“Angels have never been fiction.”

He was right, of course, but had Cassandra ever imagined she’d one day be standing in an angel’s arms? Yes, she had. It had been a blissful, sensual dream of a warrior.

Sam stroked her shoulders and bent before her, as if to kiss her. But he only lingered there, their mouths inches apart, breaths dallying, eyes searching each other’s.

She wanted the kiss. It was wrong on so many levels, but she needed it. Yet she sensed Sam would not give it. Could not. Because they were both fearful of the Pandora’s box their desire could open.

But at that moment all she heard was an insistent voice inside her head. Kiss him. It will be dangerous … but how can you resist?

Dear Reader,

As with most of my Nocturne™ books, this story stands alone but is set in my Beautiful Creatures world. I’ve created Club Scarlet online so you can look up characters and learn more about them. Stop by and check it out at clubscarlet.michelehauf.com.

I’m pleased that the novella The Ninja Vampire’s Girl is included with this release. It features Coco Stevens, the sister of Cassandra (who is the heroine of Ashes). If you want to read events in order, that novella takes place about five months before Ashes of Angels, so I suggest you page to the back of this book and read the novella first. (But you won’t be mixed up if you choose not to; I promise.) I hope you enjoy the stories. I had an amazing time creating them.

Michele Hauf

About the Author

MICHELE HAUF has been writing romance, action-adventure and fantasy stories for more than twenty years. Her first published novel was Dark Rapture. France, musketeers, vampires and faeries populate her stories. And if she followed the adage “write what you know,” all her stories would have snow in them. Fortunately, she steps beyond her comfort zone and writes about countries she has never visited and of creatures she has never seen.

Michele can also be found on Facebook and Twitter and michelehauf.com. You can also write to Michele at: PO Box 23, Anoka, MN 55303, USA.

Ashes of

Angels

Michele Hauf

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Prologue

Cassandra Stevens stepped back from the finished silver sculpture to admire her handiwork. She had formed the male body from silver sheet metal, and worked with various shaped anvils to capture the smooth muscles and lithe structure of the male form. For the wings, stretched back and out from the body, she had used a lost-wax casting method to achieve the intricate barbed vanes.

A month’s work glistened under the bright light that hung over her workbench.

When she wasn’t working afternoons at the Central library as a research assistant, she spent her evenings designing silver objects d’art and jewelry. Her dream of forming an elite jewelry design business were going much slower than planned since arriving in Berlin two years ago, but better to be meticulous and careful than to rush into things. At least regarding business.

In life, rushing into things was always the better option. Danger did not sit back and wait for a person to weigh their options. One must always be ready.

Yeah, you go, Action Danger Girl, she chided her silent thoughts. Thinking she was ready was much easier than actually being ready. She’d never be sure. Never.

The silver sculpture had known its form the moment she’d begun to sketch a flat image on paper and had then transferred it to a sheet of silver.

“An angel,” she murmured, knowing, as she’d been working on it, how telling it was she sculpted an angel.

Fascinated during the process, her fingers had worked of their own volition, as if they instinctively knew what her subject should look like. That had never happened with any of her previous projects.

Tossing her hair over a shoulder, loosely bunched at the middle with a ribbon to contain the thick, wavy tresses that hung to her elbows, Cassandra stroked a finger down the abdomen of the figure. She sighed. This was the closest she’d been to six-pack abs in months. Lately, her social life had been suffering for her art.

What social life? You forgot to get yourself one of those, remember?

Another sigh would just be redundant.

The silver wings stretched out behind the sculpture about a foot, and the whole work was heavy, but not delicate, for she’d riveted and soldered the wings in place.

Cassandra had dreamed of winged men most of her life. Winged nightmares had visited her sleep, as well. But her hopeful heart emerged during that flicker of wakefulness following a nightmare and, as a result, the dreams overcame the nightmares.

Most of the time. Doom remained the overwhelming common theme in her dreams.

Angels were … not good. The Fallen ones Granny Stevens had taught her about were downright evil. They were as spiteful, selfish and dangerous as some mortals.

But one angel managed to rise above the dire warnings and tease her admiration. She’d never imagined his face—until now.

Studying the tiny face about the size of her thumb, Cassandra offered him an approving nod. “You are a handsome bloke.” No halo sat above the sculpture’s head, but that made sense to her. He wouldn’t have one.

A dangerous thrill giddied over her skin. She’d created an effigy of something others believed could harm her.

Danger teased, and she always responded. “Will I meet you someday?”

She carried it into her bedroom and placed it on the pine dresser opposite the end of her bed. Sitting on the bed, beneath the violet mesh canopy, she marveled that the angel looked down over her. She hadn’t planned it that way.

He’s the furthest thing from a guardian angel.

“I pray to survive when finally you come for me,” she said to the sculpture. “I can feel it. You’ll be here soon.”

Paris—Underground

“We’ve intercepted sensitive information between a muse and a hunter.” Bruce Westing handed the tribe leader, Antonio del Gado, a computer printout of conversations. “Cassandra Stevens is located in Berlin. She’s the contact point for what I estimate to be at least three muses traveling to Germany. And, I can’t verify this, but I think a pregnant muse is also on her way to Berlin via unknown escort.”

Del Gado slapped the paper on the desk before him. “She’s pregnant with a nephilim?”

“Fingers crossed.”

Bruce winced when he realized that should have been a more exacting reply. He was doing the best he could with the technologically inept staff provided for him. Tribe Anakim was one of the most clichéd groups of vampires around. They lurked in darkness due to their extreme sun affliction, and Bruce was never surprised when one developed the Bela Lugosi sneer and creep.

The tribe leader rubbed the heel of his palm over an eye. The man was ancient, and had big dreams, but Bruce supported his wacky idea. Being denied the sun for centuries would try any man’s nerves. “How many more names do we have?”

Bruce tapped the laptop keys. Antonio del Dado didn’t know how to use a computer any more than the other tribe members, so Bruce was the tech wizard for tribe Anakim, as well as the chief angel tracker. The latter was much less taxing on his patience.

“Only three,” he reported, turning the laptop so Antonio could read the names. “You want me to prepare the summoning room?”

“Yes, immediately. If any number of muses are congregating in Berlin, then we’ll have to bring the Fallen to them. And check with Rovonsky. He’s been preparing equipment for capturing and securing the nephilim. The equipment is easy enough to move. I say we leave for Berlin before daybreak.”

Bruce lifted a brow but didn’t comment. Anakim’s entire tribe lived by the night. They had slaves to do their day work. Like him.

Not a slave, but a well-paid employee.

“This is finally coming together, Bruce. I can feel it. Soon, tribe Anakim’s bloodline will be infused with the blood from our nephilim ancestors. We will finally become daywalkers. Do you know, I haven’t seen the sun for three centuries?”

“That’s a long time, boss. You could use a tan.”

Antonio’s expression remained sober.

Reminded of the boss’s lack of humor, Bruce closed the laptop. “I’m on it. And I’ll send a man after the muse, Cassandra Stevens, to keep an eye on her.”

“Excellent. Soon, Bruce, soon, a plague of dark divinity will stalk the earth.”

Yeah, whatever. Always so dramatic, the boss man. Just as long as that plague stayed away from him.

“When this is over,” Bruce muttered as he strode down the torchlit walls of Anakim’s lair, “I’m going topside for good.”

Coco Stevens listened to the phone ring endlessly. Her boyfriend, Zane, waited in the doorway, one of Coco’s pink suitcases in hand. Outside in the cab sat Ophelia O’Malley, her pregnant belly ready to burst from the seams of her stretchy sweater dress.

“No luck?” Zane asked and glanced outside. “You can try calling your sister again when we reach the airport.”

“I forgot to charge my cell phone, and you don’t carry one.”

“They do still have pay phones, love.”

Sighing and hanging up the landline, Coco melted into her boyfriend’s embrace. That Cassandra trusted her enough to handle this mission meant the world to her, but that also meant she couldn’t screw it up, or there’d be no future missions. Coco was all about the adventure.

“I wanted to let Caz know we were on our way. She’s been uptight about us informing her on every leg of this mission.” She peered over his shoulder. Berlin was getting a snowstorm, but here in London it was raining. “Is Ophelia all right?”

“The muse is fine. Craving a pint, or so she says. But I don’t think alcohol is safe for a pregnant mother, eh?”

“She’s due any day now. I’d say a little beer isn’t going to hurt a thing. We’ll get her something at the airport.” She closed the door to her flat behind them and locked it. “Cassandra must be out skiing or free-running, or doing something dangerous. She’s been into the danger-play lately. I worry about her, Zane. She’s not indestructible, yet she thinks she is.”

Zane wrapped an arm around her waist and led her to the cab. “She’s got a lot on her shoulders, love. I think it’s her way of spitting at the big bads and challenging her less-than-rosy destiny. Of course, Adventure is not her middle name.”

“It’s mine,” Coco said with a gushing smile and kissed her lover. “I hope she’s out partying. Living it up before, well, you know.”

“Don’t worry your pretty head, love.” He helped her into the back of the cab, then went around to put the suitcase in the boot. “Off with Adventure in hand,” Zane muttered. “Never a dull moment with the Stevens sisters.”

Chapter 1

The halo hunter’s shoulders hit the wall, the back of his skull thudding rather loudly from impact. Samandiriel held him with ease—and one hand—about the neck. The hard knob of an Adam’s apple gulped against his palm. Mortals were startlingly delicate.

To the hunter’s favor, he didn’t kick at him, but merely hung calmly. The mortal’s pulse banged beneath his palm. Quite a unique feeling. Samandiriel had no pulse.

“You’re … second … seen …”

“Stop mumbling, human,” Samandiriel said. A leather messenger bag strapped over one of the hunter’s shoulders revealed its contents. He sorted through the dozens of clanking halos in the bag, but couldn’t resist asking, “Second?”

“A-angel,” the hunter croaked.

“That you’ve seen? Well, aren’t you lucky? Most mortals never get to see such a thing. Do you marvel over me?”

“Uh, sure. M-marvel.”

One halo glowed, but before Samandiriel could touch it, he felt a prickle of awareness, brought on by an intruder approaching from behind.

Turning, and keeping the halo hunter pinned to the wall, he thrust out a hand to stop the person who approached. The simple gesture slammed the intruder against the opposite wall. Apparently more willful than the halo hunter, this one dropped to her feet and came at him again. The tiny female flashed a sneer and wielded ineffectual fists before her.

“Vinny … okay … “

The woman stood straight, dropping her fists, evidently understanding the hunter’s abbreviated reassurance.

Before she could dodge, Samandiriel placed the heel of his palm against her forehead. A flash of her memory assaulted his brain and he grasped a very pertinent detail about her.

“Vampire?” He made a fist to swing—

“No!” The hunter squirmed and now he did kick, but only managed a knee to Samandiriel’s thigh. “She’s not dangerous!”

Bouncing on her fancy high heels as if ready for the next swing, the vampire in question quirked a brow and huffed, disagreeing with the assessment of her lacking danger. “Another angel?”

“Others have been here before me?” Samandiriel asked the hunter. “That’s right, I’m the second.” He loosened his grip to allow the man to slide to the floor and stand of his own volition. “Where is the other? What was his name?”

“Zaqiel. He’s dead now. But the vampires—”

“Are summoning the Fallen?” Samandiriel spoke the knowledge he’d pulled from the vampiress. “You can verify that is true?”

“Yes, tribe Anakim,” said the hunter. “But she’s not with the bad vampires. She’s with me.”

Samandiriel assessed the twosome. He read the mortal hunter’s confidence, yet the man maintained a healthy respect for the divine. While the female, who seemed to match his cockiness, possessed an innate fear of him that held her at a distance. He did not fault her vampirism. Hate was not in his arsenal. But he would be cautious. He’d not dealt with a fanged one in the short time he’d walked the earth.

Shoving his hand into the messenger bag, Samandiriel claimed the one halo that glowed blue and held it before him. “This one is mine.”

“I can see that.”

“Luck in your quest, mortal. And you.” He turned to the vampiress, who backed against the wall. He placed a palm against her forehead and strained the details of the angel summonings from her. She knew much. It was information he needed.

Vampires had summoned him to earth?

His original goal to stalk his fellow Fallen in order to win his return Above remained. However, with vampires in the mix, now he’d have to change tactics.

The hard-driving rock anthem blasted a sexy, moaning chorus that enticed Cassandra onto the dance floor of club Schwarz. She didn’t understand a lot of German, but the lyrics didn’t matter. The beat thundered in her heart. Warm bodies dancing close by brushed her skin and, at times, matched her rhythm with a sexy rotation of hips.

The club decor was black, covering everything from the walls, tables, ceiling, glasses and goblets (including the drinks in clear glass) and bathrooms. The lighted floors flashed white squares and illuminated most, and the sparkles in the black paint shimmered as if it was a midnight sky.

She loved this club, and it had been too long since she’d been here. After completing the angel sculpture something had compelled her to get out of the flat and let loose. It was high time she kicked her lacking social life into gear.

She’d lost track of her date but wasn’t overly concerned. Marcus wasn’t exactly a date. The guy down the street had asked her out a dozen times and she’d finally succumbed. A little too tug-the-tie for her—though she did find his glasses sexy—he was probably at the bar nursing a vodka neat. He was a computer tech at MasterSysteme, yet it was apparent Marcus had no idea how to let loose after hours. He refused to dance, telling her to go off and enjoy herself.

Constantly on guard was her normal MO, had been since she was a teen, so learning to let loose once in a while had become a necessity to her survival.

Flipping her long black hair over her shoulders, she toyed with the red-and-white ribbons her hairdresser braided within the strands every other month. She didn’t like the idea of dreads, so the ribbons added that something extra she wanted in the style.

Sashaying sideways, a gorgeous dancer with dark stubble that emphasized his square jaw followed her gyrations. They spun and bumped hips and shoulders in fun play. He had a sexy smile, but she’d seen him making out with a blonde earlier beneath a black steel nude bent over the archway that led to the private rooms. She couldn’t abide double-dipping.

The beat changed, relaxing, and the dance floor sighed as couples paired up, while lone figures swayed to their own design.

Not ready for a break, Cassandra danced closer to the edge of the floor where the lighted tiles flashed. It was cooler here, and she knew she’d worked up a good sheen of perspiration, because she could smell her spearmint body lotion.

Smiling, because she smelled like a stick of spearmint gum, Cassandra realized this particular let-loose night had been a long time coming. It felt amazing forgetting … everything.

There was so much to forget. Dark things. Evil things. Impossible things. But only for the night. After a decade of training, she’d never completely let down her guard.

Casting her gaze about the shadows lining the dance floor, she stopped herself from surveillance with a mental slap to her wrist. Just dance. Enjoy some mindless fun! But her vision landed on a man who stared at her.

The hungry look wasn’t new. She caught men staring at her all the time across the stacks or a research table in the library. So the Stevens sisters were hot—as she’d often heard men comment—so what? What she looked like on the outside was vastly different from her insides because, Glory Hallelujah, no one wanted to deal with her baggage.

Still, she’d never refuse interest. And tech guy would understand. Hell, Marcus was still nursing that vodka. And was that a bespectacled redhead with whom he was conversing animatedly?

“Ditched so soon?” It was difficult summoning irritation. They looked like a great couple. “Go for it, bloke.”

Moving along the dance floor, she noted her observer continued his intense task. The man gave new meaning to chiseled features. Every part of his face—square chin, straight long nose, smooth forehead, pale yet strong mouth—called for notice, and then combined to form an overall captivating result.

Sexual allure spilled from his pores like pheromones she could actually see. The melting look in his eyes oozed over Cassandra’s skin. All he was doing was standing there! Had to be a celebrity. The club was famous for them, though normally the celebs did not turn her head. She wasn’t into paparazzi or the materialistic lifestyle.

A crisp white dress shirt strained across the man’s chest like tight sheets on a bed. Cassandra imagined running her fingers across the white fabric and putting a few wrinkles in it for good measure. Wrinkled sheets sounded inviting tonight. Because seriously, she’d known she and Marcus wouldn’t mesh the moment he’d suggested the opera as his first choice for the evening.

Crooking her finger, she invited her mysterious observer to join her. He navigated the crowded dance floor with an ease that belonged to fictional characters, like the brooding vampire in a Gothic novel, and matched her slow, sensual dance moves as if trying to mirror her. A little awkward with the hips, but he was at least on the beat.

Obviously not a dancer, but she didn’t care. His focused attention shimmied over her skin, feeling like warm rain. And he was all hers. No one else in the room stood in their air.

Mercy, but she’d been too deeply enmeshed in her own projects and worries lately. The world was putting out men who resembled Hollywood warrior gods? She’d been missing out.

But not any longer.

Turning and swaying before him, she invited his hand to her hip and held it there with hers. He leaned in to smell her hair. Vanilla shampoo, combined with her spearmint body lotion, mixed a sensual combination. He stroked her hair and drew out his hand, trailing a red ribbon along his forefinger. A tilt of his head and a sweet smile displayed his wonder over the decoration.

Cassandra shrugged and winked. She wanted to nuzzle her nose against his neck, divine his scent and whisper an invitation, but she wasn’t pushy, and she wasn’t a tease.

All right, so maybe a bit of a tease. But she’d come here with another man; she would not ditch him. That was just plain rude.

Unless Marcus and the redhead developed plans of their own.

Suddenly itchy, Cassandra rubbed the heel of her palm over her wrist. This new dress was some kind of wool blend, though very thin. It exposed her back to midspine. The short skirt dropped mid-thigh, and her thigh-high boots were tied up the backs with red ribbons to match those in her hair.

She touched her sexy dancer’s forearm, clasping it. Too intimate, Cassandra. But she didn’t heed her intuition. The dancer’s arm was cool, and the difference in their temperatures increased his allure.

The music switched to a fast rocker beat, one of her favorite songs about dangerous beauty, snarled out by a sultry female singer. The guitar riff in this one was insane. Bouncing before him, she performed a sexy shimmy and hip shift while he observed. He’d catch the beat. He seemed to learn quickly.

“What’s your name?” she asked over the blast of music.

“Samandiriel.”

She hadn’t caught the last name—Darrel?—but the first had sounded like Sam. She loved that name. Had dreamed about it …

Shimmying close to him, she spread a palm up the front of his crisp shirt and leaned up on tiptoe so he could hear, “You in town for the convention across the street or sightseeing on the Spree?”

Please don’t be a mortician. There was a convention at the Radisson Blu across the street. She’d already talked to two body pokers since arriving at the Schwarz.

“I’m here for you, Cassandra.”

Her? Well. That was some kind of all right. It wasn’t every day a chick found her own personal—

Wait. She hadn’t given him her name.

“Rather a nice distraction,” he said over the din. “Hadn’t expected to meet you so quickly.”

Cassandra stopped dancing. She also stopped midscratch. She tugged up the dress sleeve, dreading what she would see. The sigil on her wrist, which was normally a reddish-brown color and shaped like a spiral, glowed blue.

It had never done that before—yet that didn’t mean she didn’t know exactly what it meant.

“Oh, hell, no.”

The sensual heat flushing Cassandra’s face chilled faster than it would’ve stepping outside into the freezing winter weather.

Shaking her head, she moved away but was rudely bumped by a dancer. The man’s eyes—Samandiriel, now she remembered his name from a dream—were bright and designed from many colors.

“Kaleidoscope,” she whispered, choking on her breath.

Years of preparation, of knowing what her destiny would bring, sent her into action.

The time had come. Here stood danger.

Fisting her hands, she assumed a defensive stance. “Come on, buddy, I am so ready for you.”

The man’s dark eyebrow quirked and his perfectly sculpted lips compressed.

Amidst the ruckus of dancers and ear-thrumming music, Cassandra realized she didn’t want this to go down in such a public place. Probably he didn’t care, and would use the crowd to his advantage.

Protect the innocents, Granny Stevens had always warned. At all costs.

Darting off the dance floor like a banshee called to the grave, she pushed through the crowd of dancers, lovers and chatterers. A swing of her elbow spilled a drink, and someone swore at her in hearty German. She couldn’t bother to apologize.

Without looking to see if the stranger would follow she headed down the dark hallway toward the back exit door. Pinpricks of light spattered the walls like a constellation, but did not serve illumination for any more than a careful stroll to find the restrooms.

She shoved a man out of the way. He called back, wondering if she was okay.

She’d worn her thigh-high boots today. The heels were only two inches, but slippery as hell on the tiled floor, which was wet from people entering with snow on their shoes. Grabbing the door, she swung it open and glanced back. The man followed.

It was him. Samandiriel. Her dream man. Her destiny.

Her danger.

Her wrist would not itch were it any other man in the universe. And the sigil glowed! Granny Stevens had said it would. She’d always wondered how that would work.

There was only one reason a muse’s sigil glowed: it was near another sigil that matched it. Playing angel-to-muse sigil matchy-matchy was not a game Cassandra had signed up for, but certainly, she was prepared.

“Right,” she muttered to herself. “You went all kick-ass on him for two idiot seconds!”

Wishing she’d had the time to swing by the bar where her now ex-date sat to put on her leather coat, Cassandra cursed the wicked cold air as she plunged into a wall of prickly snowflakes. A burgeoning storm swirled relentlessly. A drift consumed the bottom step and swallowed her boots ankle deep.

She kept another coat in the boot of her car, along with gloves, hat and other necessary items. No one drove around Berlin in December without the essentials.

The club door smashed outward, cracking the outer brick wall. The stranger marched down the steps, his pace determined. He wore no coat, and appeared unaffected as the bitter wind buffeted his chest and face.

Cassandra’s teeth had already begun to chatter. Slipping her hand inside her boot, she claimed her car keys from the inner pocket. She’d parked five rows back and in the corner.

Slipping on the icy surface, she slapped a palm on the closest car to steady herself. A hand grasped her by the shoulder and swung her against the hood of a vintage BMW.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry, Cassandra? I was having a fine time dancing with you. Were my moves not correct? I thought to follow your direction.”

Seriously? She kicked his knee, landing her toe hard, but he didn’t register pain with a wince. In fact, he instead winked at her.

“Let go of me! I’ll scream.”

He slapped a palm over her mouth. His square jaw pulsed and his eyes flashed a mad array of colors at her. “You are—” he trailed his gaze over her face and down her body “—mine.” The words came out in a wondrous gasp.

Oh, bloody hell in a handbasket.

She kicked and managed a boot toe behind his knee. “Let me go!”

“Calm, Cassandra, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Oh, yeah? You call having sex with me against my will not hurting me?”

“I—no, I won’t do that. I admire you. You’re like nothing I have ever imagined beauty can be. Your voice is the color of happiness. It is gorgeous.”

The guy was actually trying to flirt with her?

Chill wind whipped across her face and cut off another scream. Cassandra kicked and shoved, but he was too strong. “I’m ready for you, buddy. I know what you want, and no matter how you phrase it, it’s not going to happen.”

“Please listen to me, Cassandra—”

This time a kick to his inner thigh, so close to the family jewels, managed to present her with freedom.

Dashing for her car, Cassandra said thanks for the Walther semiautomatic pistol she kept stashed in the car’s boot. It was over-the-top, but it had been easiest to obtain, and was as easy to use. It wouldn’t stop the guy, but it should slow him down long enough for her to escape.

The man who chased her was a Fallen angel. Yes, a real bloody angel. She didn’t need an ID card or divine beam of light to convince her. And she, being a muse, wore a sigil that matched only one Fallen. And his idea of admiration was not in alliance with hers.

Everything Cassandra had been taught about angels and their muses was falling into dreadful place.

She’d been born a muse, a female mortal who would ultimately attract a Fallen angel. Said angel would one day come for her, impregnate her, and she would give birth to a vicious, giant nephilim. Or so, that is how Granny Stevens had related it to her.

Slamming her palms to the boot of her car, she skidded and hit her knees against the chrome bumper. Struggling with the key, her icy fingers inserted it into the lock and the boot popped open. She grabbed the pistol and turned as the angel slid up to her. His chest met the barrel.

“Back off,” she commanded firmly. Holding the weapon gave her a confidence she’d never expected to need. This adrenaline junkie knew how to use nervous energy, yet her dreams of angels had always been merely dreams. “Or I blow you back to the Ninth Void.”

He raised his hands in surrender but did not relent by stepping back. Wind blew his dark hair across his face, underlining his eyes. “You’ve not the power to do so. And please, that place was miserable. I’ve only been out a day. Won’t you allow me a holiday?”

He was trying to charm her? Did he not feel the menacing semiautomatic she held against his chest? One squeeze of the trigger would—well, it would damage him, but not kill him. Only an angel could kill an angel. Unless the nonangel was armed with a divine weapon.

Coco should have mailed the halo to her. What she wouldn’t give to have that in hand right now!

“You step back,” she directed in a surprisingly calm tone.

“Nein. We need to talk.”

She chambered a round with a metallic click.

“Try it, beautiful one. But you’ll only piss me off. And splatter your pretty dress with my blue blood.”

So it really was blue? Bloody hell, it was all true. In a moment of utter bewilderment, Cassandra looked aside, her mind fighting to grasp her new reality.

The Fallen grasped the pistol and turned it on her. “Get in the car. Through the driver’s side.”

Teeth chattering, she was shoved inside the midsize coupe. Probably her brain was already half frozen, which was why she’d been overtaken so easily. She wasn’t able to remain on the driver’s seat because he slid in right after her.

“Don’t hurt me, you … you monster.” Oh, nice, Cassandra. As if begging will help.

He grabbed the keys from her numb fingers and shoved them in the ignition. “You’re calling me a monster?”

No, he was some kind of male model with gorgeous eyes and a sexy smile. Cassandra blinked. Idiot!

When she tried to open the passenger door he pressed the automatic door lock on the steering wheel. The lock tab fit flush into the door so she couldn’t pry it up.

“Yes, a monster! You’re a freakin’ Fallen angel who wants to rape me.”

The car swung out of the parking spot, swerving on the ice. “Don’t use that word. It is an awful mortal word for a cruel act. I would never profane a woman. You are sacred to me, Cassandra. I want to protect you.”

He smiled at her. Actually smiled as he navigated the lot with starts and stops and some wild swerves. Did the guy even know how to drive? He said he’d been on earth only a day.

A shake of his head flicked off the heavy snowflakes from his thick, dark hair and shoulders.

Sacred? Is that what he labeled the woman he wanted to get down and dirty with, and without asking first? And protect her?

Had she gotten a damaged one? This Fallen must have hit his head upon release from the Ninth Void and landing on earth. Everything he said to her was the complete opposite of what she’d been taught.

Twisting on the seat, she wondered if the backseats would pull down to open into the trunk. She’d never tried it before. The angel had tossed the semiautomatic in the snow back in the parking lot, but she had another pistol in the boot.

The car spun onto the main street, swerving, but he quickly got it under control. He drove right through a stop signal, riding the brake but not slowing. Passing cars honked at them.

“You’re very pretty, Cassandra. And the ribbons in your hair. So interesting.”

“Is that your idea of foreplay? A few awkwardly random compliments? Buddy, I’m not interested.”

“You were interested on the dance floor. Your eyes took me in, sized me up and decided to like me. You touched me.” He stroked his forearm where she had placed her hand. “I’ve never been touched by a mortal woman.”

“Yeah?” She had touched him, had even imagined wrinkling the sheets with him. Oh, Cassandra, get smart. Right now! “The only touch you’ll get from me is a punch or another kick. Want one right now?”

“No, thank you.”

Man, but his eyes were incredible. When she thought they were blue, she noticed the violet, and then, brilliant gold. Wow—”Pay attention to the road. The light is red!”

He drove through the intersection without causing an accident. Cassandra clutched the seat and tensely put her heels to the floor. “You don’t know how to drive, do you?”

“No, but I’m learning,” he said proudly.

She itched the sigil, which still glowed blue. “Hell.”

“Matches mine.” He tugged up his shirt and leaned forward to reveal the sigil on the back of his hip. The spiraling dark brown line resembled a tattoo.

The sigil was not a tattoo, but an indelible mark. Cassandra had been born with hers. It was the reddish-brown color of henna, but it never faded, as henna did. “Yours isn’t glowing,” she remarked.

“Only when I’m in half form.”

Cassandra’s heart dropped to her gut. The only way a Fallen could get his mortal muse pregnant was in half form. They assumed the wings of an angel on top, yet remained human in every way, including all the essential sexual organs.

Samandiriel.

She had known his name since Granny had found it in the book of names and sigils. Neither had spoken it out loud to the other. Yet after everyone had gone to sleep, and Cassandra lay in her bed staring at the sky through the oak tree near her window, she’d whisper it. Because that’s what teenage girls did.

The name had become a sort of mantra, and at the same time a death toll. Samandiriel, the one angel who existed to find her. Samandiriel, the angel she had sculpted in silver. Samandiriel, her death.

A dizzy wave washed through Cassandra’s brain. She had to remain alert. Stay strong. As soon as he stopped, she’d open the door and run, never mind her lack of coat and gloves. They were only blocks away from a busy restaurant area; she could find help before she froze to death.

“So you’re taking me somewhere, and then you’re going to shift shapes?”

“No. Cassandra, I would not assume you’d be so enamored with me you would allow such an intimate act so quickly.”

She could only gape at him.

Was this one for real? The Fallen were supposed to be focused on getting their muse pregnant. She’d never thought the Fallen would have a sense of right and wrong.

“Seriously, did you land on your head when you Fell to earth?”

He chuckled. “Actually, I originally landed in a shallow stream. I almost drowned, were it not for a couple of village children who pulled me out. But that was a long time ago.”

Uh-huh. Like during Biblical times. The angels originally Fell way back when, and God decided to punish them for Falling and swept them all to the Ninth Void courtesy of the Great Flood. Water and angels did not mix; they couldn’t swim.

She had to do something. She couldn’t let this go further. Opening the glove compartment, she shuffled through the manuals and parking tickets. Yes! She knew she’d put that in there last month.

The Fallen pulled the car to a sliding stop against a snow-stacked curb. Ice slicked the tarmac. The snowplows had not been out since the storm had begun earlier in the afternoon.

“You live close,” he said, “but I’m not picking up your heat trail. Can you give me directions?”

“To my place? Not bloody likely.”

Gripping the Taser in the glove compartment, Cassandra swung her arm around and landed the angel aside the neck, under his chin. He jerked, his hand releasing the steering wheel. His torso stiffened, unable to fight the high voltage.

A thrusting fist bent the steering wheel. He let out a sound that crackled in her eardrums. It sounded like myriad languages all at once. Gritting her teeth at the pain of the noise, she held firm on the Taser.

And he cried out as if struck through the heart by a blade. Something creaked and then a flash of thick silver something moved out from between his shoulders. Whatever it was, it cut through the car roof and smashed out the rear window.

Panicking, Cassandra dropped the Taser and kicked open the passenger door. She scrambled out onto the foot-high snow packed along the curb and looked over the destruction.

Wings had grown out of the Fallen’s back, bladed, thick wings that had cut through the car like butter. They looked like … silver? She was a silversmith; she knew her metals. The entire structure of wings looked forged from silver, yet appeared soft as feathers, for the downy barbs fluttered in the brutal cold.

Trapped, the Fallen looked at her and growled.

Not about to stick around, Cassandra took off across the street and headed in the opposite direction of her apartment—only a quarter mile up the street—and one very angry Fallen angel.

Chapter 2

Samandiriel shook off the vehicle from his wings. Metal creaked and split. A tire rolled up against the snowbank. The backseat wobbled and fell from the passenger half of the vehicle.

He eased a hand over his shoulder. That little misadventure had taxed his mortal muscles to weary bands. Though his wings were of silver—indicative of his mastery over the silversmith art—they were adamant and indestructible. Yet there was only so much damage this mortal body could take, even in its half form, which was as close to his original ineffable form he could get while on earth.

He glanced at the mangled car. He’d had to rip his wings out sideways to get free. “Bitch,” he muttered, but the anger that had spurred his shift subsided quickly.

It had been a common human reaction to fear. Yet the muse had known what to expect. She had known he would come for her. And it appeared the petite bit with the big brown eyes and beribboned hair could handle herself in a threatening situation.

With a smart cock of his head side to side, he then unfurled his wings completely and followed with a whole-body shake that flexed muscles and tested mortal bones for endurance. Nothing broken.

Thing is, he had no intention to hurt the muse, as she suspected. Cassandra Stevens was a beauteous creation to admire. He could look at her ever after, admire her fine bone structure, the soft brown flesh and long hair that seemed alive with depth. Her voice spoke to him in vivid pinks and violets, bathing him in a luscious sensory oasis.

But once in this form, and if he were near Cassandra, he would feel the compulsion, the need to mate with the muse.

After his original Fall, Samandiriel had observed his brothers. The Fallen went after their muses with sanguine intent and did not care that they harmed, hurt or damaged the muse psychologically and physically. Their only focus was to mate with them, to experience the carnal pleasures that had tempted them to Fall.

Yet after that initial Fall, the Great Flood had washed over the lands and swept his fellow Fallen from the earth. Samandiriel had been imprisoned in the Ninth Void, awaiting release. He’d had much time to think.

He wanted nothing to do with the wicked pact he’d joined in with his brethren. All he desired was to return Above. But to do so, he suspected he must prove his worthiness, which necessitated his current mission.

A mission to ensure his Fallen brethren did not achieve their goal. And for the other reason, once a Fallen mated with a muse a nephilim would germinate, be born, and destroy all living things in its path.

Yet that mission had been altered after learning about the vampires. So much work to do. And here he stood, having been defeated by an odd electronic device wielded by a tiny woman.

“Bloody bunch of good you’ve done so far.”

He’d walked the world upon arrival on earth yesterday. His kind could move swiftly over the land and sea, taking in knowledge of all things, places, ideas and emotions. He now knew all languages, cultures and history. He knew the modern world, and admired it as much as he worried for it. It was clean and beautiful and ugly and devious. Children suffered and adults wallowed in self-important luxuries. The pious existed right alongside the profane and psychotic. What an ugly yet necessary mix.

Once he had achieved his goal, he would not remain long after.

During his walk around the world, he’d only picked up flickers of knowledge regarding the Fallen. The vampiress with the halo hunter had provided the most curious information. He’d been summoned—by vampires.

Vampires and the Fallen? He suspected it had something to do with the nephilim but couldn’t piece that together.

Shaking his wings down, his mortal muscles screamed in protest. He’d not felt such pain, ever. But he did not condemn the pain. It indicated he was part of this world now. Not completely mortal—he intended to retain his angelic half at all costs—but appreciative of all The Most High had given the creatures of the earth.

With a shuffle of his shoulders, he assumed complete human form. His leather trousers and boots were intact, but the shirt was a loss. He picked off shreds of torn white fabric from his arms and shoulders. Snowflakes landed on his skin but did not melt. Due to his cold blood, he didn’t feel the winter chill as a human.

Fascinating how the tiny flakes fluttered down from the clouds. There was much to marvel over as he learned the world. Samandiriel cautioned himself not to get lost in wonder when the greater task demanded his complete focus.

A shirt was in order—he had to fit in. But first he must find the muse. If Cassandra Stevens knew so much, she could prove an ally on his earthly quest. And, he simply wanted to bask in her presence. Because she was his. And he wanted to be near her. To touch her and hold her and—not harm her.

He took two steps across the slick, snowy tarmac. A female scream spun him about, eyes tracking the unremarkable building fronts in the darkness. “Cassandra?”

He’d thought her long gone after witnessing his forced shift.

Again, she screamed, from somewhere in the vicinity a few blocks behind him. Samandiriel’s boots dug into the packed snow, and he took off running.

The thugs had knives, and Cassandra had left all weapons in the car with the angel. Samandiriel. Too weird that her Sam had finally found his way to her, yet why should she think it weird? She’d been expecting him all her life.

One thug sporting a huge diamond earring, but not resembling an NBA all-star, had demanded her purse, which she didn’t have—it was in the car. The other thug, who bore a closer resemblance to an all-star, only because he was so tall, waved a chipped blade menacingly. She could guess they weren’t going to leave her without getting something.

Yeah? She had an expert roundhouse kick she’d give them both. But the first smart line of defense was to run. So she dodged to the right and raced toward the chain-link fence blocking off the alley. Hooking her fingers in the frozen links, she pulled herself up, yet a boot toe slipped on the icy metal, causing her to drop.

Hanging from the fence by numb fingers, Cassandra struggled for hold. Her attackers did not come after her from below. One jumped over her head and landed a precarious balance on top of the fence. An impossible feat. How had he—?

He grinned down at her from his gargoyle post, revealing long, pointy fangs.

Shit. Her fingers slid from the chain links, and Cassandra dropped to the ground.

Vampires were not something she’d trained to defend herself against. Only recently her sister, Coco, had alerted her to the vampires’ involvement in the frazzled mess she called her life. She’d been doing research and had secured a weapon, but hadn’t expected them so soon. Or ever.

Straightening, she drew in a breath. When life gave her surprises, Cassandra snapped to all-systems-ready mode.

The fence vamp dropped and backed her up against a garbage bin in the dead-end alley. Snow swirled in from the street, and she was starting to feel some serious freeze on her thighs where her boots ended and didn’t meet her dress. Never mind the chill against her bare back that made it difficult to stand still.

Stupid to have abandoned her car in this weather. But it wasn’t as if it was drivable with an angel literally embedded within it.

Times like this she wished for superheroine powers. She’d often wondered what her muse powers were. Shouldn’t she have some? Granny Stevens had always shaken her head and smiled wistfully.

Her wrist itched and the sigil glowed. That could be very bad, or possibly a lifesaver at a moment like this one.

“You got some kind of funky tattoo?” the one with the blade demanded. He did not sound German, but rather Russian, though he spoke English well enough.

“Wait,” the not-all-star, diamond-earring thug said. “You know what that is, Russell?”

“Haven’t a clue. Some kind of club stamp?”

“I think we found her.” The biggest thug crushed her petite body against the wall with his two-hundred-fifty-plus-pound frame, most of the weight in his gut. “Go keep watch,” he said over a shoulder to his buddy.

“If she’s one of them, we have to bring her to the boss.”

“We will. Isn’t that right, pretty little muse?”

Now Cassandra screamed. It was involuntary, her body reacting against her brain’s better judgment.

The one who’d went to keep watch soared over her and her aggressor’s heads and landed on the top of the garbage bin with a dull thud. The blade dropped from the tossed man’s hand and landed in the snow.

“What the hell?” The vampire holding her switched his attention to the tall, shirtless man standing not ten feet from them. He held a Taser in one hand and wielded a cocky grin like a switchblade.

“Hi, honey, I’m home,” the angel said.

“What took you so long?” Cassandra spit. The vampire still held her by a shoulder, but if he twisted farther to look at the angel …

“Sorry. I had to shake a car off my wings.”

“Your wings?” the vampire asked. “What, are you some kind of faery?”

The angel straightened his shoulders and narrowed his eyes. “I say wings, and your first guess is faery?” He shook his head and made a come- and-get-me gesture with the fingers wrapped around the Taser.

The vampire released Cassandra and turned to the angel in time to catch the Taser’s copper hooks with his thighs.

Sam preened over the powerful device and nodded. “This is nice. I gotta get one of these for myself.”

The vampire ripped out the hooks from his legs and growled. “Try again, you bloody faery.”

“You shouldn’t use foul language in front of a lady.” Tucking the Taser into a back pocket, the Fallen then held up a palm, fingers tight together, and pointed them toward the vampire. “You ready for this?”

“Ready for—”

The angel shoved his spaded fingers through the vampire’s chest, pulled him forward and slapped his spasming body onto the ground. A hot, meaty blood scent assaulted Cassandra’s nose. The angel roared in myriad tongues like he had in the car. And in one hand, he held a bloody mass from which a puddle of crimson rapidly formed around his boots.

“Mercy.” Cassandra’s knees wobbled. She was on the verge of hypothermia, too out of sorts, and she’d just watched an angel rip out a vampire’s heart.

“Too bad there aren’t any witches in the area,” the warrior angel commented to the blubbering vamp. “I know they have a use for vampire hearts. Keeps them immortal.”

The angel tossed the heart behind him, then made a gesture with his fingers that sent the vampire, seemingly weightless as a pillow, onto the garbage bin atop the other attacker.

He bent and plunged his bloody hand into the snow to clean it off, and Cassandra noticed the flesh on his back was seamless. No sign wings had been there. It was broad and burnished from the sun and it would probably warm her if she clung to him….

Just need heat.

“Shall we?” Sam offered an arm, glistening with fresh-fallen snow and vampire blood. “I don’t think these two are the sort you should be spending your time with, honey.”

“D-don’t honey me.”

“It is a mortal endearment. You prefer sweetie? Perhaps mein little cupcake?”

“Please, spare me your pitiful attempts at charm.” Cassandra stumbled past him, but turned and grabbed the Taser from his back pocket. “Give me that. It’s mine.”

The angel slapped a hand to her wrist, easily winning the weapon from her frozen grasp. He tilted the stubby barrel against his shoulder and eyed her calmly. “Take it from me, and it’s yours. Cupcake.”

Like that was possible.

And what was with the endearments? If he thought to win her over, the guy needed to take off and never return.

Cassandra turned and marched away from the one man on earth she knew wanted to do her harm. And it wouldn’t be by chance, like the two idiots piled on top of each other at the end of the alley.

Sam hooked an arm in hers and walked her swiftly down the snowy street. Cassandra struggled to keep up. All parts of her felt heavy and burned, but the sight of the mangled car made her pause. Cut open and the steel carapace peeled back, it looked as if someone had taken a giant can opener to it. “You think that looks bad, you weren’t the one trying to get it off your wings,” the angel said. “Clever trick, though.”

“The T-Taser is mine.”

“I’ll keep a hand on it for a bit.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“To your home. You need to get supplies.”

“F-for what?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, Cassandra, vampires are after you.”

“As well as a Fallen angel!”

“I’m not after you. I’ve already found you, dear one. The vampires, on the other hand, are on the hunt for muses. I’m sure you’ve plenty more weapons at your home, and probably some nasty angel spells, too, eh?”

“Spells that’ll repel you from me. If you think we’re going t-to g-get busy—”

“I’ve already explained I’ve no intent to harm you. Convincing you will have to wait. You’re shivering madly. Your skin is colder than mine. Frostbite is a real danger. I won’t have that.”

“You’d pass up a ch-chance to nab some nasty vamps to get me warm?”

His eyes grabbed her the moment they connected. Cassandra could not resist the warmth in them, the utter dazzle of colors. Did he possess some kind of mind control? Some means to see into her thoughts? Transfixed, she swallowed.

“I would do anything you ask, Cassandra.”

“Anything? Then let go of me. I can walk myself.”

“You can barely stand.” He lifted her into his arms, and the thought to struggle did not come to her fuzzy mind. “I can find your home.”

“Can you read my thoughts?”

“Now that I’ve you in my arms, I can read your heat trail.”

That sounded nifty, but she didn’t say so as he marched her south. She allowed him to do so because she wasn’t thinking straight and she needed to conserve her energy so she could think once she got home.

“So … you’re S-Sam?” My Sam, she thought. Then she mentally kicked herself. Hard.

“You know much. I had expected you would initially be quite surprised by me.”

“My Granny Stevens taught me everything she knew about angels and demons and me being a muse,” she said.

They turned west. Her apartment was just up the street. She was not leading him, but her shivering limbs homed on it like a beacon and he probably sensed that.

“You know angel names?”

Time to shut up. If he wasn’t going to tell her his name again, it didn’t matter to her. As soon as she got home, she’d perform an angel repulsion spell and kick his ass back to the Ninth Void.

After she warmed up. Would she ever warm? Her blood had stopped moving, she felt sure. And her skin burned with frostbite.

“Samandiriel is my name,” he finally confirmed. “And please, release your worries regarding our connection. I Fell with a greater purpose than merely tupping mortal females.”

“Right. You’re holier than holy then? Tell me another one.”

“Have I tried to attempt you yet?”

“No, but you are taking me home. What are you going to do with me once we get there?”

“That’s up to you, Cassandra. It’s all up to you now.”

Sounded ominous, and like a cop-out. She couldn’t control anything but keeping her own ass safe. She’d done it for twenty-seven years. She had sacrificed a lot over the years. Intimate relationships, for one thing. It was always difficult explaining why she spent all her time studying angels and martial arts to a boyfriend who preferred her to focus on him.

For the same reasons, good friends also fell by the wayside.

But that sacrifice meant she was now prepared for the worst—doom. And doom had just come knocking.

Though she hadn’t been prepared for Sam’s conflicting behavior. He didn’t want to have sex with her? She’d been taught that was the Fallen’s principal purpose for walking earth.

Coco should leave for Berlin tomorrow with a pregnant muse in tow. Ophelia O’Malley hadn’t been so lucky avoiding her Fallen. Cassandra wasn’t sure what they could do for her, since she was but days from delivery.

Now that Sam had landed on earth she might have to call off the gathering of muses she’d convinced to join her. It wasn’t safe with a Fallen in Berlin. Right next to her, actually. Carrying her. Which her shivering limbs appreciated right now.

The best she could do was to kill Sam before Ophelia arrived.

That was a plan she had covered. Although it would come off much easier if he were not carrying a Taser and not seemingly able to read her mind. The man knew too much about her already.

“You l-learned the world after you were summoned?” she wondered.

“Yes, it’s an interesting place, I must say. I imagine the earth is a Sinistari’s pleasure dome.”

The Sinistari were demons forged specifically to slay the Fallen. She could really use one of them right now.

“So vampires summoned you?”

“I learned that truth from a vampiress who was in love with a halo hunter.”

Cassandra would not allow him to see her gulp. She knew exactly what couple he was talking about. She’d developed a network of muses and, as a result, others in the know, like halo hunters.

Sam marched her up a snowy path and kicked open the door to her building. “The vampires want you and me to get together much more than you or I do, trust me on that one.”

He set her inside and she stumbled forward, but hit the stairs at a run. It felt like a run, but was actually a laborious climb up four steps. Her limbs bent with great difficulty. Icy fingers didn’t properly grasp the iron railing.

He beat her to her apartment door. Cassandra huffed with exhaustion, stunned she hadn’t seen him pass her up. The angel flashed her his cocky grin, and—was that puppy-dog look admiration?

Wrong time; wrong guy. If only Marcus had been more romantic, she might have avoided this date with destiny.

Wrong, Cassandra. The angel would have found you. Be thankful Marcus hadn’t revealed a hero complex when that happened. Protect the innocents.

She leaned against the wall, thankful for the support. One thing she never minded about this building was that the landlord blasted the heat out into the central hallways. Already she felt melty and the tingling in her fingertips had stopped.

“My house keys are in the car. You owe me a car. I’m not rich, and I just paid that thing off.”

“You won’t need a car to do what we’ve to do.”

“I don’t need your help to stop the apocalypse, buddy.”

“I prefer your shortening of my name to Sam over some senseless nickname,” he offered. “And who said anything about the apocalypse? I want to slay the Fallen and annihilate the vampires. That’s far from end of days.”

“You really hate the Fallen, eh?”

“I do not subscribe to hate. I don’t know how. But I will do whatever is necessary to make things right.”

He didn’t know how to hate? Made sense in the greater spirit of angels and divine goodness, but the Fallen were not the good guys, so why couldn’t they hate?

He gripped the doorknob and twisted it hard. It splintered the wood around the lock and he opened it and walked inside. “Don’t worry, you won’t be returning.”

“Like hell I won’t. You are not the one who gets to tell me what to do,” she said, feeling her energy return in spurts of warmth rushing through her veins. “Why wouldn’t I return? This is my home.”

“Because as of right now, you are on the run.”

“Yeah?” Rubbing her hands together, Cassandra soaked the loft’s toasty warmth in through her pores. “Generally the person one runs from does not accompany them on that escape.”

“You’re not running from me.”

“Oh, right, the vampires. I forgot.”

She lived in a vast third-floor loft that stretched the building’s width. The highly glossed cement floors flashed with moonlight, and at the south end gray velvet furniture nestled before the floor-to-ceiling window. Tiny blue spotlights—she always left them on—in the ceiling tracks to her right lit the kitchen with what she’d always called an ethereal glow.

The angel strode about and sorted through her things, lifting the couch cushions and tugging open the drawers on the coffee table. He found the pistol in the coffee table and tucked it into the waistband of his pants, next to her Taser.

Shaking first her left foot then her right, Cassandra worked the blood back to her extremities. She wasn’t completely warm yet, and sensed her blazing cheeks may have developed a touch of frostbite.

Sam turned to her, too sexy in only leather pants and boots. In the midst of a winter storm, he had marched her home wearing nothing but that. Stunning.

His shoulder-length dark hair, scruffed this way and that, spoke more of the bed-tousled look than angry warrior. Muscles and, well—who could disregard those guns? And since when had a man accessorized with deadly weapons appealed to her? She liked danger, but not the sort that could kill.

“Where is the rest of your arsenal?”

“In the bedroom,” she offered sweetly.

He stalked down the hallway.

Cassandra made a beeline for the shelf of cookbooks above the stove. She pulled out the red leather-bound grimoire Granny had given her and paged to the spell designed to put a force field of white light around her to protect her from angels.

She found the dog-eared page and began to chant the Latin verse.

A hand slammed the book shut, pinching her fingers in it. An overbearingly sexy male leaned over her shoulder, whisking her bare back with the hard curve of his pectoral muscle. “No, sweetie. You don’t want to keep me at a distance.”

“I’m pretty sure I do.” Mostly. Yes, she did! “Back off, will you?”

“And what will you do when the vampires come? How will you protect yourself?”

“If you’d stop raiding my arsenal, I’d give ‘em what-for with a bullet to the brain.”

“Won’t kill a vampire. You need a wooden stake.”

“That’s Dracula movie stuff. The stake doesn’t need to be made of wood, and that’s definitely not the only way to kill a vampire. A bullet will slow a vamp down, and I’ve a machete to slice off their heads, and …”

And something special she wasn’t going to reveal to anyone. She had to keep at least one ace up her sleeve.

“That’ll probably do the job.” The angel slid a hand along her jaw, and when Cassandra thought he was feeling her skin, deciding if she were soft enough for him to have his way with her, he abruptly tipped up her chin. “You want a repulsion spell against me? I’ll give you a simple one. A means to put me back and give you space. You can use it if I ever feel the compulsion come upon me.”

“The compulsion?” She knew what he was talking about, but wanted to hear it from him.

“To have sex with you.”

She swore at the back of her throat and her body sank against the stove. Granny had explained all this and had made Cassandra and her sister repeat it until they’d known it by rote. But until now she’d never felt the implications of what it would be like to stand before the man who wanted to ruin her life.

Why must he be so handsome? And his eyes. All angels had kaleidoscope eyes, but she’d never imagined the mix of colors could be so utterly captivating. She didn’t want to run from him, she wanted to put her arms around him, and—no!

Snap out of it, Caz. The moment you start thinking you’re a muse—an object that an angel seeks to use—then you’ve lost the battle. You’re more than that. You are strong. You’ve trained for this!

“Listen, Cassandra.” He lifted her by the elbow to stand straight and she met his eyes. It was peaceful there. His voice soothed her too sweetly for a man she should fear. “The word is agothé. Try it.”

“Agothé.”

As if struck by an invisible force, the angel was slammed against the kitchen wall, his arms pinned out and his feet dangling above the cement floor. His bare chest, impossibly strapped with muscles of steel, heaved.

He smiled. “See?”

“How long does that work for?” She slunk along the counter, backing away from him.

“Not long.”

Not long was long enough for her.

Cassandra raced down the hallway and into her bedroom. Kicking off her wet boots, she grabbed a pair of black wool leggings and slipped them on. Pulling out of a drawer a thick red sweater she knew she was going to need to stay warm, she first put on a tank top, then yanked the sweater over her head and tugged it over her hips.

Because the angel was right. She couldn’t stick around here any longer. Not now that the Fallen knew it was her home.

Her computer flickered, and she grabbed the flash drive from the USB port. It was on a nylon lanyard, which she pulled over her head. Next important item was her rosary, which she slipped on next to the lanyard, then thought about it and tucked it under the sweater. Granny had given it to her; she didn’t want to lose it.

Another Taser from the bedside drawer she fit into her back pocket. The pocket-size Ruger she kept stuffed between the mattresses wasn’t there. The angel must have found it during his swift reconnaissance.

She ran out of the bedroom and slammed into a solid object. Her palms slapped against hard, muscled flesh. For a moment, she stared at his skin, nicely tanned and stretched like silk over steel. How could a body be so hard? And why did a flash of her tongue tracing between his nipples disturb her thoughts?

“Told you it only works a short while,” he offered with a wry grin.

She began to say the word again, but he pressed a palm over her mouth. “It was just for you to try. Hear me out before you turn the word into a Tourette’s tic.”

She nodded.

“What’s this?” He grabbed the flash drive and pulled it from the plastic cover.

“Nothing. Just important papers. Financial stuff, you know. If I’m not returning …”

Pushing her back into the bedroom, he inserted the USB in the computer drive, and Cassandra was so shocked at the angel’s actions she stumbled to sit on the bed. It was as if he knew her every secret. Or had been given a clue to finding each one. Could their sigils have something to do with that? She just didn’t know.

She averted her gaze to the silver angel posed on the dresser. The face resembled the live angel poised before the computer. Had she brought him to life by invoking him in silver?

She caught her head in her palms. The silver rings she wore reminded her of another time she’d tried to invoke danger. Would she never learn?

The monitor beeped, prompting her attention, and a list flashed on the screen. Sam turned and eyed her. “Financial stuff?”

“It’s just a list,” she murmured. “My grandmother gave it to me.”

“A list of all the Fallen ones’ names and … their sigils.” He whistled, impressed. “Honey, you do not want this to fall into vampire hands.”

“It’s not going to.”

“No, because I’ll make sure it doesn’t” He dragged the computer file to the trash.

Cassandra dove for the flash drive and tugged it out. He gripped her wrist. “Agothé!”

The angel was forced against the wall again, arms spread. He struggled futilely. “Fine! Keep it,” he said. “But you make sure it is erased from the computer and any other copies you have are destroyed. Your home will be searched, I can guarantee it.”

She thought about it. He seemed to know what was up in this whole war between the vampires, Fallen and muses. Double clicking the trash icon, she emptied it.

“Where’s the original?” he asked.

“I burned it after transferring it to the computer.”

“Don’t lie to me, Cassandra.”

“I’m not.”

Okay, so she was, but he didn’t need to know she had the original book and was still in the process of scanning all the pages into digital files. Granny had suggested she be very careful with the last page; it wasn’t to be scanned—ever.

She made a concerted effort not to look out the bedroom door to the bathroom as she grabbed the Taser and marched out, leaving him pinned to the wall next to her X-Files poster and the angel sculpture.

He met her in the living room poised casually near the couch, hands on his hips. How did he do that? It was as if he could move at supernatural speed—ah, yes. He had the ability to walk swiftly, hundreds of miles an hour. It is what he’d done to walk the world and gain knowledge. Because he couldn’t fly. Once an angel’s feet touched earth, they lost their divinity, and their.

Cassandra noticed the object hooked at his hip for the first time. “Your halo?”

She clamped a palm over her mouth. He had his own halo? But he should have lost that when Falling. It was a powerful weapon in the hands of its owner.

He tapped the circlet, and it clinked dully. “Found it in the halo hunter’s bag. It is mine.” He stroked the curved blade and it glowed as blue as Cassandra’s sigil had.

Despite her dread, an innate curiosity nudged to the surface of her mind, and Cassandra leaned toward the marvelous device. “Can I touch it?”

He snapped it against his chest. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not? You afraid I can use it? Mortals can’t kill angels.”

“In theory.”

Really? Well, that went a ways in answering a few of her questions. Perhaps a mortal could kill an angel; in fact, she knew that one had. He wasn’t about to hand over something she could use as a weapon against him. Smart angel.

“It holds your earthbound soul,” she stammered. “Why don’t you claim it? Then you don’t have to …” Hurt me, she couldn’t say.

“Don’t want it. When I’m finished here …” He looked aside, apparently unwilling to complete that statement.

So the angel had a few secrets of his own. Which meant he wasn’t entirely undefeatable. If the enemy had a secret, it was most certainly his greatest weakness.

“You ready to rock?”

“I’m not going anywhere with you. Where is a Sinistari demon when I need one?”

“You know more than I expected,” he said.

“What were your expectations? A stupid woman who would swoon at your feet and beg you to take her to bed?”

He smirked. “I am pleased you are not as you describe. Do you have a spell to summon the Sinistari?”

“I do.” Cassandra eyed the grimoire, lying open on the black granite kitchen counter.

The angel took it and the book sparked into flames. He held it until the flames began to lick at his flesh, then dropped it in the sink.

“Now you don’t. So here’s the plan. We will go after the vampires. Kill them all. That’ll take care of their interference. And if we encounter any Fallen along the way, we’ll take those out, too. That’s what this will come in handy for.” He tapped the halo.

“And why do I need to come along? Wouldn’t it be safer if you tucked me away somewhere?”

“I need to protect you. I can’t do that unless you’re with me. You’ve already seen what can happen if you go off on your own.”

“That was a coincidence. They intended to rob me—”

“Oh, really? And since when are vampires more interested in robbing than biting?” He lifted a querying brow. “This will be dangerous for you. Are you willing to risk everything, Cassandra?”

“For what? To save the world? To end some kind of apocalypse?”

“It’s not the apocalypse, but it is the beginning of a very dark time. Should the vampires succeed in breeding more nephilim—I am aware one is soon to be born, and nothing good can come of that—something very akin to the end times could result. We’ll need stakes.”

“What about the Sinistari?”

“What about those metal-brained misfits of angeldom?”

“A Sinistari can kill you, thus ending your grand plans to save the world.”

“You put your faith on the wrong side, Cassandra.”

“I don’t believe in faith.”

“Ah? You do have faith—you just don’t want to believe in yourself.”

“I suppose an angel would say something like that. Sort of your creed, eh? If it works for you. But it doesn’t work for me.”

“Please.” He extended a hand. “Trust me?”

She shook her head and took a step away from him. “I trust no one.”

“Your grandmother teach you that? Smart old lady.”

“She’d kick your ass if she was still alive. She was black belt karate and a judo master.”

“Impressive. I’m guessing she taught you that defense jazz you attempted against the vampires?”

Cassandra nodded.

“I have those skills and more. The strength of a dozen mortal men, surely. Can you at least agree I may have the ability to protect you?”

“You may. But I’m not sure I wouldn’t be safer hitching the train to Siberia.”

“The Fallen walk all parts of the world. You know about them seeking their muses. If the Fallen has attempted his muse, then he goes on to the next muse, and the next. Which means not only are the vampires pursuing you, but also frustrated Fallen.”

Again he extended his hand.

Danger? She was all for it. But she worked alone.

Cassandra made to slap her palm onto his, but instead, she shoved him toward the center of the living room and recited the ancient spell, “Letencious! Tricurcious!”

A triumvirate of angel sigils drawn with invisible ink on the wall behind the television, the front door and the wall in the kitchen connected, trapping the angel in the center of the living room.

Sam slammed a fist against the invisible wall. A kick of his boot proved as ineffective. “Oh, this is rich. You think you can keep me in here while you go play with the vampires?”

“I’m not going near the bloodsuckers.” Cassandra stuffed her feet into knee-high boots lined in fur that she kept by the door, then scrounged for her leather gloves, which should be in the drawer at the end of the kitchen counter. “And you’re not coming along to protect me.”

“Don’t do this,” he said calmly, so quietly she paused and looked at the icon of a man who stood trapped but inches away. “Cassandra, please.”

“Don’t use my name,” she said. “You have no power over me!”

“Cassandra Stevens, muse mine. We have been bonded since the beginning. Since before you were born.” He rubbed a palm over his bare chest. “Do you think this is easy for me? To deny the compulsion?”

“You said you didn’t feel it unless you were in half form. Easy, or not easy, don’t you think it’s safer for me to keep you under lock and key? What if this compulsion does hit you? Will you be able to stop yourself from attacking me?”

“I hope so.”

“Hope? Oh, brother. More angel babble.”

“In this human form I am not a threat to you,” he protested.

“I know the drill, buddy. Only in half form—what the hell were your wings made from anyway?”

“Silver. Interesting, isn’t it,” he noted, with a nod to a silver plate on the wall, “that you are a silversmith?”

She lifted a brow. Manipulating the metal gave her a sense of control. It was the most natural thing when she crafted silver to her will.

“I didn’t pick the craft because of you.”

“I’d be surprised if you had. On the other hand, it makes perfect sense you’d choose silver. Let me out and I’ll show you some new tricks with the metal.”

“I’m not in the mood for creating tonight. It’s late, and I’m out of here. If you manage to escape, you can have the place. There’s food in the fridge. I’m not sure if angels eat.”

“Don’t go out on your own, Cassandra! “

She opened the front door to a black metallic creature with horns and glowing red eyes.

Chapter 3

Cassandra stumbled away from the demon in the doorway, her thighs colliding with the couch. The thing gleamed like a polished black sports car—wearing armor. Its red eyes were the only part with color.

She made the obvious guess. “Sinistari?”

With a confirming nod, it said in a sepulchral voice, “I’ve come for the Fallen.”

She gestured with a shaky hand toward Sam, trapped in the center of the room. As if the demon couldn’t plainly see him.

Smarten up, Cassandra. It’s happening. Deal with it.

The demon stalked into the room, each footstep clanking metallic on the cement. The exposed flesh on its face, neck and hands appeared hematite, yet moved like muscle. Ebony horns curled at the side of its head, and it wore black armor over legs, arms and torso.

It was beautiful, and she wanted to touch it, to connect with the impossible—but she wasn’t stupid.

If she could inch toward the door …

“Release the wards,” the demon commanded.

Halfway to the door, Cassandra spun about. “You can’t get at it like that?”

“It?” Sam scoffed and crossed his arms. “I’m standing right here. I can hear you.”

“You won’t hear much after I’ve ripped your head from your neck,” the demon said on a toothy snarl. He had mastered menacing nicely.

Sam tutted an admonishment and shook his head at the demon. “Apparently,” he said, “you’re not up on angel-slaying techniques.”

“You’re supposed to protect me!” Cassandra cried.

The Sinistari swung a look toward her and snorted. “I am not charged with your protection, mortal female, only to slay this wicked one.”

Sam chuffed. “Me, wicked? Look who’s sporting the black metal like some kind of satanic death cult worshipper.”

“Satan has no dealings in our situation. I possess divinity,” the Sinistari hissed. “Unlike you.”

Sam shrugged, offering a dismissive splay of hands. “So my feet have touched mortal soil. So have yours.”

“Not before I was created,” the Sinistari corrected.

Cassandra knew the Sinistari had been forged from the Fallen. Twenty angels were caught as the original two hundred Fell and were made into something dark, dangerous and set only to the one task—slaying angels. While the Fallen had been imprisoned in the Ninth Void awaiting summons, the Sinistari lived Beneath. Cassandra had never imagined what the place was like, and now she didn’t have to because a part of it stood before her.

“This won’t even be a fight,” Sam taunted. “You can’t slay me unless I shift. And I don’t intend to do that again for a while.” He shrugged a bare shoulder, wincing. “Hurts like a bitch when I’m wearing mortal flesh.”

“You will shift if challenged,” the Sinistari answered confidently.

Cassandra had made it to the doorway, gripping the now-loose doorknob, when the Sinistari reached around and slapped her against the kitchen counter.

“Don’t touch her!” Sam roared. He beat his fists against the invisible walls. “Let me out, Cassandra. I will kill him for touching you!”

“Sweet,” she managed. “Commit murder for me?”

“Anything for you, cupcake. And I prefer the word smite over murder.”

She quirked an eyebrow. Was he joking or actually being serious? It was impossible to determine with him.

The Sinistari growled at her, exposing sharp teeth. On second assessment she decided it was ugly and not at all beautiful. But if he had it in for the Fallen, then she may be able to escape while the two engaged in battle.

Never one to shun opportunity, Cassandra spoke the reversal spell, then dodged to avoid Sam as his release sent him plunging forward.

The Fallen charged the demon. Metal clashed with solid muscle and might. They soared backward into the door, which splintered and spit out the tangled opponents into the hallway.

They exchanged punches that sounded like heavy sacks of sand hitting metal. Neither appeared the least injured, nor reacted with pain. They faced off before the door, spoiling Cassandra’s escape plans.

One of Sam’s fists missed the Sinistari’s face and knocked out a section of door frame.

Eyeing the Taser lying on the floor, Cassandra crawled out from behind the kitchen counter and grabbed it.

The demon kicked high, and his faltering equilibrium teetered him backward. Sam lunged and the twosome tumbled down the stairwell, damaging the plaster walls and bending the iron railing as they went at it, wrapped together in a death clutch.

But Sam had spoken correctly. The Sinistari, who possessed a blade capable of entering the Fallen’s glass heart, could only slay the angel if he was in winged, half form. She wasn’t sure why, but that was how it worked. So he was safe—

“Or not.”

Cassandra clasped the uppermost railing and watched as the angel shifted, releasing those deadly silver wings. The hallway was tight and his wings could not stretch out completely, but a full unfurl wasn’t required. He swung them as weapons toward the Sinistari.

The demon’s only purpose for walking this earth was to slay the Fallen. But from the looks of it, this angel slayer had met his match.

Thrusting high the hand that clutched the halo, Sam let out a deafening cry. Cassandra stumbled backward, slapping her palms to her ears and tucking her head against the wall. Sharp and piercing, the angelic cry heated her veins. She thought her blood would boil and bubble through her skin—

And then it stopped. And she heard nothing, only muffled thumping noises—her heart. The angel’s cry had affected her hearing.

Gripping the railing and pulling herself to a wobbly stand, she gasped, which succeeded in popping her ears and restoring some sound. A swirl of dark glitter fluttered about the shirtless angel. Arms extended out, wings stretched high along the wall and ceiling, the angel was bathed in the demon’s ashy remains. The halo dripped with black tar, the demon’s blood.

The angel had defended her honor. Go, Fallen one!

Yet Sam’s wings were out.

That shocking realization shifted her instincts to overdrive. She started for her loft then paused. That choice would trap her.

She raced down the hall to the door that led to the roof. Without stopping to see if Sam followed, she grabbed the stairwell door. With luck, he would be so enthralled by his kill she could slip away unnoticed.

Samandiriel shook off the demon ash from his arms and with a flick of the halo to shed the demon blood, he replaced it at his hip. He toed the pile of ash.

“I was quicker,” he muttered. “But you gave good fight. Rest peacefully, brother.”

Briefly, he wondered if the soul bringer would arrive for this one, but wasn’t sure if the Sinistari possessed a soul. If he had indeed Fallen the same time as he had, that meant the Sinistari’s halo had fallen away, too. He did not possess a soul. And Sam knew for certain the demon did not hold souls captive in his heart, as he did.

That was a hazard of teaching mortals the craft of silversmithing. An act he could hardly regret, even if those souls had been imprisoned inside him for countless millennia, never allowed to move on to either Above or Beneath.

Stretching back his shoulders, he worked his wings along the walls until he found a comfortable position for them. He’d not intended to bring them out, but seeing the Sinistari shove the muse had bruised his resolve. The wings felt heavier while here on earth. Or perhaps it was that weaker mortal flesh and bone could never serve him as well as he required.

The slayer was dead—just punishment, after his cruel treatment of the muse—but Sam bowed his head in reverence for his Fallen brother.

Footsteps scampered nearby, and Sam glanced up to see a pair of boots, attached to a very desirable female, swing around a corner and up a stairway.

“The muse.”

He caught a whiff of her luscious perfume. Mint entwined with vanilla spice. The scent permeated his pores and swirled within his being, winding deep into his core. Want emerged as a powerful burst of desire.

He wanted to taste the muse. To wrap his hands about her soft skin and pull her close to his body. To experience the pleasures only she could give him. For the Fallen could experience pleasure only with his muse; no common, mortal female would serve.

Inhaling, he drowned his senses with her teasing scent, spritzed over skin the color of crushed cacao. He wavered, slapping a palm to the wall to steady his dizzied senses.

This is what you Fell for. Take her. Receive the mortal flesh.

“Must … have.”

Darting up the stairs, his wings dragged along the ceiling, cutting a jagged line in the plaster. He rounded the corner and sighted the boots again. Jumping the steps, he pounced onto the square landing between the two levels of stairs and swept up a wing to block the muse from running higher.

She screamed and punched at his jaw and chest, delivering a random yet skilled defense that made him chuckle.

The sigil at her wrist glowed brightly, and he knew his own did as well for it flared hot at his hip. He moved in closely, trapping her against the rough cinder-block wall. The Taser dropped to the floor.

Her brown eyes grew wide and fearful. She tried an open-palmed punch with her free hand and landed it sharply on his chin. He smirked and slammed a wing tip aside her body, pinning her in on the left. And with his other wing, he coved her into a cozy trap.

“This is not you, Sam! It’s the compulsion.”

Silly chit. She thought to know his nature? He desired her, and he would have her.

Flicking a single silver feather under her chin, he savored the soft heat there. The muse’s heady scent filled his pores. He read her nervous fear, and it heightened the desire with a dangerous twist. Truly, the Fall—and his resulting imprisonment—had been worth the sacrifice for this moment.

“Agothé!”

His shoulders jerked back, his spine following. Forced away from the muse’s teasing flood of desire, he was slammed against the ceiling, wings bending painfully along the walls to fit into the small stairwell.

The muse took off up the stairs, while he struggled for release.

That damned spell! Why had he given it to her? In full human form his brain had apparently favored the muse’s safety over his desires.

He flexed his feeble mortal muscles, but it was as if he were glued to the wall and could only wiggle the very ends of his wing tips. “Curse it all!”

Grunting and struggling, he decided if he shifted to human form completely perhaps he could loosen from the spell’s hold faster. The shift liquefied his wings and shimmered them to particles that segued to nothing. His shoulders pulled away from the ceiling, tearing out the plaster in chunks—and he dropped to land on his knees and palms.

Blinking, Samandiriel gasped in breath. He needed to breathe like the mortals, and it startled him at how difficult it was at this moment.

Why had he chosen this punishment? Walking earth? It could never match the paradise Above offered. Had his passion been so unrelenting? Or had he merely joined the pact with his brothers out of common need to belong?

We had only wanted what He gave man.

A bit out of sorts, Sam searched his recent memory to piece together why he knelt in the stairwell. A glint of black demon ash floating through the air reminded him he’d just slain a Sinistari. Over a woman.

“Cassandra.” He’d held her against the wall. Had desired her so strongly. “No, I did not. I could not.”

He scanned down the stairs. If his heart could beat, it would thunder right now because he feared what he may have done to her. He’d never wanted to scare her, to make her feel fear.

He raced up the stairs and kicked open the roof door.

Snowflakes bruised his cheeks and eyelids as they swirled and shifted in the conflicting winds. Across the roof, the muse stood at the edge, looking down, her arms stretched out for balance. Her boots stepped closer to the sky….

“Cassandra, no!”

At her side in an instant, he clasped her into his arms to keep her from jumping. The delicious warmth of her burnished his cold heart.

Saved her. Don’t want to lose her.

She struggled and kicked. He didn’t want to release her, but her scream registered the same scream he’d heard when he’d been in half form. She’d been utterly frightened then.

Humiliated by his own uncontrollable impulse, he released her and stepped away, slapping his arms across his chest. “I’m sorry, Cassandra. That wasn’t me back there. Please, you must realize that.”

She slunk down against the cinder-block border edging the roof, nodding profusely but not looking at him. She tucked her head into her palms. “I know. But you scared the crap out of me.”

“Is that reason to jump? To end it all?”

“There’s a huge snow pile from plowing out the parking lot below. I’d have landed safely.”

“I see. It still saddens me that I frightened you. What can I do to earn your forgiveness? Tell me, please, and I’ll do it.”

Cassandra, gasping and hugging herself against the cold, bent forward, long strands of hair and ribbon spilling over her face. She put up a hand to keep him away, and he respected the silent yet shaming request.

She’d just witnessed a Fallen one slay a Sinistari. Quite a lot for a mortal to take in, even one trained to expect just that thing. What, you think the vampire heart didn’t scare her?

“Oh, Sam.” Her tiny voice filled his vision with soft violet waves the color of bright summer fields. “This is all a bit crazy. I’m sure I’m not thinking right, but … bloody hell.”

She lunged forward, slipping her arms over his shoulders and hugging him tightly. “You’re the one person in this world I should stay away from, yet at the same time I want to remain next to you. It’s like I feel a compulsion of my own. It scares me.”

“Don’t be frightened.” She felt so good pressed against his bare chest. So real. “You’re strong. Trust your instincts.”

“But my screwed-up instincts tell me we need to stay together.”

“To accomplish what I’ve set out to do.”

She nodded against his neck and shivered. “Kill the Fallen.”

“And vampires, too.”

“The Sinistari were not part of your plan.”

“They are expected. When a Fallen walks the earth a Sinistari is dispatched. I don’t believe that’s the last we’ll encounter. Let’s get you inside to warm up.” He lifted her into his arms, and she allowed it.

“The way you looked at me,” she said. “It was …”

“I know. Do you have a spell against horny angels?”

She smirked and shook her head. “Just the one that traps you between wards I’ve placed in my home. But, Sam …?”

He stepped inside the stairwell and brushed aside the hair from her eyes. It felt like fine silk, too valuable to set a price to. “What is it?”

“If you did have sex with me while you were in that … form …” She winced and flashed a teary gaze at him. “Well, you know, would you try not to hurt me?”

“I will never hurt you. I vow it, because I will not again shift in your presence, demon or no demon.”

And that was all he could give her, because he didn’t know the truth himself.

Would spending more time with Cassandra build on the violent compulsion to attempt her? He must strive to remain true to his word. If he sensed the compulsion coming on, he would sooner take his own life than harm her. Yet who would save the world then?

And beyond the world, all he really wanted was to leave it and get back home.