Michele Hauf - Ashes of Angels

“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.

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.