Angel Slayer. Michele Hauf
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.”
“Goody for you.”
“Do you not appreciate them? You are rich. Are not fine things your mien?”
She smirked, but no mirth traced the curves of her lips. “Material things are stupid. They mean nothing. That’s why I can toss a three-hundred-dollar garlic press without a blink. But if it makes you feel good …” She sighed. “I have some things to do this morning. I want to prepare another piece for the gallery this afternoon. I’m doing a show over in Chelsea. It’s my debut.”
“You are an artist?”
“Yep, been at it for over ten years. But Todd set me up with this killer computer system a few years ago, and my whole style changed. Oh man, I have to show you. Then you’ll understand why I was so excited about seeing the angel last night.”
The phone rang. Six put up her palm to signal him to wait. “Hi, Emily.”
Ashur studied the small screw mechanism on the sunglasses frames as he folded it back and forth, back and forth. So small, it fascinated him.
“What?” Six said into the phone. “All of them? You’re not—Seriously? That is so freaking cool. Yes, give me the phone number, I’ll be happy to call him.” She scribbled a few numbers and a name on a yellow Post-it note.
The sunglass arm broke off in Ashur’s grip. He glanced at Six and when she turned to see what he was doing, he shoved the broken glasses aside next to the garlic press.
“Thanks, Emily. I don’t have any replacements. You can do that? Take orders? Cool. I’ll see if I can print up some examples and have them delivered later this afternoon.”
She hung up, her face aglow. “That was the gallery owner. Someone bought all my paintings after I left the gallery last night.” She tucked the phone number in her purse.
“You must be very talented.”
“And you must be very curious.” She tapped the broken glasses.
He shrugged. “I like to see how things work.”
“Yes, well, just leave all major appliances alone, will you? And don’t lay a hand on my computer, if you know what’s good for you.”
“Computers are remark able.”
“Oh, I was going to show you. Come on. I will now reveal the deep, dark secrets of my insane little mind to you. I’ve been waiting so long for someone who understands.”
Attracted to her infectious enthusiasm, Ashur followed Six down a hallway. The silk pants she wore clung to her hips and flared out at the feet to reveal pointed-toe shoes with super-high heels. They made her legs look long enough to wrap around him twice. The feel of the fabric might push him over some precipice on which he was beginning to balance. He’d remembered lust last night, yet hadn’t time to indulge it, thinking it wise to hold off until the task of slaying Zaqiel was completed. But how could he when the muse wore a clingy top, and the faint line of her brassiere strap teased him to slip it down her arm?
“Ashur?”
“Huh?”
“I asked if you liked art. Are you okay? You seem distracted.” She stopped at a door and paused to sip her coffee. “Were you looking at my ass just now?”
“No,” he said, too quickly. “Yes.”
Her smile was wicked.
Ashur fixated on her mouth, those thick lips softened with some sort of clear polish. Her teeth were so white as to sparkle. And straight. He’d never seen that before. Nowadays, he knew, it was all an illusion. Mortals spent millions on altering their appearances in an attempt to look more attractive.
Thing is, one man’s attractive may be another man’s ugly. Everything about Six fell into the attractive category.
“Are you all natural? “ he asked.
She quirked a gracefully arched brow. “You mean organic? I recycle along with the rest of them, but I will never give up my Starbucks habit.”
“No, I mean, you, your body and face. You have not altered your appearance?”
“You mean like cosmetic surgery?”
“Yes, I learned about that last night.”
“Do you think I’ve altered myself?”
He sensed an underlying challenge—which he would never refuse. “Perhaps. Your teeth are too white.”
“I’ve had them whitened.”
“And your lips are so lush.”
“They’re