Angel Slayer. Michele Hauf
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like angels and the fallen and what they might look like, and now. This could not be happening.
Finally Ashur nodded. “I will not leave you. But my intentions cannot be fulfilled here and now. Give me your hand.”
She tucked her hands behind her hips.
Ashur lunged and gripped her wrist, roughly forcing her hand forward. And then he bent and dragged his tongue over her skin, right over the itchy spot where Zaqiel had licked her.
“What the hell?”
“It counteracts the angelkiss,” he said. “For a while. Don’t scratch until I tell you to do so.”
He grabbed her, sweeping her into his arms as effortlessly as if she were a doll. He deposited her on the back of the motorcycle again. Tears rolled down Eden’s face as he kicked the bike into gear and they rolled over the litter of glass.
“Tell me where you live. I want the angel to think you are alone and waiting.”
“Oh, hell. An angel? A real …? This can’t be happening.”
“Your address, my lady.”
If she had known the address for the police station, Eden would have rambled that one off. Yet the idea of being dropped off at home, where she felt most safe and could lock the doors and keep out all the crazy men after her, sounded too good to be true.
She gave him her address, and the motorcycle picked up speed.
He’d spoken of Fallen angels, and kisses from angels, which made her think he was talking about real angels. She believed in angels. They weren’t all glowy and peaceful and full of grace as modern media would have a person believe. Some were positively evil—the fallen ones.
Something the cabbie had said returned to her. When they were in the tunnel, the cab had slowed and he said he saw an angel.
Had Zaqiel been that angel?
But why would an angel be after her? Had it something to do with the dreams she’d been having all her life?
As they sped down the pier, Eden glanced over her shoulder and saw Zaqiel keeping track with them on foot.
Chapter 3
Bruce speed-dialed Antonio in Paris, then checked his watch only after he’d done so. It was 6:00 p.m. in New York. That made it something like midnight in Paris.
The receiver clicked. “What?”
“Er, sir, hey. I’m here in New York.”
“Obviously. What do you have for me, Bruce?”
“I tracked the Fallen to an art gallery.”
“You tag him?”
The GPS injection gun Bruce wore in a holster was still loaded with a cartridge. “No. But I did discover something very interesting.” He turned and eyed the gallery, still swarming with mortals oohing and aahing over its contents.
“No tagged vamp? What the hell are you doing? Traipsing through Times Square?”
“Listen, Antonio, I found some paintings you’ll want to see.”
“Paintings?”
“Yes, they were painted by a chick named Eden Campbell. They are all of angels. I think she knows something. They are remarkable.”
“You’ve never seen an angel, Bruce, what the hell makes you think some woman painting fluffy-winged angels knows something? I’m very disappointed—”
“In each painting the angel wears a sigil,” Bruce hastened out. “And I know I’ve never seen an angel, but I have seen those symbols in that ancient book you used to summon Zaqiel and the other. They are the same. I know it.”
He heard shuffling. Antonio must be sitting behind his desk in the cavern. Bruce called the guy’s home a cavern because seventy percent of it was located underground. Five hundred years old and sunlight had never touched his skin. Holy water burned him and he seriously could not see his reflection in a mirror. He was old world all the way.
“You swear this is serious?” Antonio asked. “I’m sure of it, boss.”
“Who is the woman? How does she know this?”
“I have no idea. Some society chick. I missed her. I guess she left before I got here. The gallery closes in a few minutes.”
“Buy them all,” Antonio ordered. “Ship them to me overnight.”
“Will do, boss.”
A thousand years sitting Beneath, doing nothing more than contemplating emptiness, tends to steal a demon’s energy, if not his sense of what is.
What is, is the world had changed, Ashur told himself. Drastically. He hadn’t afforded the time to look at his surroundings upon arrival here on earth. Immediately he focused on tracking Zaqiel. It was what he did; nothing else concerned him.
So why was he cruising through an overcrowded city on a strange two-wheeled vehicle with a muse clinging to his back?
He never got involved with the muse. The woman was merely bait, a necessary lure to bring the Fallen into its half angel/half human form—the only form in which it could be killed. As well, the form it assumed to impregnate the muse.
Generally Ashur arrived just as the Fallen was going to attempt the muse. Then he slayed the angel.
His timing was irritatingly off. He should not have been summoned until the very moment of the attempt. Had the rules been altered? And why were the Fallen walking earth again? Hadn’t their ranks been swept away with the great flood?
He had no concept of how much time had passed since the flood, or since he’d been banished Beneath. Millennia, surely, for the world had changed drastically.
“Take a left!” the woman yelled over the roar of the motor.
Ashur liked the noise of the engine as he revved it, but he did not care to take directions from a female. However, he did turn because he had not navigated this city before, and her directions had given Zaqiel the slip many city blocks earlier.
So long as Zaqiel knew a Sinistari was with the muse, the angel would not approach her. But it was in the angel’s interest to keep his muse in sight, for he could not track her by scent but only by the identifying mark. Though the angelkiss made all senses unnecessary.
If the muse irritated the angelkiss, it acted like a beacon.
Ashur did not want to use the angelkiss until he had the woman in a space he could control.
Slender fingers gripped him tightly about the waist, clinging to the front of his shirt. He’d gained a mortal’s raiments after surfacing from Beneath. Upon arrival following his summons, Ashur had taken a look around, seen what the mortal men were wearing and had assimilated the trousers, shirt, jacket and boots.
A few minutes observing the men and their motored bikes, and he had learned the driving technique. He’d stolen a bike, leaving behind a crew of leathered bikers shouting at him as they struggled to start their own vehicles. Only one had managed to follow him, but he’d given him the slip.
He’d sacrificed valuable time gathering a few essential tools of this realm, and because of his delay the Fallen was still alive. Yet the angel would have never attempted the woman out in the open with witnesses. Or would he?
The world had changed. Ashur expected everything else—including the Fallen—had changed, as well.
“Drive under there,” she said, pointing toward a slope in the street that lunged beneath a towering cement building. “It’s my building. You can park underneath in the garage.”
Ashur took in the rows of shiny metal vehicles as he rolled slowly down into the cool, lighted garage. Man had come a long way from the horse-drawn carts he recalled.