
“Crispy sweetbreads on a beetroot purée, with crème fraîche and beetroot sorbet,” one of the demon waiters announced from the foot of the table.
I eyed the plate and the blood-red food. I guess I should have been happy that we were being served something a little bit recognizable, although I wasn’t exactly sure what sweetbreads were, and I wasn’t a huge fan of beets. At least part of it was fried. Anything tasted better when it was deep fried.
“Now that we’re here and have a better understanding of what you want,” Dominick said. “We should discuss our strategy.”
Rami had not made a move to start eating. “We can’t hide here forever.”
Mastema nodded as he chewed then took a long drink of wine. “No. A demi-angel does not belong in a demon lair for any longer than necessary.”
“If a war between the angels and demons isn’t what you want, then how do you see this playing out?” Dominick asked.
Mastema leaned back in his chair. “As I see it, we have two options. We trick them into thinking the demi-angel is already dead—”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Dominick growled.
Same, I thought, as I speared one of the crunchy, brown sweetbreads and dipped it into a puff of cream.
Mastema held up his hands. “Or we draw them into a stalemate, so we can negotiate.”
“A stalemate?” Rami exchanged a look with Dominick.
Caspiel furrowed his brow. “Negotiate?”
“The archangels have already lost Azrael,” Mastema said. “The angel of death took Uriel’s sword and descended to earth. It’s clear there is already dissension within the angel ranks, if Uriel didn’t come down with his sword himself.”
Dominick nodded. “Uriel seemed reluctant to go along with Gabriel.”
“There will come a point when their losses will outweigh any benefits, even for Gabriel trying to save his own celestial soul,” Mastema said with a sly smile. “It will be our job to push them to that point.”
“So, we force the archangels into more mistakes and losses, and then approach them to negotiate?” Rami asked.
Caspiel grunted his own disapproval of this plan, but didn’t speak, his attention focused on his plate as he dragged the last bite through the ruby-hued sauce.
Mastema shrugged. “Unless you prefer we stage the angelic human’s death?”
“No,” Dominick snapped. “I won’t put Ella in any more danger.”
I exhaled and relaxed my grip on my fork when I realized that I’d been squeezing so hard my knuckles had gone white. I didn’t like the sound of staging my own death any more than Dominick did. I finally took the bite of sweetbreads, bracing myself as I tentatively chewed. It wasn’t bad although I was glad I didn’t know exactly what I was swallowing.
“Now it’s just a question of how we push the angels into making more and more desperate moves,” Mastema said. “Which is where you two Fallen come in. I might have been an angel once, but I was demonized long before you fell.”
Dominick drained his wine, and a waiter stepped up immediately to refill his glass. “Trust me. The archangels haven’t changed a bit. They’re just as insufferable now as they’ve always been.”
“Which is what we can use against them,” Rami said, leaning his forearms on the table. “Pride, vanity, and piety. It won’t be hard to turn those weaknesses against them. They’re probably already frustrated that they’ve failed so far, which means they might take bigger risks. All we need to do is provide those enticing risks.”
Mastema lifted his glass to Rami. “Wise counsel, Ramiel. This is why I chose you to serve by my side.”
Sara’s silverware clattered to her plate. “I’m sorry, what?”
