Michele Hauf - Angel Slayer

The palette of sin the world offered had grown immeasurably since his last stay on earth.

In Las Vegas Ashur learned the pleasures of gambling. He stole a fine pair of sunglasses out of an Aston Martin in Madrid then took the car for a joyride. He inhaled opium in a dark, musty cave in Andalusia with the locals, and learned to fire an AK-47 at a wall of broken bottles outside a Palestinian army base.

Fast food in Berlin awakened his palate to the strangely tasty idea of processed food. Gluttony led him to a Chipotle restaurant three times during the night, each time in a different state. Man, did he love tacos.

He followed a diamond thief in Milan and snatched the prize for himself, then scattered the five-carat stones in the Atlantic Ocean as he crossed to Iceland.

He was Sinistari. Sin ran through his black blood.

He held the world within him now. He knew all.

By all that was sacrilege in the dark sea Beneath, the world had changed vastly. And that parts of it frightened even him was not a good feeling. The weapons were fascinating, but he could not condone putting them in the hands of children. And lust was always entertaining, but it became a sickness when viewed obsessively on the computer.

Among the evil though, yet walked goodness and integrity. Ashur was no creature of prayer, but a wish for world sanity came to his lips before he could question the unnatural concern.

He’d also gained the ability to form emotion. It wasn’t necessarily a boon to his mission, but it was unavoidable as he imbued his being with the human experience.

Ashur now saw some things in color instead of the bland grays he’d been experiencing. Not all of it, mostly the food (which he devoured) and the women’s clothing (which he desired; the women, not the clothing) and the material objects that fascinated him, such as sports cars and yachts and those fancy little iPods.

Music! How it had changed over the centuries. It was now a literal world compacted into each song. He enjoyed it all but especially the orchestral pieces and the stuff called heavy metal. Though how the little device worked puzzled him. He hadn’t the time to take one apart, but soon.

He’d acquired a pair of worn black jeans from a street seller in Paris because he liked the snug, comfortable fit. A woven long-sleeved shirt appealed to his burgeoning need for touch and to experience all the sensations of texture, weight and temperature against his skin. He retained the biker boots and black leather jacket.

Back at Six’s building, he approached her door and slid his palm over the carved wood surface. He recognized the artistic style of the carvings now: Art Nouveau. It had flourished at the end of the nineteenth century, as had absinthe, can-can and opium. Six’s entire apartment was decorated in the style. He admired craftsmanship.

Prepared to knock, he noticed the door was open a crack. He had learned mortals in the twenty-first century did not leave their doors open or unlocked. Something must be wrong.

He pushed the door inside and entered stealthily, pressing a shoulder to the wall as he scanned down the hallway. He didn’t sense Six, but something inside had a pulse.

Could Zaqiel be here? Angels and demons had no pulse, but Ashur could sense the Fallen’s presence in the vibrations that shuddered his rib cage when close to an angel, yes, even one fallen from His grace.

“Let him be here,” he muttered lowly. “Attempting his muse.”

Reaching behind his hip, he unclasped the leather sheath and drew out Dethnyht.

Slinking along the hallway wall, Ashur quickened his pace toward the bedroom.

Dethnyht was the only dagger capable of piercing an angel’s impermeable flesh. He would never brandish it against a mortal—too cataclysmic. The mere strength he wielded with his bare hands could overwhelm any human.

Kicking the bedroom door open, Ashur sprang inside, Dethnyht raised to strike.

A woman screamed and dropped a stack of bed linens from her arms. She pleaded with him in Spanish not to hurt her. She had a family. Dogs. Three children under the age of ten.

Quickly assessing her attire, Ashur decided she was the chambermaid.

He sheathed Dethnyht. “Is Six home? Er, the lady of the house?” She didn’t understand English, so he switched to Spanish, a language he had assimilated only hours earlier.

The maid clapped a palm over her rapidly rising and falling chest and nodded, explaining her mistress was at Starbucks.

“Starbucks?” He searched his newly gained knowl edge. “Coffee?”

“Yes, she will return soon,” she said. Then her tone changed remarkably, shedding the fear and taking on a curious edge. “You are her lover?”

“Does she have many?” he asked before he realized curiosity was not his mien. And yet, he waited for the answer with something he associated with anticipation.

The maid shrugged. “Not my business. You are the biggest, though.” Admiration beamed in her brown eyes. “Scared me. You must work out. You go out to the kitchen to wait. I need to finish this room.”

“Yes, the kitchen.” He was hungry again.

He closed the door behind him. No angel on the premises. Damn. He’d been itching to kill something.

Just as well. He’d not seen Six yet. And why all of a sudden did that matter? Did he want to spend time with her before slaughtering the Fallen and then dashing off to the next kill?

Ashur scuffed a palm over his short hair, which hadn’t seen a comb, and hallelujah for that. Drawing his fingers down his face, he shook his head. Gotta get his act together, as they said nowadays. Learning the world had put so many new things into his brain. He had to set his priorities straight.

Priority one: Lure Zaqiel to the muse.

Priority two: Kill the Fallen.

Priority three … There was no need for further tasks. As soon as Zaqiel was dispatched, Ashur would await further command.

Six stepped inside the front door and Ashur bounded up to meet her. He gripped her wrist and slammed her against the wall.

“Whoa, dude! I have hot coffee in my other hand.”

“I did not give you permission to leave.”

“I don’t need permission. I’m a big girl. Let me go.”

He followed her into the kitchen and pressed his palms onto the granite countertop. The cool stone beneath his flesh managed to chill his annoyance. And so did the white gadget near the sink, which he picked up to study.

She took out two paper cups from the bag. “You purchased coffee for me?” he asked her. “Why would you do that?”

“I knew you’d be back this morning, and it is the nice thing to do, isn’t it? Sharing.”

“Taking is much easier.”

She flashed him a death stare. “You’re not big on simple kindnesses are you, Mr. Slam-Them-Around?”

“I have little concern for niceties.” One twist and the gadget broke in two pieces.

“No kidding,” she said, taking the pieces from him with a curt tug. “I never could figure why Rosalie needed two garlic presses. But this one was her favorite.” She handed him the coffee but he refused.

“I don’t favor those commercially manufactured brews.”

“Seriously? You’re gone one night and all of a sudden you’ve become a connoisseur?”

“Apparently so.”

“I see.” She sipped the hot brew, and Ashur decided he did not like the smell of it. He preferred the freshly ground coffee beans from Peru he’d experienced while walking the world. “You look different. More … modern. Did you get a haircut?”

“No, but I did get it wet in the Peruvian rain forest, then the deserts of Egypt dried it out.”

“I like it. Spiky and tousled. Nice shades, too.”

He took the Ray-Bans from the top of his head and set them on the counter. “I acquired fine things while I was out.”