Eden couldn’t remember when she’d been more frightened by a stranger …

… and more intrigued.

If Ashur had told her the truth, she was in deep trouble. How did she dare escape an angel with supernatural abilities? Her only choice was to trust this man who called himself an angel slayer. What was that exactly? Was he even human?

But what she craved now was something entirely different than she was accustomed to dating. Like the sexy, rock-hard abs of her slayer—whatever he was.

Ashur was the opposite of everything she’d ever found sexy in a man. Pure muscle and might. Commanding. And a bit arrogant, too.

And she wanted it all.

About the Author

MICHELE HAUF has been writing for over a decade and has published historical, fantasy and paranormal romance. A good strong heroine, action and adventure, and a touch of romance make for her favorite kind of story. (And if it’s set in France, all the better.) She lives with her family in Minnesota, and loves the four seasons, even if one of them lasts six months and can be colder than a deep-freeze. You can find out more about her at: www. michelehauf.com.

ANGEL SLAYER

MICHELE HAUF

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Dear Reader,

I’ve done a few series for the Nocturne™ line and even though they are placed into different “series,” all these stories take place in the same world. I always know that anything can exist in my world, be it vampires and werewolves or faeries, golems and witches—even the devil, Himself. It was time to explore truly vast opposites.

So set aside all you know and believe about angels and demons. I’m going to twist things up a bit. You think all angels are benevolent and good? And demons are bad, right? Well, not in this story. I based some of my mythology on the Book of Enoch, a pseudepigraphic work ascribed to Enoch, the great-grandfather of Noah. But that was merely a starting point. It’s all my crazy thinking in this series, so you can blame me when your guardian angel shoots you a sexy grin or even a malevolent sneer.

Michele

The internet makes it possible to “meet” and “know” so many people. As a writer I am always thrilled to hear from fans and readers. One reader, in particular, Anna Dougherty, hung around a bit on a blog I participate in with a group of writers. I didn’t know Anna at all, but sensed from her comments she liked paranormal romance. So when I began my vampire book club project, Bite Club, I e-mailed her to see if she would have an interest in heading it up. She agreed, but I don’t think she realized it would become such a “huge” project. Bite Club takes a lot of time and dedication, and Anna has it in spades. She dived into the project and made it her own, and Bite Club simply would not exist without her devotion, organization and vamp-smarts.

So, here’s to you, Anna! Many thanks!

Prologue

An obsidian sea roiled behind a black titanium throne. The throne grew up from the sea at the tongue of a dark steel island, its surface intermittently visible through the wavering liquid surface.

A demon sat upon the throne, his horned head bowed. A crown of bone and feathers tilted upon his skull. His powerful forearms relaxed upon the throne arms. Taloned fingers of muscled black flesh tapped resolutely.

He had been tapping for centuries. It meant nothing. It passed the time.

A silver cloud, thick as mercury, dusted across the sea. The commotion behind him made no noise.

Noise did not exist here—Beneath. At times he attempted to sense his own heartbeat. He had a heart. It was black, forged from the same ineffable substance of which he’d been forged. But he had never heard it beat. Never.

He did not require that confirmation of life. He knew he existed on a level forbidden to most, and unreachable by mere mortals. Feared by all others.

He was Ashuriel the Black, Stealer of Souls, Master of Dethnyht. Only he wore the crown. Not a mortal or paranormal creature in any of the realms—no matter how twisted and black—should like to claim the same.

Time did not exist here, though he knew he had once grasped the hours and days and even years that some valued to order their lives. He had no need. He had lost memory of time, of physicality and sensation, and emotion.

Save the one emotion he yet clung to as if a screaming soul seeking escape—but he would not think on it, for to do so would render excruciating pain throughout his being.

When a brilliant burst shimmered across the jet surface of the sea it startled him. He had not been aware such light could exist Beneath.

Ashuriel lifted his head. The black armor he wore—fashioned from demonic metal mined from the depths of his realm—clanked, but the noise was only imagined, not real.

He waited for the light to form into shape, a recognizable creature, something that would remind him of what he’d once known in another time, another place. It did not.

Instead the light brightened until he had to close his eyes, and yet the intensity seared a bold flash across the inside of his metallic lids. Strange warmth welled inside him, but he could not touch the meaning or properly label it.

“You are summoned, Sinistari,” the light intoned in a voice so deep it vibrated inside Ashuriel’s metal chest.

And then the light vanished, leaving only a fading silver resonance behind his eyelids.

Reaching for the crown of bone and feathers upon his head, the Sinistari demon removed it. He stroked a talon over the thirteen feathers of all colors and design that marked a kill, each of them.

The Sinistari were summoned for only one reason. He’d thought the threat was controlled and swept away with the great flood. A time long ago, or perhaps only moments had passed. But he would not question a summons. Cracking his neck from side to side, he stood from the throne and stretched out his arms, thrust out his chest and sucked in the airless nothing about him.

Ashuriel let out a roar. The noise was audible, and it shuddered waves across the obsidian sea. It pleased him. Dangling the crown on one long finger, he flicked it over a shoulder to land upon the throne.

The master slayer was back in business.

Chapter 1

Eden Campbell worked the small corner art gallery across the street from Chelsea Park like a pro. Though she cautioned herself not to break into song or shout, “Hey! This is my first gallery showing and it means the world to me, and it’s going well!”

No, that would be crass. Beyond the occasional eccentricity, she was known for her calm, collected demeanor—and her killer legs, which she’d decided to showcase as well as her artwork this afternoon.

She was happiest in sweats and a T-shirt when painting, but she could do the sexy businesswoman look, too. A black leather skirt skimmed her thighs. A white long-sleeved silk blouse boasted a deep V-neckline and ruffles at wrist and waist. Diamond chandetier earrings added a necessary touch of romance. She’d pulled her waist-length wavy hair into a loose ponytail to keep it from tangling in her earrings. Sexy violet suede stilettos finished the look with a promise of things Eden usually only whispered, and only to men.

She unbuttoned her left sleeve because her forearm tingled weirdly, much like getting hit in the funny bone. The thought to scratch it was put off when she caught the eye of a woman in black horn-rims who thrust her a discerning nod.

“Act professional,” she coached inwardly. “You want them to take your work seriously.”

As seriously as a woman with preternatural knowledge of the heavenly ranks could be taken. That was a detail she kept close to the cuff.

The people milling about were all like her—rich, stylish, entitled—but not like her. Eden wondered if they had heartbreaks, dreams and obsessions. Or did they simply exist on the surface, decorating themselves to catch an approving nod from the right kind and class of person?

Eden didn’t require approval. She wanted to exist in her world, even if it wasn’t like their world beneath the surface. She tried to fit in, and succeeded. Most saw her as a privileged society woman who attended charity balls and had once been a common fixture on Page Six.

But this artistic side of her was the real Eden, no fake smiles allowed. This showing was her attempt to show them she needed to breathe her own air, as different as that may be.

It was easier for her to walk behind people and listen in on conversations about her work than to boldly approach a visitor face-to-face. Control the urge to tell them what you know. It’s all there on the canvas; they can figure it out for themselves. Sure, a few friends were in the mix for support, but Todd, who worked part-time at the gallery, and Cammie, a friend since prep school, lingered somewhere off near the wine and cheese.

Eden caught the middle of a conversation and frowned.

“But angels are heavenly beings. Innately good,” the critic argued with a friend. “What the heck is that?”

That was one of her favorite pieces.

Eden painted only angels, but their variety was as vast as her imagination. Rarely did she paint a winged angel descending on a beam of light from the clouds. That image had been overdone.

And really, she knew fluffy wings and white robes were all wrong.

Hence, her titanium angel with steampunk-geared wings of binary code. Its face was hollow, exposing honeycomb bone, and silver filaments sprouted on the skull. A halo spun like the rings of Saturn at the back of its head. The angel’s grin was more seductive than some of the expressions Eden had seen on her lackluster dates of late.

“It’s blasphemous,” the critic decided.

Eden shrugged and walked on. Definitely not her sales base. Didn’t matter. She wasn’t showing her work to make a profit; she simply wanted to hear what others thought. And so far most of the feedback had been awesome.

A particular man caught her eye. He stood before The Fall, her depiction of an angel falling from the heavens. The angel wore a devious smile on its glass face and its redwood wings blazed with blue fire. Steel rain extinguished some of the flame. Its halo, detached, cut through the rain, spattering it like oil stains. A single crystal tear dripped from the angel’s eye and stained the ground it had yet to touch.

Though he was unusual in appearance, the man who studied her work didn’t shock Eden. All sorts crowded Manhattan; she loved the exercise in individuality. Silver-white hair punked about his head. He wore a black eye patch over his left eye, and a tight white T-shirt enhanced considerable abs. Gleaming silver hardware hung from his ears, nose, eyebrows and chin. Leather pants hugged his lanky legs like plastic wrap, rendering the belts buckled about his thighs and hips unnecessary. The entire look screamed anarchist raging for a fire to fan.

Paralleling him, Eden waited to see if he would make the first comment. She didn’t like to influence her viewers one way or another.

A familiar scent emanated from him. Sweet and subtle like fruit. He smelled enticing, which baffled her because she was not attracted to his type—it was Wall Street business suits all the way for her.

Her forearm tingled again, like the pins and needles sensation she got when her arm or leg fell asleep. What could it be from? She hadn’t challenged Cammie to a match of tennis for weeks. She shrugged up her sleeve to scratch, then reminded herself to be cool.

When finally the punk jerked a shoulder back and looked at her it was as if she had materialized beside him out of the blue.

“Sorry,” Eden offered politely. “Didn’t mean to surprise you.”

“My fault. I was lost in the painting. It’s interesting. You are very … “ His one pale gold eye squinted as he studied her face. Rather, gold was the prominent color. Many colors glittered like a kaleidoscope in that single eye. A trace of blue curled out the bottom of the eye patch. Must be a tattoo.

“Unremarkable,” he finally announced. “Your voice is green,” he continued. “Square. And your scent.” He sniffed. “Smooth. But those shoes. Violet. Yes. Nice. Short leather skirt. Hair … chestnut.”

His weird inventory unsettled Eden. She didn’t judge people by their clothing choices, personal habits or even religion. Hell, she’d been judged far too many times.

Intuition, on the other hand, had a tendency to knock a little too late on her skull.

“Who are you?” He tilted his head and looked her up and down. It was the most uncomfortable dressing down Eden had ever experienced. She should politely dismiss herself.

Yet what was with her arm? Eden’s divided attention pestered her. Something strange was going on beneath the silk sleeve. That was the last time she took her shirts to the dry cleaners on Fifth. She suspected they weren’t as green as their ads claimed to be.

“I’m the artist,” she offered and thrust out her hand. The punk looked at it a few moments before shaking it. “Eden Campbell.”

“Eden. How … sardonic. Means nothing. What I want to know is how you know all … this.”

“This?”

“That!” He gestured angrily toward the painting. “You’ve quite the talent. One could call it a preternatural talent.”

“You think?” Heartbeats skipping, Eden beamed at the painting. No one had ever labeled her work that way. She was the only one who believed she had—

Stop it, Eden. He hasn’t a clue. Do not make a fool of yourself.

“If I were of the mind to purchase I’d buy them all,” he remarked, “but unfortunately I’ve no permanent residence. Bit of a world traveler.”

“That must be exciting.”

“There is something about you, Eden.” He leaned in close and his fruity scent enticed her to remain in place, despite the creepy stranger signals he was sparking out at her. “Do you by chance,” he whispered, “wear a sigil on your body?”

“A sigil?” That was a weird question, but oddly intuitive.

Could he also know what she knew?

The man glanced about the crowded gallery, not appearing too interested in her response.

No. What Eden knew about her paintings was private, personal. He hadn’t a clue, and she didn’t dare discuss it because she had a healthy fear for mental wards.

Compelled to get away from the man, Eden slipped away while he studied the painting, insinuating herself behind a few tall men in business suits.

Todd appeared and slipped a goblet of pinot noir into her grasp. “I thought you were taking off before six, Eden? I can close up shop and handle the stragglers.” He tugged at his pink tie; it clashed brilliantly with his purple shirt and his soft emerald eyes.

“Thanks, Todd. Did you talk to the guy with the white hair and all the nose rings?”

“Not yet. He just wandered in. Creepy?”

“To the tenth degree. He makes me feel uncomfortable.” And yet, intrigued. Could a person be compelled and repelled at the same time?

“Want me to go punch him for you?”

She hugged Todd across the shoulders. “No. Save those valuable fingers for your IT work. I think I’m going to sneak out, though. I’ve been here six hours. Need to sit and put my feet up. See you tomorrow evening for part deux of Eden Campbell’s fabulous debut.”

“I’ll be here. But it’ll be a close call. I’ve a shift at Cloud Nine until five.” He kissed her check. “Talk to you later, sweetie.”

Eden tilted down the wine and claimed her purse from the office before deftly making her way toward the front door.

Rolling up her left sleeve as she gained the door, she spied the top of the strange man’s white hair. He still stood before The Fall. His attention was rapt, so she was able to slip out without his notice.

After hobnobbing in the stuffy gallery for hours, Eden welcomed the refreshing summer rain. She lifted her face to catch the light mist. She should have utilized her father’s limo, always at her disposal, but the driver’s son turned twelve today, so she’d given him the day off. She wasn’t one of those trust-fund babies who thought they were entitled to everything. At least, she tried not to be.

The July sun peeked through the clouds and glinted high on the windows of another trendy little gallery across the street. She examined her forearm. It had stopped tingling and the skin wasn’t red so it couldn’t be a rash.

Tapping the birthmark below her inner elbow, she wondered at what the punk had asked her.

Do you wear a sigil on your body?

“How could he know?” Was it possible he knew things like she did?

“No.” He must have seen her tug up her sleeve. Talk about a cheap pickup line at its strangest.

Waving her arm, she sought a cab. The sidewalk was cluttered with people en route to the subway for the supper rush. Toeing the curb, Eden was distracted by the sudden appearance of the white-haired man charging toward her.

A cab pulled up with a squeal.

Startled by the man’s intent path toward her, Eden rushed for the cab’s back door and managed to open it just as the punk grabbed her by the wrist.

“You were holding out on me, Eden.”

The wild look in his eye cautioned her. His crooked grin freaked her. “Let go of me!”

He stroked his fingers over her forearm. “A number. That’s an interesting one. Six,” he pronounced with a hiss.

She struggled, but his grip pinched her skin.

Then he did something so bizarre Eden could but stand, frozen like a scared alley cat, and watch. He licked her forearm, right below the weird birthmark that looked like a Roman numeral six. As if from a cat’s tongue, the contact abraded her skin.

His exposed eye now glowed a brilliant blue as he drew his gaze up to hers.

Survival impulse kicked in. Eden leaned against the cab and kicked high. The spike of her heel sunk into his gut. The man staggered backward with a yowl of pain.

Eden bent and landed in the backseat of the cab butt-first. “Go!” she yelled. “There’s a creep after me.” She slammed the door shut as the cab spun away from the curb.

“Fight with the boyfriend?” the cabbie asked in a Texan accent.

“What?” She was so flustered, she sat sprawled across the backseat, arms groping for hold and one leg still poised for another kick against the door. “Boyfriend? No, he dumped me after the—No! I’ve never seen the guy before.”

“They’re all a bunch of crazies. Where to?”

“Just drive!”

She shuffled upright on the seat and looked out the rear window. The punk’s arms pumped vigorously.

“He’s running after us!” He couldn’t possibly catch a car on foot, could he? “Take the next left turn. Don’t slow down or let him catch up.”

“Yes, ma’am. A car chase. Haven’t done one of those in a while.”

“Yeah? There’s a big tip in it for you if you lose the guy.”

“He’s on foot.” The cabbie gunned the engine. “No problem.”

Shaking the rain from her hair and tugging up her sleeve, Eden stroked her forearm. It was pink.

“He licked me,” she said in horror. “What did you say?”

“That man, he licked me. Why do you think he’d do that? Oh my God, I wonder if he has

AIDS? No, I couldn’t get it that way. What are you doing? I said don’t stop!”

“Sorry, ma’am, red light.”

Eden twisted up onto her knees and scanned the sidewalk. No sight of the punk. He was thin and she hadn’t nailed him for being overly strong. That she’d been able to kick him away impressed her inner kick-ass chick. He must have given up. Though it was likely a man on foot could catch a cab in this rush-hour traffic—

Thunk.

The man landed on the trunk of the car on all fours, as if an animal had dropped from above.

“Holy crap,” the cabbie said, and rolled through the green light. “That is a mite dangerous.”

“Shake him off,” Eden warbled nervously. She slid her hand along her thigh, feeling for the small blade she kept strapped there. “He’s climbing onto the top of the cab.”

“I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” the cabbie protested.

A sudden right turn resulted in a clatter across the top of the vehicle. Eden saw the punk land on the asphalt—on two feet. Not like he’d been whipped off the car and couldn’t catch his bearings. He was agile and determined. One glowing blue eye remained focused on the cab.

“Unbetievable,” the cabbie said. “There’s a short tunnel ahead. We’ll lose him in there.”

“Go for it!”

The punk stood in the middle of the road, right on the yellow no-pass center line. Arms curved out in a fierce stance, he stomped one booted foot and snarled.

Eden couldn’t comprehend this.

He must be on drugs to have survived being thrown from the top of the car, and then to stand as if nothing had happened. Now he ran after the cab like some indestructible robot from a sci-fi movie.

“Drive faster!”

The cab interior went dark. The red lights lining the inner walls of the tunnel flashed intermittently. The cab slowed.

“What are you doing? Traffic is going faster than this. Keep up!”

“It’s … an … angel … “ the cabbie said in a wondrous tone.

“What?” Eden leaned over the front seat, dodging her head down to see around the rearview mirror. “I’m the only nut who ever thinks she sees an—I don’t see anything. You have a clear lane. Keep driving!”

She snapped her fingers next to the cabbie’s ear. He shook his head as if snapping out of a trance.

Daylight burst into the cab as the car cruised out of the tunnel. Ahead, a four-way stop did not slow the cab. Eden gripped the driver’s-seat headrest and twisted her body to scan out the side and rear windows. No sign of the punk.

Then the cab turned left—into oncoming traffic—and Eden’s body was thrown from the back of the cab into the front. Her head plunged toward the passenger side floor. Impact thudded her shoulder. Metallic blood trickled across her tongue.

The vehicle’s tires left the tarmac. The cab flipped and landed upside-down, spinning twice before slamming into a street signal pole. Glass shattered. Iron bent.

Eden blacked out.

* * *

Her eyelids fluttered.

The smell of gasoline mixed with the sweet odor of blood. Her chin was shoved down to her chest and her legs felt higher than her shoulders.

Trapped.

Blinking rapidly, Eden grasped for what had happened. The accident. They’d run a stop sign. Because the punk with the eye patch had tracked them across the city—on foot!

She eased herself out through the open door and landed on the street on her knees. Safety glass littered the ground, but she avoided it. Peering into the taxi, she spied the cabbie, his head on the steering wheel. There was no visible blood, and he was groaning.

“Not dead, thank goodness.”

A constant honking car horn effectively cleared her foggy brain. Other vehicles had been involved in the crash—two more, she saw from her kneeling position.

Fore in Eden’s mind remained the strange man. He’d literally been hell-bent on getting to her. Was he still in pursuit? Had he been hit by one of the cars that had collided in the accident?

She slid shaky fingers along her forearm. It itched where he had licked her. She scratched, but a drop of blood on the seat distracted her. Where had that—? She touched her head. A gash across her eyebrow bled. Didn’t feel deep. It didn’t hurt at all, which could be a good thing, or very bad.

A slide of fingers under her skirt and along her thigh verified the small blade still there. She could have been poked with it. She’d been fortunate.

“Have to …” If the punk found her what would he do? Heart racing toward a cliff, she couldn’t think beyond the insanity her pursuer had instilled in her. “Hide.”

Shuffling backward, Eden scrambled along the curb until she stopped at a spinning tire attached to a battered SUV. The radio inside the car blasted a Jimmy Hendrix tune.

Bent over, she crept-walked around the front of the SUV and spied a magazine stand on the sidewalk. She dove to the ground behind the wooden rack, her position hidden from the accident scene.

The sound of a new crash, like rubber-soled boots landing on a trunk, set her rigid. Already her heart beat maniacally. She couldn’t get more alert or tense.

“Here, pretty, pretty.”

It was the punk. Clasping her arms about her legs, she winced when her forearm crushed another cut below her knee. She would not cry. She must not make noise.

What would a man who had followed her through traffic, been thrown off a moving vehicle and was sorting through the scene of a wreckage want with her? No answer was good.

And any answer tested the boundaries of what was real and what could only be supernatural. Eden believed in beings not like herself. She had to, because she believed in angels.

The boots stomped the sidewalk not twenty feet from where Eden hid. She heard a snorting noise, like some kind of animal. He was … sniffing. It was as if he were a wild cat stalking its prey.

She didn’t like thinking that word—prey. Her gut clenched and she tried to stifle the uncontrollable need to sob.

Boot steps slowly approached. They paused and she heard a sniffing sound, as if he were testing the air. Then the boots jumped onto a vehicle and she heard metal crunch beneath them.

In the distance an ambulance siren wailed. Eden realized people from nearby shops had begun to step out and were gathering near the crashed cars.

“Not here,” the punk growled under his breath. “Bitch got away.” He landed on the asphalt. It sounded like he was walking away.

The back of Eden’s head fell against the boards behind her. She could be injured but she didn’t care. It was a relief to know the creep had given up. Finally.

She scratched the itch on her forearm. As if a wasp sting, it burned worse than any of her cuts.

The crowd exhaled a coltective gasp, as if they’d witnessed something strange or horrible.

A pair of heavy leather biker boots landed on the sidewalk right next to Eden.

Chapter 2

The punk leaned over Eden, extending his hand for her to grasp. She fixated on the shiny steel bar pierced through his nose as if a bullring waiting for tether. His smile was wrinkled. It didn’t meet his kaleidoscope eye. Nothing on his face was cohesive.

He did not speak, yet the eye not covered with the patch screamed at her. The promise of something vast and unfamiliar shouted from that eye. It frightened her.

And it compelled her.

She’d almost touched that feeling once. A year ago. Joy.

The crowd again gasped in unison as rubber peeled across the asphalt. Out of the corner of her eye, Eden saw a motorcycle do a one-eighty. The rumbling steel bike approached the accident too quickly. Surely it would crash—

The rear tire stopped two feet from her legs.

The white-haired punk snarled and leaped away from her. It was a physically impossible move, because he soared straight up through the air, flipped in a backward somersault and landed on the other side of the crashed cab.

“My lady, take my hand,” commanded the black-leather-clad motorcyclist. “If you want to be safe.”

Too much happening. So much to register. But Eden heard safe and scrambled to her feet.

Yet she looked to the punk, standing poised to leap upon the hood of a stalled car. Still, his eye beckoned.

I can give you what you seek. If you dare to take it.

“Now, my lady!” the rider insisted.

Shaking from shoulders to legs, wanting to scream, and wondering why she could not physically make a sound, Eden was tugged onto the motorcycle behind the imposing man.

She recorded sensations only. The rough slide of leather under her palms as she groped to wrap her arms about his waist. The burn of the exhaust cylinder when she initially put her shoeless foot right on it.

The intense realization that the man was solid, hard and all muscle. Yes, safe.

The rider gripped her by the ankle and pulled her foot higher to hook behind his booted foot. She sucked in a gasp as his fingers clasped about her bare flesh. At this frantic moment it was too strange to feel desire, yet she did.

The command he projected with the protective move melted her resistance. The world wobbled and skinned her face with brisk air as the motorcycle sped away from the scene of the crash. She clung desperately, crushing her cheek to the supple plane of his leather-clad back.

She didn’t know who this man was, but he’d taken her away from the other man who had looked like a junkie. A man whose hand she had almost taken because the unspoken promise in his gaze had reached inside and touched a part of her she’d thought buried.

Had she heard him say, “I can give you what you seek"?

How could he know what she wanted? Half the time she didn’t know what she wanted.

Safety was fore on that unknown list, and she grasped it, if only for the moment.

“Stop ahead on Eleventh Avenue,” she yelled. Eden could barely hear her voice. She doubted he could hear her over the roar of the motor. “Please!”

He reached back to slide a hand along her thigh. Her skirt road up high and his palm burnished her flesh. It wasn’t a suggestive move, but more to ensure she was still there. Safe. The tingling desire she’d felt when he’d touched her ankle returned. The touch ignited beneath her skin, shimmying adrenaline and a frenzy of want to her belly.

So this was what the damsel felt like when rescued by the knight?

She’d take it.

Guilt reared up too quickly. They’d ridden away from those injured at the scene. But she’d heard the ambulance. The driver, and any others who may be injured, would be taken to the hospital.

And what of her? Beyond a few cuts she hadn’t a more serious injury. What hurt was that damned spot on her arm where the man had licked her. If she were not clinging for life to her rescuer, she’d be scratching.

The motorcycle veered right sharply. Squeezing her thighs against his to hang on, Eden recognized the Chelsea Piers. The area boasted a lot of new developments, but as well, many unoccupied warehouses and storage facilities were badly in need of restoration.

They drove through a narrow warehouse door and into a dark, empty storage room three stories high.

The motorcycle stopped and tilted left as the driver let down the kickstand. Eden slid off. Before the man could speak, she rushed him, threading her arms about his chest and squeezing.

“Thank you,” she said. She pushed away and stepped back, sliding her palms down her hips.

“Sorry.”

“No need for apologies, my lady.”

“It was a reaction to being rescued. I don’t normally hug strangers. I’m just so thankful.”

“This is not a rescue.”

“Seriously? What is it? You got me away from that freaky guy.”

“He will come to you. I will be waiting.”

She scratched her forearm. Cautious to keep the man in view, she scanned her surroundings. The door they’d rolled through was her only way out.

She noticed his curiosity as she scratched. Eden tugged down her sleeve, embarrassed when she should only be thankful she was safe. But was she? He’d said this wasn’t a rescue. So what did he intend to do with her, alone in this abandoned building?

She wasn’t about to stick around to find out. Reaching up under her skirt, she claimed the blade tucked against her thigh.

Eden dashed toward the open doorway bursting with a shock of orange from the setting sun.

Just as she slapped a palm against the rough wood door frame, a huge body slid before her. Eden’s entire body slammed into the unmoving force of man. He was a head taller than she, and twice as wide.

“I prefer you remain in here, my lady.”

“Yeah? That’s what scares me.”

Pushing from his solid chest, Eden stepped away, knife held before her in warning. She’d taken a self-defense course and was prepared to stab if necessary.

But how big could a man be? He filled the doorway.

The low sun behind him glowed about his figure, giving him a remarkable aura, almost heavenly. Black tousled hair shimmered blue and swept low near a square jaw. A line of dark beard, trimmed thin, framed his jaw and lips. A sexy soul patch marked a smudge from his thick lower lip down his chin. His flesh was pale—no sun-worshipper, he—yet his eyes and everything else were so dark. The contrast was exquisite. Handsome was an insufficient term for his beauty.

Yes, she actually thought the man beautiful, like a rock star or an actor pumped up for the role of warrior. Yet she also sensed danger from him.

“My lady.” He shook his head at her in pity. “I wouldn’t use that little stick to pick my teeth.”

Suddenly the knife jerked from her fingers and flew toward his. He caught it and tucked it in the waistband of his pants.

“Who—What? How did you do that?” Eden asked.

She took another step back and clasped her arms across her chest. “You ripped me away from the scene of an accident. I thought you were rescuing me. And who was that man? The punk guy. He chased me through the city on foot! He ran so fast it was like he wasn’t human. And he flew away from me when you arrived.”

“That was Zaqiel, and he’s come for you.”

Eden didn’t know how to respond to that statement. The name was weird, but the second part of what he’d said was weirder.

“Come for me? Who are you?”

“I am … Ashur.” He glanced toward the motorcycle and added, “Ashur Man … Yes, Manning. I won’t harm you. I require you to draw Zaqiel here so I can slay him.”

“Slay?”

Nausea wavered through Eden. She spread out her hands in the event she toppled, which was looking probable. But she had to stay strong and keep a clear head. All her instincts screamed danger. And the rescuing knight was beginning to sound more villainous. He had made up the name he’d given her, surely.

“A Fallen one is on your trail,” the man—Ashur—said.

“Fallen?”

“Or Grigori, if you prefer.”

The oddness of recognition straightened her posture and she found a clear thought. For someone who had been painting angels since she was a teenager, she’d spent a lot of time sorting through books about them. She’d read parts of the Hebrew bible and the pseudepigraphal book of Enoch.

“Do you know what a Grigori is?” she asked, hoping he’d grabbed the wrong term.

“I do.” He bowed closer to her, his massive frame shadowing her and making her feel so small. “And you, my lady, do you know what a Grigori is?”

“I most certainly do.” She squeezed her forearm because if she scratched any more she’d tear skin. “Next you’ll be telling me you carry a flaming sword and—”

Glass crackled from above. A row of windows along the second story shattered. A rain of glass shards poured downward.

Ashur slammed into Eden. Her breath gasped out. He shoved her into the darkness near the far wall, away from the falling slivers of deadly glass.

“He’s here. Stay put,” he said in a low command. “Don’t get in the way.”

If he was speaking about the punk being here, Eden didn’t see him.

“Where is he?” she called nervously. “How could he have possibly followed us?”

Ashur tilted his head aside and lifted a hand to silence her. She could sense his anxious alertness. But he wasn’t half as tense as her muscles were. They felt ready to snap.

She scratched her forearm.

Suddenly Ashur approached her. He gripped her wrist and looked at the red skin right below the birthmark. “This is how he follows. The angelkiss. It is a beacon. Scratch again, my lady. Lure him to me.”

“But he just—” A beacon? Scratching where he had licked her lured the crazy druggie to her? No way was she going to continue. “No, I—”

What sounded like wings, yet sharp and cutting as if metal, sliced the air. Eden searched the broken window frames overhead. She could only huff and try futilely to settle her frantic heartbeat.

“This is not proving successful. He will not approach when he knows I am guarding you.” Ashur twisted to look at her. “I must lead him to believe I’ve left you to your own devices.”

“No! Don’t leave me alone.”

Her outburst caused him to pause. Had he intended to leave her here? Obviously he was weighing it in his mind right now. And had she just asked for help from a man who scared the crap out of her?

All her life she’d wondered about things 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. The improvement was unnecessary to judge from the huge, dense city where he suspected most could walk to and from their destinations.

And yet the motortzed vehicles were bright and loud. He must get one of those if he were to spend any amount of time here. He slowed and read the words on the back of a vehicle that appealed—Ferrari.

Concentrate, Ashuriel. Do you fall to the old sins so quickly?

Heh. Sins? He’d mastered them all. And with ease. Mortal sins were not considered evil or wrong to his kind. In fact, indulgence was a way of life.

Theft had come easily, without thought. Vanity, well, he wasn’t sure if the clothing he wore was the finest, but he was clothed.

Lust? Well, that suited him fine. He vaguely recalled that particular mortal sin now as the woman’s fingers impressed upon his chest. Though the particular elements that designed the sin had been lost to him over years of desolation. He knew it had involved touch and emotion and intense physicality. It would come to him, surely.

Violence would be granted when he shoved Dethnyht into the angel’s glass heart.

Parking the motorbike, he pulled out the key, sensing he’d need it to restart the thing. He waited for the muse to slide off behind him. He could feel her head pressed against his back and her fingers didn’t so much dig into his chest as affix themselves to it.

Touch. He pressed a palm over her narrow fingers. Yes, he’d forgotten the pressure of another person’s flesh against his own. So odd how he could feel her warmth even through the shirt. It shimmered through him and—He must stop regarding the sensation.

“We’re here,” he said. “It is safe now.”

An easy lie. One thing he did remember was the muse was always frantic and inconsolable upon learning her fate—which was usually seconds before the Fallen attempted her. “My lady?”

“Huh? Oh.” She slid off and tugged at her torn skirt. It revealed so much of her fine, long legs, Ashur had to steel the sudden desire to stroke his thumb along her thigh. “Sorry. You were … nice to hold on to.”

Ashur lingered on her smile, knowing it was a distraction, but unable to resist.

He slid from the bike and tugged off the heavy leather jacket to offer to her. “Here. Your skirt is torn. This will cover your legs.” And keep his eyes from straying.

“It’s not torn.” She dashed a finger along the hem, which upon closer inspection didn’t look torn, rather straight, but it was above her knees. “You’ve never seen a miniskirt before?” She smirked. Somewhere she’d lost her shoes and she stepped on the balls of her feet. “Would you, um, give me back my blade?”

“Why?”

“It’s mine. And if you don’t, I’m going to scream.”

She sought a show of trust. Ashur handed her the blade, and she clasped it to her chest, yet not in defense. Foolish woman.

“Thank you. So, that man. He’s a real angel?”

Ashur detected a lightness in her tone that didn’t seem right after what she’d been through.

“I mean.” She absolutely beamed at him. “I’ve always wanted to see one. And everyone has always made me think I’m a nut for believing in them. But if he was the real thing I really need to know because that would mean I’m not crazy, and—”

“Yes,” Ashur blurted out, mostly to stop her from rambling. “Zaqiel is a real angel. A Fallen one.”

She sucked in the corner of her lip and her eyes flashed brightly. The shadows and shades of gray the world offered him shimmered about her and expanded into a brilliant aura of white. Something inside her wanted to explode, Ashur felt, yet she restrained it by tensing her muscles, and then she did a strange move by bending her arm up and pumping it once. A triumphant gesture?

“Come on,” she said, turning and rushing away from the parked motorbike. “I suppose I at least owe you a drink for saving my life. If you could call that a save. You coming?”

He followed her into a small box with doors that closed automatically behind him. The interior was lined with mirrors and a panel of blinking buttons. He recognized the numbers and assumed she knew what she was doing.

“You called this an angelkiss,” she said, stretching out her forearm.

“Yes, and don’t scratch it.” Not yet.

“And why did you lick it? Is that some kind of new pickup move I’m not keen on?”

“My saliva counteracts the angelkiss for a while, but it’s obviously wearing off if you are feeling the need to scratch. Whatever you do, Six, don’t scratch it. It acts as a beacon to Zaqiel. It is the only way he can track you and I’m not yet prepared to face him. I want you in a secure place first.”

“Right.”

He could sense her fear, but he also sensed her strange fascination. It put out a sweet odor that intrigued him. It had been so long since he had experienced the mortal condition. She was still traumatized. Her fingers shook minutely and she worried her lower lip. A pretty, thick lip that held his attention until the doors opened with an alarming ding.

“Did you call me Six?” she asked as she strode down a white marble hallway carved with elaborate designs. Steps bouncing, she appeared giddy. “What’s that about? I do have a name.”

“I don’t want to know your name.”

She glanced over her shoulder. Deep, dark eyes dusted by long lashes took him in. Ashur couldn’t determine if they had color; the world—which he knew should be in color—was revealed only in black, white and shades of gray to him. For now.

“Sounds kinky to me,” she said.

“Kinky?”

“Yeah, you—Sorry. It’s not every day I’m chased by an angel. Will we see him again?”

“Soon. Surely.” Ashur quickened his steps to join her before a door where she tapped in some numbers on a lighted panel. “Six.” He took her arm gently and turned it up to display the mark. The Roman numeral six sat on the surface of her skin, the color dark like her hair. “That is your sigil.”

“It’s a birthmark. It does kind of look like a six. But seriously, I’m not going to answer to a stupid number—”

He gripped the door as she pushed it in, stopping her abruptly. “Do not give me your birth name. Please. It is easier this way.”

“No commitment with fake names?” she asked. “Easier to walk away?”

“Trust me.”

“That’s a loaded statement. I distinctly recall you telling me to scratch this puppy to lure that man to us. How does using a woman to lure in a maniacal angel involve trust?”

She scanned his eyes for so long, Ashur had to look away, over her head and into the foyer. He’d never felt so noticed before. Easy enough when he’d just come from a long stint Beneath. It was as if she clutched her fingers about his black heart and actually squeezed the hard steel organ that kept myriads stolen souls locked away for eternity.

He was not accustomed to conversation or even the presence of another, yet he adjusted quickly. Acclimating to his surroundings was necessary to his task. But this closeness between them stirred something inside of him he’d long thought tortured out of him.

Women are dangerous.

He knew that, and yet he could not recall why. Were they not simply fine bed mates?

Tapping her lower lip with the blade, she captured Ashur’s attention, but he sensed her favor toward him had dissipated. “Maybe I don’t want you coming in.”

“But I must.”

“Must?”

“I find the day’s course of events has exceeded my grasp and you are … in need of protection.” She’d buy that one. “To be honest, it is new to me. Protection. But it is a task I will not refuse. The Fallen will not relent in his pursuit of you. And I need time to form a plan.”

“You don’t have a plan?”

“I should have already slain the Fallen. I’ve never before had to track one after they’ve made contact with the muse. As well, this world, and your need for me, is new.”

“My need for you?” she said on a nervous, chuckly tone. “Please. I don’t need any man.”

Quite a unique woman, then. What had become of the subservient, faithful and devoted women who answered to their husbands and cared for the children?

“Can you fend off the Fallen when next he shows?” he countered.

“I …” Divertí ng her eyes from his face, she looked away and sighed. She stepped inside the home, leaving him to follow, which he did. “Maybe I don’t want to fight him off. Maybe I want to talk to him. It’s not every day a girl gets to meet an angel.”

She may think she was strong, but he sensed her lacking confidence. Yet the tiny bit of gumption she did possess intrigued him. She had thought to defend herself with that little blade against a man twice her size and possessed of supernatural abilities.

Everything about her was different from the women he had known so long ago.

Ashur had been in fine palaces of marble and stone. This one was similarly luxurious, though on a smaller scale. The decorations were elaborate and resembled flowers and curved leaves. The style pleased him. Lights on the walls were not torches, but contained within fine glass. Remark able.

He must not question the changes in the world since he’d been Beneath. To do so would surely drive him mad. So he would simply accept them. Easy enough when he had greater things with which to concern himself.

Six opened a steel container lighted inside and which boasted an array of vegetables. The food storage box, he guessed. She took out a clear container and offered one to him, which he accepted. He watched her twist off the cover and drink from it.

Ashur tried it. Water in a bottle. Convenient.

“I know a thing or two about angels,” she said. And then as a challenge, she offered, “Does that disturb you?”

Ashur strolled through the room he labeled the galley and into a vast room with plush divans and chairs. Huge ferns and small decorative trees in pots gushed from every corner. The walls were floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of the city was remarkable, and he walked up to scan the buildings and tiny spots of people below.

“No,” he replied. Because whatever she thought she knew was wrong.

“Then you’re the first who is not troubled by it,” she said, joining him. “I’ve been dreaming about angels all my life.”

He turned to find her gazing out the window, a small smile curving her lips.

“I’ve been waiting for something like this to happen,” she said. “To finally have proof. To know that what I know is not delusional.”

Ashur sighed. Though he’d no protocol on how to interact with the muse, he did not think lying or avoiding the situation wisest. She needed to know the facts—which were undoubtedly far from her idea of the truth.

“Proof? Is that so?”

“Yes,” she said on a wondrous hush.

“Well, let me tell you about the Fallen. They once walked the earth, yet were removed many millennia ago, during Noah’s flood. Recently, though, Fallen ones have been conjured by ceremonial magic. Others are investigating who is behind the conjuring. That is not my concern. So now Fallen walk the earth, their mission renewed as they seek their muse.”

“I’ve read the book of Enoch. It’s about the angels called the Watchers, or Grigori, falling.”

“Was that book chosen to be included in the Bible? I’ve not been around since Constantine’s time.”

Fascination brightened her eyes. Ashur wondered briefly if they had color.

“No,” she answered, “that book was suppressed in the middle ages, and ruled fantasy. Pseudepigraphal. You’ve been alive that long?”

“Yes. But back to the Fallen. And you. You wear the sigil he seeks.”

“Seriously?” She stroked the skin near the mark on her forearm. “Numbers? What wiseass thought that one up?”

“Yours is the first number I’ve seen. They are symbols unique to the angelic dominions. It is a good means to locating a match.”

“And I’m that angel dude’s match?”

“You are a muse. Whether or not you are a match is something I do not know.”

“Well, if I’m not a match.”

“If the Fallen has already claimed his match, he can then seek other muses.”

“A muse. I thought muses were gorgeous women who inspired artists, and all that.”

“You inspire the Fallen to seek you.”

She leaned in the archway between the two rooms, tall and slender. The thin fabric shirt did little to conceal the gorgeous curves beneath. Curves Ashur assumed would feel exquisite to touch.

Touch? It teased at his memory. Her hand against his chest, clinging as they rode through the city. There was that want again.

And yet the desire was accompanied by a twinge across his back. Flesh-stripping ghosts of violence. A violence so dark and rending it had brought him, the Stealer of Souls, to his knees.

Inspecting the gash above her eyebrow with a finger, Six winced. That was enough to distract Ashur from his fall into wicked memory.

“I can heal that for you,” he offered.

“Really?”

He approached her, holding out his hand in offering. Surprisingly lacking in concern, she nodded and he placed it above her eye, not touching the flesh. The intense wave of her body heat pulsed against his palm. Mortal warmth. Another experience he had forgotten. An experience he’d had tortured out of him. Now he used that connection and focused his own inner healing salve to emanate outward. Within moments the cut healed.

She smoothed a finger over her brow. “Wow. You actually did it. And when you took the blade from me, and it flew through the air … You have powers. What are you?”

As new as the world was to him, he did know to keep some things to his chest. “If it is important to label me, then you may call me angel slayer.”

She lifted a beautifully arched brow. Ashur turned toward the view again. He should not waste time admiring her beauty.

“A slayer. Of angels?” She exhaled, and her breath touched Ashur’s black heart. He suppressed a shiver. “That’s sort of sad.”

He tilted a curious look to her. No, her breath hadn’t touched his heart. That organ was hard and black and impervious to everything.

“I mean, well, first reaction is it’s sad,” she said, unaware of his struggles. “But like I said, I know about angels. They’re not all fluffy and full of grace. The fallen ones are downright evil. I suppose someone has to take care of the bad ones.”

“The Fallen are lacking in grace and compassion. It’s dangerous to have a soulless angel walking the earth,” he said. “They have little concern for their actions, and are focused only on finding their muse. I am surprised you say you wish to speak to one.”

“That might have been my excitement talking. He really wants to find me? What for?”

“Now that the Fallen one has been conjured, it resumes its original intention upon falling. I am not familiar with how many millennia have passed since the original fall. Then, two hundred angels fell to earth to mate with human females.”

“I’m familiar with that story.”

“It seeks its muse.”

“That’s the part I’m not familiar with.”

“Once the Fallen finds his muse, he will mate with her in hopes of creating a nephilim. They are carnivorous, blood-hungry giants. It’s the beginning to a plague of dark divinity. You, Six, are to give birth to the end of the world as you know it.”

“Is that all?” She forced a chuckle, but he sensed it was just that: a constructed means to temper the shock. He was quickly learning her emotions. He wasn’t sure if it was because he’d spent so much time with her already, or if he were taking on the world’s feelings.

“Have an angel’s baby?” Six’s eyelids fluttered. “I, uh, I think I need to sit down.”

Halfway to the plush, cushioned chair placed before a marble hearth, she wobbled. Ashur crossed the room and caught her as she fainted.

Standing with her fey weight draping his arms, he again felt the tap at his black heart. It was more than a squeeze. This time it felt as though the hardened muscle actually pulsed.

That wasn’t supposed to happen. Had to be the souls trapped within his heart. On occasion they made their presence known to him.

He should ditch the muse and seek the Fallen one. Thing was, keeping her close to him was the best way to lure Zaqiel to him. But no Fallen would approach a Sinistari willingly.

How to bait this trap?

Chapter 4

Eden came to with a start. She sat up on a delicately crocheted bedspread. Her bed. The iron lamp curved to resemble a lotus flower on the nightstand glowed over her stack of artist’s color charts. “How’d I get here? Who—?”

Reality rushed upon her like a tsunami wave and she toppled against the pillow, but this time she didn’t faint—because a man stood in her bedroom doorway. Tall, dark and confused, he was the most appealing thing she’d seen in months.

“You fainted,” he offered.

“No kidding? Whew!” Eden sat up and smoothed down her shirt. “It’s been a day, hasn’t it? “ She glanced toward the floor-to-ceiling window, which looked out over Central Park. It was dark, yet the city’s innate glow beamed upward. The clock verified it was almost eleven. “How long have I been out?”

“A few hours. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“That was kind of you. After what I’ve been through—”

“It gave me time to walk the layout of your home.”

“Oh. So it wasn’t concern. You needed to case the joint. Find anything you want?”

“I have no intent to steal from you, my lady. Though I did find this in a kitchen drawer.” He waved a small stack of one-hundred-dollar bills before him. “I may need some cash while I’m here on earth. Mind if I take it?”

“You just said you don’t steal.”

“I’m asking. Thieves do not ask.”

“Yes, whatever. Take it if you need it. It’s the petty cash I leave for my maid, Rosalie, to pick up things. I’ll replenish it tomorrow.”

Eden reached to scratch her forearm and Ashur dove onto the bed, grabbing her hand and trapping it against his chest. His body so close to hers had her heartbeat tripping. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d been more frightened by a stranger’s presence—and more intrigued.

Looking away, he released her arm and slid off the bed. “Don’t scratch,” he said. “Not until I give you the go-ahead. Forgive me, my impropriety overwhelms the need for your protection.”

“I understand.” Actually she didn’t understand a thing. Exhaustion had tapped her neurons to the core.

Shoving her forearm between her thighs didn’t quell the need to scratch. “I think I’ll take a shower. I feel like crap after today’s adventure. Maybe the water will relieve the itch. Is that okay? You’re not going to stand guard outside the bathroom, are you?”

“I dare not. I will wait for you out in the main quarters.”

“That would be the living room.”

“Appropriately named. Please come find me when you feel ready. We have much to discuss.”

Soon as the door closed, Eden stripped off her blouse and skirt and made a beeline for the bathroom. The glass-walled shower was her favorite place to escape the real world. Sound was muffled in here and the only sensation was the pressure of water upon her skin.

She always headed straight to the shower after a day spent at a charity event or amongst a crowd. Most people thought she had it all being rich. She wouldn’t knock it, but having it all did not imply material wealth to her. All was something ineffable that could only fit into her heart.

The hot water rinsed away the dirt and shivers but it didn’t chase away the subtle tingling where the angel had licked her.

“An angelkiss,” Eden muttered as she dried herself off with a thick terry-cloth towel, being careful to avoid the mark. “And he’s after me because he wants to get busy with me? I don’t want to have sex with a bad angel and become the mother of the apocalypse.”

Resting her palms on the marble vanity, she took a couple of deep yoga breaths to settle her growing tension. Water from her hair dripped down her arms and puddled on the floor. Her reflection echoed how tired she was. Rarely did she get shadows under her eyes like tonight.

But it was more than that.

If Ashur had told her the truth, she was in deep trouble. How did she dare escape an angel? Zaqiel possessed supernatural abilities, as she’d already seen. She was no match. And her only choice was to trust the man who called himself an angel slayer. What was that exactly? Was he human?

Had she garnered her own personal guardian angel?

“I hope so.” Because she didn’t want the white-haired guy getting close enough to lick her again. And if he had his way, he’d get close enough to have sex with her.

It had been over a year since she’d shared her body with a man. That had ended disastrously. And yet she had been able to put that event on a shelf only recently, and had begun dating again. Dating, but still no sex. Not that she didn’t want it.

But what she craved now was something entirely different than she was accustomed to dating.

Like a sexy, rock-hard-abs guardian angel.

He was the opposite of everything she’d ever found sexy in a man. Pure muscle and might. Commanding. And a bit arrogant, too. And she wanted it all.

Damn.

Dressing in black silk pajama bottoms and top, Eden wanted to crawl between the sheets and lose herself in her dreams, but she didn’t think Ashur had left. She slipped on her marabou slippers and clicked out to the living room.

He sat on the couch, back straight and body tight as if he didn’t dare relax. A potted aloe vera plant sat on his lap. She almost laughed, until he sprang up and his eagerness startled her.

“Aloe Barbadensis,” he said, thrusting the pot toward her. “It is an ancient plant for healing. I marvel you have such. It is good the plant has survived the ages. You can put it on the angelkiss.”

The plant was used to relieve itching and rashes, but Eden had never had the need to try it. Todd had given it to her. Despite the lush acreage of plants she kept in the apartment she had furnished in the Art Nouveau style, he’d decided she needed something more functional, and with spines. Todd was always trying to get her to reveal her inner vixen. He’d certainly growl over Ashur.

“Try it,” Ashur prompted. He broke off the tip of a thick leaf, and set down the pot. Squeezing the cool liquid from inside the plant, he stroked it across her flesh and spoke quietly. “The women wear trousers now.”

“Pants, yes.” He’d said he was new to this world.

“I intend to learn all tonight. While you sleep I will walk the world and assimilate its speech, customs and ways.”

“The whole world? You’d better have some com fort able shoes.”

He tilted his head, wondering at her.

“A joke.”

“That word is not in my knowledge.”

“You’ll understand after you’ve assimilated, I’m sure.” She inspected the glob of clear aloe on her arm. It did quell the desire to scratch.

“So I really do need to sleep. I thought I was exhausted after worrying about the gallery showing for a week, but being chased by an angel tops that. Will I be okay all alone? If the angel found me earlier, why can’t he find me now?”

“You haven’t scratched the angelkiss?”

“No.”

“Then you should be safe. The beacon is only activated with irritation. When you scratch you send out a signal only the Fallen can track.”

“Like pheromones?”

“I do not know that word, either.”

She nodded. “It’s an attraction thing innate in all of us.” And, man, was she feeling it right now.

“Attraction. Like lust?”

“Exactly.” The corner of his mouth curled. Eden had to consciously warn herself against touching the crease. Damn, they were making rescuing knights attractive these days. “So, you don’t know things? I suppose not, if you’ve been out of touch for so long.”

“I knew things, and then that knowledge was taken from me through time and—It is not important. Perhaps you should wrap a bandage about your forearm to keep it from brushing against the bed linens. Would you like me to stay and watch over you while you sleep?”

“No, uh … no. I’m a big girl.” A handsome man leaning over her while she slept? Talk about a fantasy! “No, that’s not a good idea. I don’t know you. You staying the night would be major awkward.”

He shrugged. Obviously he didn’t know. “I will return in the morning. Sleep well, Six.”

He strode toward the front door, leaving Eden wishing she could call him back, but not daring to speak the words.

Big girls didn’t invite strange men to watch over them while they slept. They could invite them to snuggle, though. But Eden suspected her knight wasn’t the snuggly sort. And she wasn’t in the right mindset to make decisions regarding sex right now.

Or maybe, just maybe, she was in the best frame of mind she’d been in for years.

Angels?

Finally.

The night moved swiftly through his brain, the world even faster. Ashur walked in a hurried pace innate to the Sinistari—they termed it flashing—from New York to California and then on to Japan, Russia, France, Africa and all the countries in between.

He listened to voices speaking, observed the customs, tasted the food, watched the transportation and analyzed the education. Knowledge permeated the costume of mortal flesh he wore and insinuated into his steel marrow.

The palette of sin the world offered had grown immeasurably since his last stay on earth.

In Las Vegas Ashur learned the pleasures of gambling. He stole a fine pair of sunglasses out of an Aston Martin in Madrid then took the car for a joyride. He inhaled opium in a dark, musty cave in Andalusia with the locals, and learned to fire an AK-47 at a wall of broken bottles outside a Palestinian army base.

Fast food in Berlin awakened his palate to the strangely tasty idea of processed food. Gluttony led him to a Chipotle restaurant three times during the night, each time in a different state. Man, did he love tacos.

He followed a diamond thief in Milan and snatched the prize for himself, then scattered the five-carat stones in the Atlantic Ocean as he crossed to Iceland.

He was Sinistari. Sin ran through his black blood.

He held the world within him now. He knew all.

By all that was sacrilege in the dark sea Beneath, the world had changed vastly. And that parts of it frightened even him was not a good feeling. The weapons were fascinating, but he could not condone putting them in the hands of children. And lust was always entertaining, but it became a sickness when viewed obsessively on the computer.

Among the evil though, yet walked goodness and integrity. Ashur was no creature of prayer, but a wish for world sanity came to his lips before he could question the unnatural concern.

He’d also gained the ability to form emotion. It wasn’t necessarily a boon to his mission, but it was unavoidable as he imbued his being with the human experience.

Ashur now saw some things in color instead of the bland grays he’d been experiencing. Not all of it, mostly the food (which he devoured) and the women’s clothing (which he desired; the women, not the clothing) and the material objects that fascinated him, such as sports cars and yachts and those fancy little iPods.

Music! How it had changed over the centuries. It was now a literal world compacted into each song. He enjoyed it all but especially the orchestral pieces and the stuff called heavy metal. Though how the little device worked puzzled him. He hadn’t the time to take one apart, but soon.

He’d acquired a pair of worn black jeans from a street seller in Paris because he liked the snug, comfortable fit. A woven long-sleeved shirt appealed to his burgeoning need for touch and to experience all the sensations of texture, weight and temperature against his skin. He retained the biker boots and black leather jacket.

Back at Six’s building, he approached her door and slid his palm over the carved wood surface. He recognized the artistic style of the carvings now: Art Nouveau. It had flourished at the end of the nineteenth century, as had absinthe, can-can and opium. Six’s entire apartment was decorated in the style. He admired craftsmanship.

Prepared to knock, he noticed the door was open a crack. He had learned mortals in the twenty-first century did not leave their doors open or unlocked. Something must be wrong.

He pushed the door inside and entered stealthily, pressing a shoulder to the wall as he scanned down the hallway. He didn’t sense Six, but something inside had a pulse.

Could Zaqiel be here? Angels and demons had no pulse, but Ashur could sense the Fallen’s presence in the vibrations that shuddered his rib cage when close to an angel, yes, even one fallen from His grace.

“Let him be here,” he muttered lowly. “Attempting his muse.”

Reaching behind his hip, he unclasped the leather sheath and drew out Dethnyht.

Chapter 5

Slinking along the hallway wall, Ashur quickened his pace toward the bedroom.

Dethnyht was the only dagger capable of piercing an angel’s impermeable flesh. He would never brandish it against a mortal—too cataclysmic. The mere strength he wielded with his bare hands could overwhelm any human.

Kicking the bedroom door open, Ashur sprang inside, Dethnyht raised to strike.

A woman screamed and dropped a stack of bed linens from her arms. She pleaded with him in Spanish not to hurt her. She had a family. Dogs. Three children under the age of ten.

Quickly assessing her attire, Ashur decided she was the chambermaid.

He sheathed Dethnyht. “Is Six home? Er, the lady of the house?” She didn’t understand English, so he switched to Spanish, a language he had assimilated only hours earlier.

The maid clapped a palm over her rapidly rising and falling chest and nodded, explaining her mistress was at Starbucks.

“Starbucks?” He searched his newly gained knowl edge. “Coffee?”

“Yes, she will return soon,” she said. Then her tone changed remarkably, shedding the fear and taking on a curious edge. “You are her lover?”

“Does she have many?” he asked before he realized curiosity was not his mien. And yet, he waited for the answer with something he associated with anticipation.

The maid shrugged. “Not my business. You are the biggest, though.” Admiration beamed in her brown eyes. “Scared me. You must work out. You go out to the kitchen to wait. I need to finish this room.”

“Yes, the kitchen.” He was hungry again.

He closed the door behind him. No angel on the premises. Damn. He’d been itching to kill something.

Just as well. He’d not seen Six yet. And why all of a sudden did that matter? Did he want to spend time with her before slaughtering the Fallen and then dashing off to the next kill?

Ashur scuffed a palm over his short hair, which hadn’t seen a comb, and hallelujah for that. Drawing his fingers down his face, he shook his head. Gotta get his act together, as they said nowadays. Learning the world had put so many new things into his brain. He had to set his priorities straight.

Priority one: Lure Zaqiel to the muse.

Priority two: Kill the Fallen.

Priority three … There was no need for further tasks. As soon as Zaqiel was dispatched, Ashur would await further command.

Six stepped inside the front door and Ashur bounded up to meet her. He gripped her wrist and slammed her against the wall.

“Whoa, dude! I have hot coffee in my other hand.”

“I did not give you permission to leave.”

“I don’t need permission. I’m a big girl. Let me go.”

He followed her into the kitchen and pressed his palms onto the granite countertop. The cool stone beneath his flesh managed to chill his annoyance. And so did the white gadget near the sink, which he picked up to study.

She took out two paper cups from the bag. “You purchased coffee for me?” he asked her. “Why would you do that?”

“I knew you’d be back this morning, and it is the nice thing to do, isn’t it? Sharing.”

“Taking is much easier.”

She flashed him a death stare. “You’re not big on simple kindnesses are you, Mr. Slam-Them-Around?”

“I have little concern for niceties.” One twist and the gadget broke in two pieces.

“No kidding,” she said, taking the pieces from him with a curt tug. “I never could figure why Rosalie needed two garlic presses. But this one was her favorite.” She handed him the coffee but he refused.

“I don’t favor those commercially manufactured brews.”

“Seriously? You’re gone one night and all of a sudden you’ve become a connoisseur?”

“Apparently so.”

“I see.” She sipped the hot brew, and Ashur decided he did not like the smell of it. He preferred the freshly ground coffee beans from Peru he’d experienced while walking the world. “You look different. More … modern. Did you get a haircut?”

“No, but I did get it wet in the Peruvian rain forest, then the deserts of Egypt dried it out.”

“I like it. Spiky and tousled. Nice shades, too.”

He took the Ray-Bans from the top of his head and set them on the counter. “I acquired fine things while I was out.”

“Goody for you.”

“Do you not appreciate them? You are rich. Are not fine things your mien?”

She smirked, but no mirth traced the curves of her lips. “Material things are stupid. They mean nothing. That’s why I can toss a three-hundred-dollar garlic press without a blink. But if it makes you feel good …” She sighed. “I have some things to do this morning. I want to prepare another piece for the gallery this afternoon. I’m doing a show over in Chelsea. It’s my debut.”

“You are an artist?”

“Yep, been at it for over ten years. But Todd set me up with this killer computer system a few years ago, and my whole style changed. Oh man, I have to show you. Then you’ll understand why I was so excited about seeing the angel last night.”

The phone rang. Six put up her palm to signal him to wait. “Hi, Emily.”

Ashur studied the small screw mechanism on the sunglasses frames as he folded it back and forth, back and forth. So small, it fascinated him.

“What?” Six said into the phone. “All of them? You’re not—Seriously? That is so freaking cool. Yes, give me the phone number, I’ll be happy to call him.” She scribbled a few numbers and a name on a yellow Post-it note.

The sunglass arm broke off in Ashur’s grip. He glanced at Six and when she turned to see what he was doing, he shoved the broken glasses aside next to the garlic press.

“Thanks, Emily. I don’t have any replacements. You can do that? Take orders? Cool. I’ll see if I can print up some examples and have them delivered later this afternoon.”

She hung up, her face aglow. “That was the gallery owner. Someone bought all my paintings after I left the gallery last night.” She tucked the phone number in her purse.

“You must be very talented.”

“And you must be very curious.” She tapped the broken glasses.

He shrugged. “I like to see how things work.”

“Yes, well, just leave all major appliances alone, will you? And don’t lay a hand on my computer, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Computers are remark able.”

“Oh, I was going to show you. Come on. I will now reveal the deep, dark secrets of my insane little mind to you. I’ve been waiting so long for someone who understands.”

Attracted to her infectious enthusiasm, Ashur followed Six down a hallway. The silk pants she wore clung to her hips and flared out at the feet to reveal pointed-toe shoes with super-high heels. They made her legs look long enough to wrap around him twice. The feel of the fabric might push him over some precipice on which he was beginning to balance. He’d remembered lust last night, yet hadn’t time to indulge it, thinking it wise to hold off until the task of slaying Zaqiel was completed. But how could he when the muse wore a clingy top, and the faint line of her brassiere strap teased him to slip it down her arm?

“Ashur?”

“Huh?”

“I asked if you liked art. Are you okay? You seem distracted.” She stopped at a door and paused to sip her coffee. “Were you looking at my ass just now?”

“No,” he said, too quickly. “Yes.”

Her smile was wicked.

Ashur fixated on her mouth, those thick lips softened with some sort of clear polish. Her teeth were so white as to sparkle. And straight. He’d never seen that before. Nowadays, he knew, it was all an illusion. Mortals spent millions on altering their appearances in an attempt to look more attractive.

Thing is, one man’s attractive may be another man’s ugly. Everything about Six fell into the attractive category.

“Are you all natural? “ he asked.

She quirked a gracefully arched brow. “You mean organic? I recycle along with the rest of them, but I will never give up my Starbucks habit.”

“No, I mean, you, your body and face. You have not altered your appearance?”

“You mean like cosmetic surgery?”

“Yes, I learned about that last night.”

“Do you think I’ve altered myself?”

He sensed an underlying challenge—which he would never refuse. “Perhaps. Your teeth are too white.”

“I’ve had them whitened.”

“And your lips are so lush.”

“They’re all mine. Everything on this body is as is, the way God intended, except my teeth.”

“Yes, you’re like an earth mother meets sex kitten, all curves and lushness.”

She bowed her head and glanced aside. He’d made her blush, which only increased her sensual appeal.

“What about you, big boy? If you’re not human, is that the way you usually look? Like a human man? A man with incredible muscles and a killer smile?”

“These muscles are lesser than my normal appearance. And yes, this is a costume.”

“Did you steal it from some real mortal man?”

“No. For all that I enjoy the sins of the flesh, and the world, I do not harm mortals. This costume is as I would appear should I have been created mortal. You do not like it?”

“Like it? I love it. Bet it’s hard as steel and. well …” She sighed. “You said you enjoy sin?”

“Devour it. Need it, actually.”

“Oh?”

“It is what makes me tick, as they say.”

“That’s weird.”

“Your opinion means little to me.”

“I realize that. Yet my appearance interests you to no end.”

“I could look all day. What about there? Are they real?” Ashur pointed to her chest and she looked down and stroked between her breasts where he imagined it would be soft.

“My breasts are real,” she said.

“Nice. And soft?”

A lift of her brow tweaked Ashur’s smile. “My God, you don’t have much of a moral compass, do you?”

“It isn’t necessary to my survival.”

She tilted her head. Soft dark curls as tight as a spring bounced over her shoulders and down to her elbows. He wanted to crush them between his fingers. “Soft? You want to touch and see?”

She was right on about his lacking moral compass.

Tracing his finger down from the base of her throat, Ashur closed his eyes as the softness of female skin tendered at his expectations. All things in his life were hard, impermeable, adamant. Yet beneath his skin glided something like fine silk. He remembered silk, slipping beneath his touch, waving in the breeze, gliding over his mouth …

“I think that’s enough.”

Six’s voice brought him up from the dive into lust. Ashur retracted from the one place he should not go until Zaqiel was dispatched. “Very soft.”

“Thanks. I didn’t expect you’d be so … well, forward.”

“You did invite the touch.”

“Yes, I did. Something about you. Anyway!”

Dismissing the intimate interlude, Six opened the door and strode into a vast room done in white marble. Floor-to-ceiling windows faced the far side of the blindingly white room.

“This is my workroom,” she explained, setting the coffee on a clear Lucite desk and pushing a button on the Macintosh computer.

“It’s different from the rest of the place,” he said. “It’s as if another person’s living in here.”

“Kind of. My artistic self is opposite from my chumming-around-with-friends self. I don’t want any distractions when I’m painting so I made it as neutral in here as possible. No music, either.”

He tilted his head, wondering.

“It’s an artist thing. Sort of like you explained the angels hearing in colors is an angel thing.”

“So what is all this stuff? I don’t see any canvas or paints.”

“CG painting is my method of choice to create. I use a spatial operating environment.”

He only understood half of what she’d said. But he wasn’t about to let on to that fact. He touched the smooth white exterior of the computer.

“Don’t touch,” she admonished sweetly. “No taking apart my computer, big boy.”

Ashur offered her a surrendering shrug, then strolled about the room, thumbs shoved in his front pockets, taking it all in.

A huge plasma screen flickered awake on one wall and he approached it, waiting to see what would appear.

Behind him, Six sat before the desk clicking away at the keyboard. Twisting at the waist, his eyes lingered where he had touched her between the curves of her breasts. Softness bound up and waiting release, or a dash of his tongue. If only the angelkiss had been placed there, and he would have had to lick it to grant her temporary relief.

Nice. Thinking about the carnal pleasures was almost as good as doing them. And when his erection tightened against his pants, he grinned. The old demon still had it. Some things were never forgotten, no matter how much torture.

Six typed rapidly. The sleeve bulged on her forearm. “Did you bandage the angelkiss?” he asked.

“I put some aloe on it again this morning, and tied a scarf around it. Seems to do the trick. You ever hear of CG art?”

“Sure.”

“You like it?”

He spread out his arms and swaggered toward her. “Doesn’t everyone?”

She sighed. “You have no idea what it is.”

He approached the desk and caught his palms on the edge. “Very well, what is CG?”

“You didn’t assimilate that last night?”

“I feel it somewhere in my knowledge, but it’s difficult to understand. It is to do with technology and much as I hate to admit it, that is beyond my comprehension.”

“It’s beyond every normal person’s comprehension, believe me.”

Yes, but he wasn’t normal. And how easy would it be to take this computer apart? It appeared to have a removable back—

“CG is computer-generated art,” she said. “I paint with pixels. The screen is my canvas. I’ll show you my latest. Look.”

Ashur turned around. The screen, which was as high as he and three feet wide, filled with grays and silver and shades of black and blue. Spreading his hands over it, he marveled at the screen’s give. It wasn’t glass but some soft surface that gave with his touch. Marvelous.

“Put your hands down,” Six said. “I’m turning on the spatial controls.”

He stepped back to take in the image that appeared on the screen. It startled him. He hissed lowly.

“My friend Todd had the same reaction when he built it,” Six said as she joined his side. She raised her hand and tapped her fingers in the air before her. The screen zoomed out to display the whole painting. “Spatial operation,” she said. “It’s all done by recognizing my hand movements. Pretty cool, huh? The technology is so new it’s still in beta form for home use.”

The technology did not concern him; it was the image she had constructed on the screen.

“It’s my latest angel. I only paint angels. I call this one my indigo savior.”

The figure on the screen was forged of blue metal and gears that glistened with white. Bulging steel muscles rippled down its arms and thighs. At its back a spread of wings stretched straight out five times as long as the body, and the wing tips curled, thanks to moving gears on each of the mercurylike appendages.

“How do you have this knowledge?” Ashur asked fiercely. “How can you know?”

“Zaqiel said the same thing to me in the same accusing tone. Of course, you’ve seen angels. And me? I have, too.” She tapped her head. “In my dreams.”

Coaxing his breathing to a steady pace, Ashur exhaled. “In your dreams? Are you a seer?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I once thought I might be an angel because of this.” She tapped the sigil on her forearm. “But it never quite matched any of the sigils I’ve seen in books on angels. I’ve had dreams about angels since after my mother died. I’ve tried to tell people about them, but they always think I’m a nut. My father threatened to put me in a psych ward when I was eighteen.”

“The place where they put those out of their minds? “ He looked her over again. She seemed quite sane. But then madness often cloaked itself in beauty.

“It was a stupid threat, but it brought me down from a weird place,” she said. “I was just so tired of people not believing me that I flipped out. And well, you know how teenagers can be.” She sighed. “Probably you don’t. So now here you are, a man who actually slays angels. You believe me, right?”

“That you’ve seen them in your dreams?” He glanced at the painting. She’d seen something, that was for sure. Parts of the figure were not exactly right, but other parts were right on. “Where did you learn this? “ He pointed to the sigil she had painted on the angel’s shoulder, a wavy line with one dot beneath the middle wave. “In your dreams, as well?”

“Sort of. Not really. That’s the last thing I put on a project before I call it finished. It’s not like I see what the symbol looks like, but more that I touch my fingers before the screen and just follow my heart. I know it sounds weird. Delusional. But heck, maybe I am a little crazy. I mean, how many girls actually have an angel chasing after them to get them pregnant? You ask me, a person would have to be insane to accept something like that.”

He didn’t know what to say. Six had somehow created this image by drawing from a greater collective consciousness. Yet she was unaware how close her depiction was, or that the sigils were dead-on.

Was it possible an angel had visited her previously?

“You going to recommend a nice quiet place with straitjackets now?” she wondered.

“No, I want to know more.”

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