Ashes of Angels. Michele Hauf
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.
The Sinistari growled at her, exposing sharp teeth. On second assessment she decided it was ugly and not at all beautiful. But if he had it in for the Fallen, then she may be able to escape while the two engaged in battle.
Never one to shun opportunity, Cassandra spoke the reversal spell, then dodged to avoid Sam as his release sent him plunging forward.
The Fallen charged the demon. Metal clashed with solid muscle and might. They soared backward into the door, which splintered and spit out the tangled opponents into the hallway.
They exchanged punches that sounded like heavy sacks of sand hitting metal. Neither appeared the least injured, nor reacted with pain. They faced off before the door, spoiling Cassandra’s escape plans.
One of Sam’s fists missed the Sinistari’s face and knocked out a section of door frame.
Eyeing the Taser lying on the floor, Cassandra crawled out from behind the kitchen counter and grabbed it.
The demon kicked high, and his faltering equilibrium teetered him backward. Sam lunged and the twosome tumbled down the stairwell, damaging the plaster walls and bending the iron railing as they went at it, wrapped together in a death clutch.
But Sam had spoken correctly. The Sinistari, who possessed a blade capable of entering the Fallen’s glass heart, could only slay the angel if he was in winged, half form. She wasn’t sure why, but that was how it worked. So he was safe—
“Or not.”
Cassandra clasped the uppermost railing and watched as the angel shifted, releasing those deadly silver wings. The hallway was tight and his wings could not stretch out completely, but a full unfurl wasn’t required. He swung them as weapons toward the Sinistari.
The demon’s only purpose for walking this earth was to slay the Fallen. But from the looks of it, this angel slayer had met his match.
Thrusting high the hand that clutched the halo, Sam let out a deafening cry. Cassandra stumbled backward, slapping her palms to her ears and tucking her head against the wall. Sharp and piercing, the angelic cry heated her veins. She thought her blood would boil and bubble through her skin—
And then it stopped. And she heard nothing, only muffled thumping noises—her heart. The angel’s cry had affected her hearing.
Gripping the railing and pulling herself to a wobbly stand, she gasped, which succeeded in popping her ears and restoring some sound. A swirl of dark glitter fluttered about the shirtless angel. Arms extended out, wings stretched high along the wall and ceiling, the angel was bathed in the demon’s ashy remains. The halo dripped with black tar, the demon’s blood.
The angel had defended her honor. Go, Fallen one!
Yet Sam’s wings were out.
That shocking realization shifted her instincts to overdrive. She started for her loft then paused. That choice would trap her.
She raced down the hall to the door that led to the roof. Without stopping to see if Sam followed, she grabbed the stairwell door. With luck, he would be so enthralled by his kill she could slip away unnoticed.
Samandiriel shook off the demon ash from his arms and with a flick of the halo to shed the demon blood, he replaced it at his hip. He toed the pile of ash.
“I was quicker,” he muttered. “But you gave good fight. Rest peacefully, brother.”
Briefly, he wondered if the soul bringer would arrive for this one, but wasn’t sure if the Sinistari possessed a soul. If he had indeed Fallen the same time as he had, that meant the Sinistari’s halo had fallen away, too. He did not possess a soul. And Sam knew for certain the demon did not hold souls captive in his heart, as he did.
That was a hazard of teaching mortals the craft of silversmithing. An act he could hardly regret, even if those souls had been imprisoned inside him for countless millennia, never allowed to move on to either Above or Beneath.
Stretching back his shoulders, he worked his wings along the walls until he found a comfortable position for them. He’d not intended to bring them out, but seeing the Sinistari shove the muse had bruised his resolve. The wings felt heavier while here on earth. Or perhaps it was that weaker mortal flesh and bone could never serve him as well as he required.
The slayer was dead—just punishment, after his cruel treatment of the muse—but Sam bowed his head in reverence for his Fallen brother.
Footsteps scampered nearby, and Sam glanced up to see a pair of boots, attached to a very desirable female, swing around a corner and up a stairway.
“The muse.”
He caught a whiff of her luscious perfume. Mint entwined with vanilla spice. The scent permeated his pores and swirled within his being, winding deep into his core. Want emerged as a powerful burst of desire.
He wanted to taste the muse. To wrap his hands about her soft skin and pull her close to his body. To experience the pleasures only she could give him. For the Fallen could experience pleasure only with his muse; no common, mortal female would serve.
Inhaling, he drowned his senses with her teasing scent, spritzed over skin the color of crushed cacao. He wavered, slapping a palm to the wall to steady his dizzied senses.
This is what you Fell for. Take her. Receive the mortal flesh.
“Must … have.”
Darting up the stairs, his wings dragged along the ceiling, cutting a jagged line in the plaster. He rounded the corner and sighted the boots again. Jumping the steps, he pounced onto the square landing between the two levels of stairs and swept up a wing to block the muse from running higher.
She screamed and punched at his jaw and chest, delivering a random yet skilled defense that made him chuckle.
The sigil at her wrist glowed brightly, and he knew his own did as well for it flared hot at his hip. He moved in closely, trapping her against the rough cinder-block wall. The Taser dropped to the floor.
Her brown eyes grew wide and fearful. She tried an open-palmed punch with her free hand and landed it sharply on his chin. He smirked and slammed a wing tip aside her body, pinning her in on the left. And with his other wing, he coved her into a cozy trap.
“This is not you, Sam! It’s the compulsion.”
Silly chit. She thought to know his nature? He desired her, and he would have her.
Flicking a single silver feather under her chin, he savored the soft heat there. The muse’s heady scent filled his pores. He read her nervous fear, and it heightened the desire with a dangerous twist. Truly, the Fall—and his resulting imprisonment—had