Ashes of Angels (5 page)

“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.

C
assandra 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.”