Death's Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels (4 page)

Her heart had skipped, her cheeks had flushed, and her lips had actually grown fuller as blood rushed into them. Her eyes had become glassy and unfocused. Her breath had hitched. And Azrael lost a little of his sanity then and there at his brother’s wedding.

He’d never felt like this before. Not in his two thousand years on Earth—nor in the thousands upon thousands of years before that in the realm of angels. Never had he lost focus in this manner. He felt like he had the flu. But vampires didn’t get the flu. Archangels didn’t get the flu. The Angel of Death most certainly did not get the flu.

Azrael swore under his breath—and the mirror in front of him cracked beneath his palm, slicing into the skin of his hand. He blinked and slowly pulled away, straightening as he turned his hand over and gazed down at the welling red line across his palm. Even as he watched, it began to heal.

Azrael looked back up at the mirror and glared at the evidence of his rage. Lightning had indeed carved itself across the glass, a reflection of the storm that raged within him and was now breaking free.
Get control
, he told himself sternly. He was the most powerful vampire on Earth. If he couldn’t control his emotions, they would leak out in an incredibly destructive manner. Broken mirrors would be only the beginning.

He needed to think. He needed to plan. But Sophie Bryce was two hundred yards away, a walking, talking piece of the sun, and Azrael was losing it.

The lights in the men’s restroom began to flicker, and the shadows in the corners grew longer. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Thunder rolled in the distance. Again Azrael swore. He was fighting a losing battle. The image in the broken mirror reflected a tall, broad-shouldered man draped in stygian black, his sable hair framing a strikingly handsome face that was entirely too pale. Eyes that were entirely too bright.

And fangs that were entirely too long.

With a great amount of effort, Azrael forced his fangs to recede. He couldn’t get rid of them completely; his incisors would always be noticeably sharp and a touch longer than human canines. But with a good deal of concentration, he was able to make them look passable. This was a learned vampire ability; new vampires had to practice at it, and it could sometimes take years.

Azrael would know. When he had left his realm and traveled to Earth with his brothers two thousand years ago, something had happened to him. Michael’s theory was that what Azrael had done up until then as the Angel of Death somehow negatively influenced his material form on Earth. Unlike his brothers, Az had been transformed into some kind of supernatural monster.

At the time there was no name for what he was. The fangs, the nearly unquenchable hunger for blood, the new and horrid deadly aversion to the sun—these symptoms had never existed in a being until Azrael came along. He was the first vampire. He gave himself the name because it sounded right.

It took him months to learn to control the hunger inside. It had been a very painful period of time, and in the years since then, he had never forgotten the way it tore him up inside, shredding his soul like tissue paper. Now, every night as he awoke with the stars, he thanked fate that he no longer suffered. He still had to feed. It was necessary for the survival of a vampire that he ingest human blood every night. But his need had become a simple understanding of his physiology—and an acceptance of the same. He considered himself immensely fortunate and never took for granted the fact that he no longer craved and hungered the way he had in those horrid moments of vampiric inception.

But tonight . . .

Now, as Azrael stood in the men’s restroom outside of the castle, he was gripped by acidic, mind-numbing fear. Because he felt it again. It was the same driving kind of need—one that shoved every other thought or desire or inclination ruthlessly out of the way and threatened absolute subjugation. Only this time, it was focused. Directed.

He hungered. He craved like a madman. But what he craved and hungered for was Sophie Bryce.

His archess.

Chapter Two

“H
ey, Az? You in here?”

Azrael looked up from where he bent over the sink, his head down, his hands gripping the porcelain with dangerous strength. Michael slowed as he came through the restroom door and caught sight of him. The blond archangel took in Azrael’s bent form, saw the reddish glow to his gold eyes, and his expression became wary. “You okay?” he asked.

For the first time in what seemed like ages, Azrael didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure how to respond to his brother. Was he okay?

Not by a long shot.

He straightened and ran his tongue over his teeth. They were in check. “I’m fine.”

“You look hungry.”

Azrael went with it. “I am.” It certainly wasn’t a lie.

“You haven’t fed tonight?” Michael asked, his brow furrowed. If Azrael had bothered to read his brother’s mind at that point, he surely would have heard Michael thinking that it was Gabriel’s wedding—it was a big event—and that Az should have taken his meal before attending. Michael was right. And Az
had
fed before coming. He just hadn’t planned on the maid of honor being his archess.

“I guess it wasn’t enough,” he stated simply. His voice was as melodic as ever, but now it had a sharp edge to it.

Michael studied him closely and Azrael kept his features neutral. Michael had always more or less acted as the “leader” of the four brothers, and for good reason. He was good at leading because he was good at reading others. He didn’t need to be able to read Azrael’s mind to know that he was lying.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Michael asked calmly.

Azrael took a slow, deep breath and turned away from his brother to once more glance at his reflection in the mirror. He could have come clean in that moment. He could have told Michael about Sophie. But he didn’t, and there were a thousand reasons why.

Michael was the Old Man’s favorite. It was the main bone of contention between the brothers and Samael, the archangel they were consistently at odds with—Michael unwittingly usurping that particular throne. And yet, against all logic, Michael would be the last to find his archess. Why was that? If Az told him about Sophie, Michael would wonder if he’d done something wrong. How had he fallen out of the Old Man’s favor?

He would ask, and he would get no answers. The four of them had been involuntarily out of touch with the Old Man since their arrival on Earth. Michael would be left to speculate, and the notion would drive him nuts. That was bad enough. Az didn’t want his brother to suffer in such a manner.

To make things worse, Michael would grow antsy and distracted. At the moment, the former Warrior Archangel was a cop for the NYPD. He was understandably their best officer. He was an archangel, after all. Michael alone prevented more homicides and beatings and rapes than all the other members of the precinct combined. It wouldn’t be good for him to suddenly become distracted. How many humans would suffer for it?

Then again . . . the archesses were the reason the Four Favored were on Earth to begin with. It was for their mates—and not for the good of the human race—that Azrael and his brothers currently resided on the planet. Where did they draw the line between circumstance and responsibility?

Still, Michael’s current lack of an archess wasn’t Azrael’s only reason for remaining silent about Sophie.

While Az had been standing across from Sophie beside Gabriel and Juliette at the altar, he had dipped into his archess’s mind. He hadn’t been able to help himself. She was three feet away—and he’d needed to be closer. He couldn’t touch her. He couldn’t kiss her. He couldn’t step forward, wrap her in his dark embrace, and take her to the skies.

So he’d settled for allowing his mind to touch hers instead. At once, the difference between her mind and those of other humans was staggeringly clear. The spirit of an archess was almost painfully complex and bright; like ninety trillion fiberglass lights woven in and out and over and through in a labyrinth of thought and possibility. Unlike sweeping up the dust-mote thoughts of humans, reading an archess or archangel mind took concentration.

Sophie’s was even more complex than the others. At first, Azrael hadn’t understood why. He’d simply been silently astounded by the impossibly intricate networking of her brain. But as he stood there and tuned the vicar out and concentrated on Sophie, he’d become more clear as to why she posed such a puzzle.

Her surface thoughts made his body come alive with something he’d never felt before. During his existence, he’d experienced pain, yes. He’d felt hunger and sadness, hopelessness and despair. He’d even felt the serenity of resignation that came with the knowledge that these things were a part of life—and in his case would go on forever.

Then he heard Sophie’s words to herself
. He has an archess out there, Soph. You can’t have him, no matter how freaking hot he and his long black hair and gold eyes and insanely gorgeous voice are.
At the sound of those softly whispered mental words, Azrael had felt something entirely new. It was a tingly sensation combined with a horrid restlessness that bordered on severe anxiety. It was anticipation. It was happiness. It was hope.

Sophie Bryce was
into
him. He had almost laughed aloud at the realization. It was an incredibly modern endearment and it was such an understatement of a sentiment when compared with the astounding importance of the situation. But that was what had gone through his head nonetheless. And it was something.

However, once Azrael finished relishing the magic of her surface thoughts and began delving deeper, his tingly jubilation was smothered in a blanket of confusion. She was light and warmth on top—and shadows underneath. Sophie hadn’t led the easiest life. Her parents had been killed in a car accident when she was six years old. She went from foster home to foster home, each worse than the one before.

It was as if the archess were cursed. She was surrounded by abuse and death, and with each passing year under these circumstances, her mind had woven more mazes for her to get lost in. Ways for her to forget.

There were bits of her past, in fact, that even
he
couldn’t reach. Not easily, anyway. He was the Angel of Death and the oldest, most powerful vampire in the world. He could have ripped the memories from her if he’d chosen to, but she would know he was doing it and she would experience them again herself. She would remember things that her mind had obviously wanted her to forget. Azrael wouldn’t do such a thing to a normal human being. There was no way in hell he would do it to his archess.

He had taken a mental step back and reined himself in. If she had secrets, he would let her keep them—for now. He’d gleaned enough anyway. He knew now that she had been through so much suffering in her young life, she was officially afraid of the human race, no matter how tough she pretended to be.

Sophie was unnaturally attractive, and that attractiveness had earned her various unpleasant attacks from foster fathers and a few strangers. As a result, Sophie didn’t date much. She wasn’t physically “innocent,” but she was as spiritually innocent as they came.

She currently worked as a maid in a hotel due to a lack of higher education, but she longed to one day open her own dance studio where she could teach children. Children, she trusted. It was an inherent need of hers to surround herself with the happy childhoods that she herself had not been granted.

She had been wounded, and moving too quickly with her would only reopen those wounds.

If Azrael told Michael that Sophie was Az’s archess, Michael might intervene. He might do something that made Sophie aware of the situation. Michael didn’t like lies. He didn’t like secrets. He would come clean with Sophie—about everything—in an attempt to draw her immediately into the fold. He would tell her, point-blank, what she was and he would tell her what Az was; vampire and all.

Az didn’t want that. Not yet. He didn’t want to do anything that might scare her away.

Watching Uriel and Gabriel with their mates had been an educational experience. An archess had to grow to love her archangel unconditionally. She had to learn to trust him and had to give herself over to him completely. Sophie would never do that with Azrael if she was pushed. She was a rare bird, and just as delicate as one. She needed time.

This wasn’t going to be easy, and Azrael didn’t need anyone making it harder on him. For now, Michael didn’t have to know.

“It’s nothing,” he finally lied.

Michael stood there, a few feet away, in the men’s restroom and simply watched Azrael. Az reached out and brushed his brother’s mind. Michael was well aware that Az was lying. The good news was that Michael had his own ideas as to what was wrong. The blond archangel thought that Az might simply be jealous. He was wondering whether watching two of his brothers find their archesses was putting pressure on the former Angel of Death.

Fine
, Az thought.
Let him believe it.

Several more beats of quiet followed before Michael broke the silence by clearing his throat. “I have a favor to ask,” he said, changing the subject and letting the issue drop with practiced grace.

“Ask it,” Azrael replied.

“I want to bring McFarlan in on something that is going on in New York. It’s a rape case, but I think something non-human is involved. Randall’s expertise and talents would really come in handy.”

Randall McFarlan was one of the vampires Azrael had created over the last two thousand years. He was a wise man, an ex-cop, and had helped Michael on occasion in the past.

Azrael nodded, just once. It was a simple response, but his brother knew it well and was satisfied with it. “Thanks,” Michael said. “I know this isn’t really the right time or place, but it’s been on my mind and you’ve been out of reach.”

That was true. Az had been returning to the mansion only to sleep lately. His job as the Masked One was keeping him busy. And this case
had
been bothering Michael. Az had caught a few of his brother’s surface thoughts of late, and many of them were troubled by a serial rapist case that hinted at something supernatural.

Michael straightened, taking a quick breath. “Why don’t you go get something to eat and I’ll let Gabe know,” he said, changing the subject once again. He dropped his head a little and his gaze slipped to the floor. “And be careful,” he added. “The Adarians are still out there.”

Azrael considered that for a moment. The Adarians were a separate race of archangels who had caused nothing but trouble for them over the last few months due to the fact that their leader was hell-bent on getting his hands on an archess of his own. Michael was right. They were still out there and no one knew when or where they would strike next.

Az didn’t strictly need to feed again that night, but doing so might not only help him prepare in case the Adarians did attack, it would also strengthen his resolve and fortify his will where Sophie was concerned. He was going to have to take things one step at a time with her, and every little bit of strength he could come by would help him see this to fruition.

He turned to step past his brother, but Michael’s hand on his chest stopped him. Azrael was taller than Michael by an inch or so. He was taller than everyone. He looked down into Michael’s blue, blue eyes and waited.

“I’m here for you,” Michael told him. “You know that.”

Again, Azrael brushed his brother’s mind. Flashes of memories were assaulting the Warrior Archangel. He was remembering their first few horrible days on Earth. The pain he had endured on Azrael’s behalf had been much more immense than Az had been capable of appreciating. Michael had been there for him in those hellish moments. He always would be.

“I know,” Az admitted softly. Michael dropped his hand and Azrael waited a few more seconds before moving past him and through the door.

* * *

“Soph, there you are.”

Sophie turned from the view she had been lost in as Juliette stepped through the open archway of the castle ruins. “Wow, girl,” Sophie whispered. “Have I told you how awesome you look in that dress?”

“Only about a thousand times.” Juliette laughed.

“You’re gorgeous, Mrs. Archangel,” Sophie said, smiling broadly. She’d never seen Juliette so radiant. So happy. It made her already beautiful features glow with impossible perfection.

Juliette smiled and shrugged her shoulders shyly. “Thanks.” She bent, lifted the mass of her white wedding gown, and joined Sophie on the cliff’s edge. The wedding ceremony had taken place at night and the reception, also at Slains Castle, had gone on long into the evening hours. It was now very early morning and the threat of dawn lightened the smooth, eternal edge of the North Sea. The seagulls were already hard at work hunting for their food; their cries pierced the morning air along with the crashing of the waves against the black rocks below.

“I heard that Gabriel’s brothers actually bought Slains Castle for you,” Sophie said, unable to take her eyes off the view once more.

Juliette sighed happily beside her. “Can you believe it?” she asked softly. “I’m pretty sure this is the most beautiful place in the world. This—right here. And I get to wake up to it every morning.”

Sophie turned to face her best friend. “You deserve it, Jules. And as long as you invite me for a visit every summer, I’ll forgive you for moving out of the country.”

Once she said it, Sophie realized that the truth of the statement had been bothering her. It had been there, in the back of her mind, niggling at her. Ever since she’d heard that the castle was now Juliette’s, she’d known that it could mean only one thing. Juliette would leave the States and move to Scotland permanently. She loved the land of the thistle too much to do otherwise. Scotland was in Juliette’s blood.

Juliette gave Sophie a sidelong glance and then nodded. “I knew you would figure it out even before I did,” she said. “And you’re right. This is where I want to live.”

Sophie waited a few seconds and then said, “I guess it’s okay if I tell you, then.”

Juliette turned to fully face her. “Tell me what?”

Soph smiled what felt to her like an awkward smile. It was half happy and half extremely nervous. She’d been wanting to share this particular news with Juliette for weeks now, but Jules had been in Scotland and more or less incommunicado. And then she’d met an archangel—and things had gotten complicated, to say the least.