Michele Hauf - Angel Slayer

“No,” he replied. Because whatever she thought she knew was wrong.

“Then you’re the first who is not troubled by it,” she said, joining him. “I’ve been dreaming about angels all my life.”

He turned to find her gazing out the window, a small smile curving her lips.

“I’ve been waiting for something like this to happen,” she said. “To finally have proof. To know that what I know is not delusional.”

Ashur sighed. Though he’d no protocol on how to interact with the muse, he did not think lying or avoiding the situation wisest. She needed to know the facts—which were undoubtedly far from her idea of the truth.

“Proof? Is that so?”

“Yes,” she said on a wondrous hush.

“Well, let me tell you about the Fallen. They once walked the earth, yet were removed many millennia ago, during Noah’s flood. Recently, though, Fallen ones have been conjured by ceremonial magic. Others are investigating who is behind the conjuring. That is not my concern. So now Fallen walk the earth, their mission renewed as they seek their muse.”

“I’ve read the book of Enoch. It’s about the angels called the Watchers, or Grigori, falling.”

“Was that book chosen to be included in the Bible? I’ve not been around since Constantine’s time.”

Fascination brightened her eyes. Ashur wondered briefly if they had color.

“No,” she answered, “that book was suppressed in the middle ages, and ruled fantasy. Pseudepigraphal. You’ve been alive that long?”

“Yes. But back to the Fallen. And you. You wear the sigil he seeks.”

“Seriously?” She stroked the skin near the mark on her forearm. “Numbers? What wiseass thought that one up?”

“Yours is the first number I’ve seen. They are symbols unique to the angelic dominions. It is a good means to locating a match.”

“And I’m that angel dude’s match?”

“You are a muse. Whether or not you are a match is something I do not know.”

“Well, if I’m not a match.”

“If the Fallen has already claimed his match, he can then seek other muses.”

“A muse. I thought muses were gorgeous women who inspired artists, and all that.”

“You inspire the Fallen to seek you.”

She leaned in the archway between the two rooms, tall and slender. The thin fabric shirt did little to conceal the gorgeous curves beneath. Curves Ashur assumed would feel exquisite to touch.

Touch? It teased at his memory. Her hand against his chest, clinging as they rode through the city. There was that want again.

And yet the desire was accompanied by a twinge across his back. Flesh-stripping ghosts of violence. A violence so dark and rending it had brought him, the Stealer of Souls, to his knees.

Inspecting the gash above her eyebrow with a finger, Six winced. That was enough to distract Ashur from his fall into wicked memory.

“I can heal that for you,” he offered.

“Really?”

He approached her, holding out his hand in offering. Surprisingly lacking in concern, she nodded and he placed it above her eye, not touching the flesh. The intense wave of her body heat pulsed against his palm. Mortal warmth. Another experience he had forgotten. An experience he’d had tortured out of him. Now he used that connection and focused his own inner healing salve to emanate outward. Within moments the cut healed.

She smoothed a finger over her brow. “Wow. You actually did it. And when you took the blade from me, and it flew through the air … You have powers. What are you?”

As new as the world was to him, he did know to keep some things to his chest. “If it is important to label me, then you may call me angel slayer.”

She lifted a beautifully arched brow. Ashur turned toward the view again. He should not waste time admiring her beauty.

“A slayer. Of angels?” She exhaled, and her breath touched Ashur’s black heart. He suppressed a shiver. “That’s sort of sad.”

He tilted a curious look to her. No, her breath hadn’t touched his heart. That organ was hard and black and impervious to everything.

“I mean, well, first reaction is it’s sad,” she said, unaware of his struggles. “But like I said, I know about angels. They’re not all fluffy and full of grace. The fallen ones are downright evil. I suppose someone has to take care of the bad ones.”

“The Fallen are lacking in grace and compassion. It’s dangerous to have a soulless angel walking the earth,” he said. “They have little concern for their actions, and are focused only on finding their muse. I am surprised you say you wish to speak to one.”

“That might have been my excitement talking. He really wants to find me? What for?”

“Now that the Fallen one has been conjured, it resumes its original intention upon falling. I am not familiar with how many millennia have passed since the original fall. Then, two hundred angels fell to earth to mate with human females.”

“I’m familiar with that story.”

“It seeks its muse.”

“That’s the part I’m not familiar with.”

“Once the Fallen finds his muse, he will mate with her in hopes of creating a nephilim. They are carnivorous, blood-hungry giants. It’s the beginning to a plague of dark divinity. You, Six, are to give birth to the end of the world as you know it.”

“Is that all?” She forced a chuckle, but he sensed it was just that: a constructed means to temper the shock. He was quickly learning her emotions. He wasn’t sure if it was because he’d spent so much time with her already, or if he were taking on the world’s feelings.

“Have an angel’s baby?” Six’s eyelids fluttered. “I, uh, I think I need to sit down.”

Halfway to the plush, cushioned chair placed before a marble hearth, she wobbled. Ashur crossed the room and caught her as she fainted.

Standing with her fey weight draping his arms, he again felt the tap at his black heart. It was more than a squeeze. This time it felt as though the hardened muscle actually pulsed.

That wasn’t supposed to happen. Had to be the souls trapped within his heart. On occasion they made their presence known to him.

He should ditch the muse and seek the Fallen one. Thing was, keeping her close to him was the best way to lure Zaqiel to him. But no Fallen would approach a Sinistari willingly.

How to bait this trap?

Eden came to with a start. She sat up on a delicately crocheted bedspread. Her bed. The iron lamp curved to resemble a lotus flower on the nightstand glowed over her stack of artist’s color charts. “How’d I get here? Who—?”

Reality rushed upon her like a tsunami wave and she toppled against the pillow, but this time she didn’t faint—because a man stood in her bedroom doorway. Tall, dark and confused, he was the most appealing thing she’d seen in months.

“You fainted,” he offered.

“No kidding? Whew!” Eden sat up and smoothed down her shirt. “It’s been a day, hasn’t it? “ She glanced toward the floor-to-ceiling window, which looked out over Central Park. It was dark, yet the city’s innate glow beamed upward. The clock verified it was almost eleven. “How long have I been out?”

“A few hours. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“That was kind of you. After what I’ve been through—”

“It gave me time to walk the layout of your home.”

“Oh. So it wasn’t concern. You needed to case the joint. Find anything you want?”

“I have no intent to steal from you, my lady. Though I did find this in a kitchen drawer.” He waved a small stack of one-hundred-dollar bills before him. “I may need some cash while I’m here on earth. Mind if I take it?”

“You just said you don’t steal.”