Kitabı oku: «Ashes of Angels»
“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
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!
