Death Sword. Pamela Turner

      “Fail this assignment and don’t bother coming back.”

      Xariel grasped the handle of his concealed dagger, recalling Metatron’s warning. Why did Karla Black interest his superior? Orders to kill then revive her ran counter to Xariel’s normal duties. Karla’s dossier indicated nothing remarkable except heterochromia iridium. A recent headshot sent to Xariel’s email revealed a pale oval face framed by a cinnamon bob cut so it angled along her jaw. Most noteworthy, though, were Karla’s eyes. One was cobalt, the other, emerald.

      He inhaled a drag from his cigarette, flipped the butt over the rail and watched it disappear beneath the choppy waters of the Ohio River. Back to work. Concentrating, he locked his internal radar on her position. Third and Market. He’d finish this assignment, return home to his Courier-Journal and Crown Royal.

      Thank Seraphim cold, damp temperatures kept people away from Riverfront Plaza tonight. No one to witness him teleport.

      Xariel closed his eyes. Seconds later, he appeared behind Karla, shoes making no sound on the concrete. She shifted from one foot to another, her calf-high PVC boots drawing his attention to the short denim skirt she tugged down over black tights. Eyes focused on the don’t walk sign, she muttered an impatient expletive.

      Was she a street walker? He didn’t recall reading so in her file, only that she worked as a barista at a local coffee shop. At least she had sense enough to wear a short wool jacket against the damp chill permeating downtown Louisville.

      Before Karla registered his appearance, he grabbed her from behind, slapping a hand over her mouth. She struggled to jerk free. One stiletto-booted heel kicked back, aimed for his instep. Xariel dodged and dragged her into a nearby alley, ignoring the muffled cries vibrating against his hand. There, he focused on setting up a temporary barrier. He couldn’t risk her escaping, not after Metatron’s warning.

      The force field wouldn’t last long. Xariel shoved Karla back against the brick facade of an office building. He pulled out his dagger, plunging it into her stomach. Her eyes, narrowed in anger, widened in shock as blood drained from her face.

      Xariel withdrew the knife, blood dripping down the blade. Karla slumped to the tarmac. He watched her soul, a wispy tendril indiscernible to the human eye, slip through her slack mouth.

      He unscrewed the dagger handle and directed her soul into the hollow recess. Although he’d only a short time, he needed to be methodical, cautious. Move too fast and a fragment of psyche might escape. She’d be damaged, worthless.

      Satisfied no essence remained, Xariel sealed the dagger and invoked the prayer Metatron had taught him.

      He pierced Karla again in the same place, willing her soul to reenter her body and the wound to heal. She remained unresponsive.

      Xariel drew a sharp breath. Failure? Shit. Metatron would have his head.

      Agonizing seconds passed. Karla moaned, clutching her stomach. She winced, features twisted in pain. Blood oozed between clasped fingers, dripping down her black cable knit sweater.

      Less than a minute later, the bleeding stopped. Xariel whistled, surprised. Damn, she healed fast. Definitely not an ordinary human.

      Karla glared at him, a streetlamp illuminating her ashen face. “You nearly killed me.” Her breath condensed in the air.

      Xariel shrugged. “Correction. I did.” He swiped his handkerchief over the dagger, slipping both into an inner pocket of his suit coat.

      “Why you–”

      Karla lunged at him but her boots, designed for style over function, betrayed her. She stumbled against him. Xariel grabbed her arm, twisted it behind her back, and forced her about-face.

      She cursed and kicked at his shin. He stepped aside and wrenched her arm a little farther up her back. She struggled in his tight hold, but couldn’t free herself.

      Annoyed, Xariel pushed her face-forward against the brick. Energetic little vixen. This close, the seductive aroma of jasmine and rose perfume threatened to distract him, the fragrance reminding him of another young woman who had worn a similar scent. He shook his head, pushing the memory aside. Business first. He needed to focus.

      Satisfied she was subdued, he whispered, “Don’t move.” Again, her scent threatened to overwhelm him. He forced himself to remember she was a job, nothing more. Soon he’d be rid of her.

      Their eyes met, hers smoldering with an underlying hatred. He shrugged. Some people welcomed his presence, others shunned him.

      “What do you want?” Karla balled her hands into fists at her sides. Xariel ignored her false bravado. The furious pumping of her heart and slight hitch in her breathing betrayed her.

      “You.”

      Xariel released her. Karla glared at him and started to walk away.

      She didn’t get far.

      “What the fuck?” Karla shoved her palms against the invisible wall. It refused to yield. She reeled on Xariel. “Is this some kind of fucking joke? Let me out of here.”

      He shook his head. “Sorry, but no.” Apparently when it came to a fight-or-flight reaction to stress, Karla chose the former. She couldn’t run or scream for help, not while the barrier held.

      “Who are you?”

      “Xariel, Karla Black.”

      “How’d you–” She shook her head. “Never mind.” Fist pressed against a cocked hip, she studied him, eyes defiant. “You’re a charlatan. Miranda set me up.”

      Xariel frowned, but Karla ignored him. She pulled a cellphone from her coat pocket. “Guess I’ll tell her I’m not coming.”

      “Where?”

      “Glasstopia.”

      “That new dance club on Fourth Street Live? What occasion?”

      “My birthday.” She jabbed an accusing finger at him. “Which you ruined.”

      Xariel nodded. Touché. He didn’t blame her outburst but bristled at