Angel Slayer. Michele Hauf
the angel’s glass heart.
Parking the motorbike, he pulled out the key, sensing he’d need it to restart the thing. He waited for the muse to slide off behind him. He could feel her head pressed against his back and her fingers didn’t so much dig into his chest as affix themselves to it.
Touch. He pressed a palm over her narrow fingers. Yes, he’d forgotten the pressure of another person’s flesh against his own. So odd how he could feel her warmth even through the shirt. It shimmered through him and—He must stop regarding the sensation.
“We’re here,” he said. “It is safe now.”
An easy lie. One thing he did remember was the muse was always frantic and inconsolable upon learning her fate—which was usually seconds before the Fallen attempted her. “My lady?”
“Huh? Oh.” She slid off and tugged at her torn skirt. It revealed so much of her fine, long legs, Ashur had to steel the sudden desire to stroke his thumb along her thigh. “Sorry. You were … nice to hold on to.”
Ashur lingered on her smile, knowing it was a distraction, but unable to resist.
He slid from the bike and tugged off the heavy leather jacket to offer to her. “Here. Your skirt is torn. This will cover your legs.” And keep his eyes from straying.
“It’s not torn.” She dashed a finger along the hem, which upon closer inspection didn’t look torn, rather straight, but it was above her knees. “You’ve never seen a miniskirt before?” She smirked. Somewhere she’d lost her shoes and she stepped on the balls of her feet. “Would you, um, give me back my blade?”
“Why?”
“It’s mine. And if you don’t, I’m going to scream.”
She sought a show of trust. Ashur handed her the blade, and she clasped it to her chest, yet not in defense. Foolish woman.
“Thank you. So, that man. He’s a real angel?”
Ashur detected a lightness in her tone that didn’t seem right after what she’d been through.
“I mean.” She absolutely beamed at him. “I’ve always wanted to see one. And everyone has always made me think I’m a nut for believing in them. But if he was the real thing I really need to know because that would mean I’m not crazy, and—”
“Yes,” Ashur blurted out, mostly to stop her from rambling. “Zaqiel is a real angel. A Fallen one.”
She sucked in the corner of her lip and her eyes flashed brightly. The shadows and shades of gray the world offered him shimmered about her and expanded into a brilliant aura of white. Something inside her wanted to explode, Ashur felt, yet she restrained it by tensing her muscles, and then she did a strange move by bending her arm up and pumping it once. A triumphant gesture?
“Come on,” she said, turning and rushing away from the parked motorbike. “I suppose I at least owe you a drink for saving my life. If you could call that a save. You coming?”
He followed her into a small box with doors that closed automatically behind him. The interior was lined with mirrors and a panel of blinking buttons. He recognized the numbers and assumed she knew what she was doing.
“You called this an angelkiss,” she said, stretching out her forearm.
“Yes, and don’t scratch it.” Not yet.
“And why did you lick it? Is that some kind of new pickup move I’m not keen on?”
“My saliva counteracts the angelkiss for a while, but it’s obviously wearing off if you are feeling the need to scratch. Whatever you do, Six, don’t scratch it. It acts as a beacon to Zaqiel. It is the only way he can track you and I’m not yet prepared to face him. I want you in a secure place first.”
“Right.”
He could sense her fear, but he also sensed her strange fascination. It put out a sweet odor that intrigued him. It had been so long since he had experienced the mortal condition. She was still traumatized. Her fingers shook minutely and she worried her lower lip. A pretty, thick lip that held his attention until the doors opened with an alarming ding.
“Did you call me Six?” she asked as she strode down a white marble hallway carved with elaborate designs. Steps bouncing, she appeared giddy. “What’s that about? I do have a name.”
“I don’t want to know your name.”
She glanced over her shoulder. Deep, dark eyes dusted by long lashes took him in. Ashur couldn’t determine if they had color; the world—which he knew should be in color—was revealed only in black, white and shades of gray to him. For now.
“Sounds kinky to me,” she said.
“Kinky?”
“Yeah, you—Sorry. It’s not every day I’m chased by an angel. Will we see him again?”
“Soon. Surely.” Ashur quickened his steps to join her before a door where she tapped in some numbers on a lighted panel. “Six.” He took her arm gently and turned it up to display the mark. The Roman numeral six sat on the surface of her skin, the color dark like her hair. “That is your sigil.”
“It’s a birthmark. It does kind of look like a six. But seriously, I’m not going to answer to a stupid number—”
He gripped the door as she pushed it in, stopping her abruptly. “Do not give me your birth name. Please. It is easier this way.”
“No commitment with fake names?” she asked. “Easier to walk away?”
“Trust me.”
“That’s a loaded statement. I distinctly recall you telling me to scratch this puppy to lure that man to us. How does using a woman to lure in a maniacal angel involve trust?”
She scanned his eyes for so long, Ashur had to look away, over her head and into the foyer. He’d never felt so noticed before. Easy enough when he’d just come from a long stint Beneath. It was as if she clutched her fingers about his black heart and actually squeezed the hard steel organ that kept myriads stolen souls locked away for eternity.
He was not accustomed to conversation or even the presence of another, yet he adjusted quickly. Acclimating to his surroundings was necessary to his task. But this closeness between them stirred something inside of him he’d long thought tortured out of him.
Women are dangerous.
He knew that, and yet he could not recall why. Were they not simply fine bed mates?
Tapping her lower lip with the blade, she captured Ashur’s attention, but he sensed her favor toward him had dissipated. “Maybe I don’t want you coming in.”
“But I must.”
“Must?”
“I find the day’s course of events has exceeded my grasp and you are … in need of protection.” She’d buy that one. “To be honest, it is new to me. Protection. But it is a task I will not refuse. The Fallen will not relent in his pursuit of you. And I need time to form a plan.”
“You don’t have a plan?”
“I should have already slain the Fallen. I’ve never before had to track one after they’ve made contact with the muse. As well, this world, and your need for me, is new.”
“My need for you?” she said on a nervous, chuckly tone. “Please. I don’t need any man.”
Quite a unique woman, then. What had become of the subservient, faithful and devoted women who answered to their husbands and cared for the children?
“Can you fend off the Fallen when next he shows?” he countered.
“I …” Divertí ng her eyes from his face, she looked away and sighed. She stepped inside the home, leaving him to follow, which he did. “Maybe I don’t want