Death's Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels

by Heather Killough-Walden

  They were on Earth for a reason, though it was nearly impossible for Azrael to contemplate that reason while under the spell of the tormenting affliction of his transformation. The Four Favored archangels had come in order to find their other halves. They’d come for the soul mates that the Old Man had created for them. They’d come to Earth to find their archesses.

  If the lacerating chaos that now engulfed him was any indication of how their quest would play out, Azrael was certain they didn’t stand a chance of finding their archesses until they found one another first. If even then.

  And at the moment he couldn’t have cared less.

  Michael gritted his teeth, narrowed his gaze, and rolled up his sleeves. Azrael came at him like lightning, and like thunder, Michael met him halfway.

  Eleven years ago . . .

  * * *

  Sophie gritted her teeth, grimaced at the sharp pain that shot through her knee, and hurriedly pushed herself back up. When she did, the wildflowers she carried in her right hand were once more crushed. She’d lost several petals the last time she’d fallen, but this fall was what really did the damage. The sweat from her palm was wilting the stems of the buttercups, sweet dame’s rockets, and star-of-Bethlehems. The second fall had almost entirely mulched the highly delicate sweet white violets.

  But she didn’t have time to pick more. With a worried glance over her shoulder, Sophie pushed off once again. At fourteen years of age, she had legs that were suddenly longer than they should be. Normally that made her look like a doll on stilts, but this afternoon she was incredibly grateful for the added height. Her stilts carried her on a mad dash through Greenwood Cemetery, toward the headstone and empty flower vase she knew waited just over the next hill.

  He was close behind. She could hear him grunting. He couldn’t move fast without grunting. He made noises when he ran, just like he made noises doing everything else. He snored when he slept and wheezed when he ate and seemed to be enveloped in a permanent whistling, which was caused by the extra thickness around his neck and nasal passages.

  Sophie heard those sounds in her nightmares. But right now, they served as a warning. She could hear him clearly over the fog-dampened hills. Each sloppy crunch of his tennis shoes and each subsequent humph, humph, humph was an alarm bell warning of his pending arrival.

  She had a hundred yards to go. She felt it like a magnet on her blood. Her heart raced and her eyes watered and the grass’s unevenness jarred her joints, but she pushed harder. Faster. Seventy yards to go. She could almost see it now. Mom would be there, waiting. She would be wearing an orange zip-up hoodie, like she always did. Dad would be sitting on the stone, gesturing animatedly as he talked to his wife—who wouldn’t be listening because she was looking for her daughter. She was always looking out for Sophie, waiting for her to come over that last rise.

  Fifty yards to go—

  “Sophie! Get back here, you fucking little cunt!” Her pursuer’s voice cut through the fog, slicing through her reveries like a chain saw through flesh. It was brutish and out of breath and utterly cruel. He was mad now. Madder than she’d ever heard him. “I swear to God I’m gonna kill you, you little bitch!” he yelled. She heard him slip and slide on a wet spot at the bottom of the hill and she pushed harder.

  Faster.

  Thirty yards to go, and there it was, its rounded top peeking through the swirling mists like a lighthouse in a fog. It had several small stones atop it—left there from Sophie’s previous visits.

  “Stop!” he bellowed, each extra foot he was forced to run making him that much angrier. But Sophie didn’t stop.

  Her mother was waiting.

  There she was, in her favorite color, smiling warmly at Sophie as Sophie ran from the monster, tears streaming down her cheeks, her jeans torn, her knees bloodied. There she was, waving in welcome, her caramel-colored hair shining in sunlight that came from nowhere.

  Sophie called out to her. She wanted her mother to hear her. She wanted her to know that Sophie had tried. The rim of the metal vase at her mother’s feet peeked out of the mist, beckoning.

  But the beast was gaining and her mother didn’t seem to hear. The crunching was too close now. Humph, humph, humph—

  No!

  The back of Sophie’s shirt ripped, nearly choking her into instant unconsciousness as her foster father grabbed her by the garment and jerked her to a violent stop, spinning her around with the momentum. The two of them went down hard, Sophie landing on her arm and destroying what remained of the wildflowers she had picked for her mother’s birthday. She wanted to cry out with the pain of the impact, but she had learned long ago not to appear hurt in front of the predator.

  Never let them smell your blood.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? I’ll teach you—” He was up and pulling her with him before Sophie could see past the stars that swam in front of her eyes. “Disgusting little troublemaking whore. You aren’t worth a shit.”

  His fingers bruised the flesh of her arm as he began to make his way back across the cemetery, dragging Sophie with him. She ignored the pain and looked back at the waiting headstone. Her mother was gone. For the first time in eight years, there was no shot of orange above the stone. It stood empty and alone. Even the pebbles Sophie had left seemed smaller than before.

  The graveyard mists turned red, shrouding the cemetery in scarlet contrasts. “No!” Sophie screamed. She didn’t even realize she was the one yelling. Before either of them knew what she was doing, Sophie had jerked out of her foster father’s grip. His grubby fingernails dug furrows in her upper arm as she pulled free and stumbled backward. “No!” she cried out again, fury boiling her blood and painting the landscape crimson. “Get away from me!” She took a shaky step back, rage causing her to tremble uncontrollably.

  Her mom was gone. She’d lost her flowers. And the grave marker stood empty on her mother’s birthday.

  Alan Harvey stared at Sophie with wide eyes. Something strange flickered across his unshaven features. Maybe it was surprise—maybe something else. His gaze shot to her neck and then to her shoulder, exposed and white where he had ripped her shirt free of her body. “Why, you little tramp,” he hissed, his voice different now, too. It had lowered and was gravelly with an emotion that sent nausea roiling through Sophie’s belly. “You wanna fight me?”

  Sophie’s legs flooded with numbness. Her stomach cramped and her heart began to beat between her ears. It was the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of utter terror and it threatened to overwhelm her. She was alone with him. This part of the cemetery was deserted.

  She’d pushed him too far.

  Her vision tunneled as Harvey took a threatening step toward her. This was it. He was going to rape and kill her out there. He wouldn’t have to travel far in order to bury her body.

  I’m gonna die, she thought. This is it.

  When he lunged at her, she was too numb, too heavy with fear to move out of his way in time. Her world became a thump and a whir of pain and motion. Something crunched beneath her as she went down again. She felt the corner of a burial plaque bruise her spine and hip.

  Harvey’s fingers curled into the waistband of her jeans—and suddenly, Sophie’s fourteen-year-old body was moving of its own accord. Her leg came up as if controlled by someone else. Her bloodied, bruised knee connected with his groin, digging hard and fast and deep.

  But it wasn’t enough to dislodge his body from hers. Harvey grunted as he continued to paw at her. He always grunted. He was so heavy. Her wrists twisted and her fingers went numb as she dug her fingernails into his skin, trying to claw him off of her. Her hands slapped and pulled and punched. Harvey’s palm found the side of her face, but she felt no pain. She heard the impact and her head moved a little and there was warm metal in her mouth running rivers over her tongue. But there was no pain.

  She just kept fighting. Finally, her right knuckle banged something hard and cold. Metal. She knew instantly what it was. It was Harvey’s gun—he owned a gun. She
didn’t know where he’d gotten it, but he loved to take it out and clean it and load it and unload it and wear it tucked into his pants. Like it was now. It formed an indentation in the pudge of his belly where it separated flab from denim. Sophie wrapped her numb fingers around it, forcing them to grip it tight. She yanked and knew that the hammer sliced into him as she pulled it out.

  She didn’t get it far before he realized what she was doing and tried to grab it out of her hands. So she took a chance. Anything was better than this. If the barrel was pointed at her, so be it.

  Sophie pulled the trigger.

  Chapter One

  Present day

  He’s an archangel, Sophie told herself sternly as she tried with all her might not to fidget. She stared up the long aisle of decorated chairs to the altar before Slains Castle in Scotland. Azrael stood there beside the groom, and to her, he was the epitome of everything desirable in a man. His incredibly tall, imposing form was draped in the color of night and it was tailored to fit his extraordinary physique with absolute perfection. His sable hair fell in gentle waves to his shoulders and made Sophie’s fingertips itch with the need to touch it. His skin was so fair it was nearly translucent. He looked like a vampire lord in his expensive tux, his gold eyes nearly glowing in their intensity, and it was making her a little nuts inside.

  Juliette Anderson, Sophie’s best friend, was getting married. Sophie was the maid of honor. It was her job to stand there and be supportive, to take the bouquet and carry the train and all of that business. But as the vicar gave his Gaelic blessing to the gathered members of the wedding party and the pipers poured their bittersweet music across the castle grounds, Sophie could concentrate on nothing but Azrael.

  Azrael, the archangel.

  Juliette had told Sophie all about him. He and his three brothers were the Four Favored, the Old Man’s favorite archangels. Jules had hammered Soph with the news about them mere hours after Sophie had stepped off the plane in Edinburgh. Sophie had had her own news that she’d been wanting to share with Juliette for the last three weeks, but when she’d seen the look on Juliette’s face and caught the frantically anxious tone in her voice, Sophie’s affairs had instantly taken a backseat to Juliette’s and they’d remained there ever since.

  Gabriel and his brothers were none other than the four most famous archangels in existence: Michael the Warrior Angel, Uriel the Angel of Vengeance, Gabriel the Messenger Angel, and Azrael—the Angel of Death.

  He looks the part, Sophie thought now as she again stole a surreptitious glance at the beautiful man. He was too handsome. It was the kind of handsome that was difficult to look at. He had a Dorian Gray appearance about him that made her wonder whether he’d sold his soul so that he could look the way he did.

  According to Juliette, the Four Favored had come to Earth two thousand years ago in order to find something very precious to them: their mates. It sounded like something out of a werewolf romance, but there it was. Apparently the brother archangels had been given gifts by the Old Man in the form of four perfect female archangels. These he called archesses. Before the archangels could claim them, however, the Old Man sent the archesses to Earth, and there they were scattered—lost to their mates for centuries. Lost, until now.

  For some reason, archesses seemed to be popping up all at once. Well, maybe not all at once, Sophie reasoned as she dutifully lifted the train of her best friend’s gorgeous wedding gown and followed her down the aisle toward the altar. After all, Juliette was only the second archess to be found of the four that had been created. Maybe it was only coincidence that she and the first archess had both made their appearances within months of each other. Still . . . two thousand years without anything, and then in the course of a few months, two archesses appear?

  Sophie glanced furtively toward Uriel, the first archangel of the four brothers to have met his archess. He also looked unbelievably handsome in his fitted tux, with his piercing green eyes and wavy dark hair. Uriel had been surprising enough for Sophie to take in because he was also Christopher Daniels, the famous actor who played Jonathan Brakes, the “good” vampire in the hit movie Comeuppance.

  Azrael was harder for Sophie to come to grips with. Not only was he literally the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on, but he was supposedly the lead singer for Valley of Shadow, which was at that moment the most popular rock band in the world.

  Once she’d processed the information, she’d realized it made a lot of sense. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death” . . . .How fitting, she thought.

  As the enigmatic lead singer of Valley, Azrael always took the stage wearing a black mask that hid half of his face from his fans. His voice crooned and hypnotized, pouring out over his audience with immense influence. His identity remained hidden.

  Sophie had been a breathless, swooning fan of Valley of Shadow since its inception. She’d been as mesmerized by the Masked One’s physique, charisma, presence, and otherworldly voice as every other woman in the world. When she downloaded his songs to her iPod, she was able to close her eyes and pretend that he was singing to her—and her alone. Hell, she even dreamed of him.

  Oh jeez, she thought as she flushed with both embarrassment and baffled anticipation at the memory. The bride took her place in front of the altar and Sophie held her bouquet as the ceremony began. Sophie couldn’t believe she was actually standing there, a few feet away from the Masked One. To say nothing of the fact that he was also an archangel. The Angel of Death, no less! Her mind spun with the implications.

  He’s looking at me. She could feel the archangel’s golden gaze searing into her from where he stood opposite her. She forced herself not to meet his gaze. She couldn’t do it again. Every time she glanced up at him, she felt that he was staring right through to her soul, reading her from the inside out, absorbing her very spirit with those piercing orbs of his. It was too much. And yet, even as she knew she shouldn’t because of the way it made her feel—she wanted to for the same reason.

  She was a moth to the flame.

  The vicar called for the rings and Sophie actually felt Azrael’s gaze lift. He gracefully pulled the set of heavy gold bands from the inside pocket of his black tux and handed them to the handsome groom. Gabriel took the rings with a very real smile and turned to face his bride.

  Sophie found herself transfixed by the image of Gabriel sliding the band onto Juliette’s slim finger. The knotted gold Celtic design winked in the moon – and candlelight. The ring fit Juliette perfectly, resting on her hand like a brand, final and complete, and Sophie imagined the tall and enigmatic Azrael sliding a ring on her own finger in the same fashion.

  And then she blinked. Her heart thudded hard behind her rib cage. She could almost feel the physical weight of the metal on her finger—and the heat of Azrael’s touch on her hand. Where the hell had that image come from? It had appeared out of nowhere, clear as day, and now it was refusing to fade away.

  Sophie felt her face flush with embarrassment at the thought. If he only knew what she was fantasizing about in that moment!

  With a start, she realized that the ceremony was over. The piper began to play “Amazing Grace,” and Juliette and Gabriel kissed. The vicar said a few more words in Gaelic—which Juliette seemed to understand—and then she and Gabriel turned to head back down the makeshift aisle.

  It was the last night of the full moon. Its blue-white light cast the decorated castle and its grounds in stark, beautiful contrast. Streamers and ribbons of lace and satin had been strung between stone columns and draped over the battlements of Slains Castle so high above them. The waves of the waning tide crashed against the rocks far below, and seagulls sang the last piercing notes of their nightly lullabies.

  Roses and lavender scented the air, which was unnaturally warm for this time of year. While the rest of the people who had gathered to see the wedding—namely members of Gabriel’s clan—were unaware of the reason behind the unseasonable pleasantness, Sophie knew that the wa
rm weather was due to Eleanore Granger, the first archess found by the Four Favored.

  Eleanore was Uriel’s archess and possessed powers much like Juliette’s—which Sophie was still trying to wrap her head around. Ellie and Jules could both control the weather to some extent, throw things around with telekinesis, manipulate fire where it already existed, and most important, they could heal.

  It was this power to heal wounds and sicknesses with no more than a touch that really set the archesses apart from every other supernatural creature in the world. And that was another thing Sophie had been forced to take in rather quickly. Apparently, archangels and archesses were not the only ones to inhabit the planet alongside unsuspecting humans. There were others out there—other beings with powers.

  Still, none of the other paranormals possessed the ability to mend injuries and pain. That power belonged to the archesses and to Michael and seemed to be limited solely to them.

  Juliette had sprung a lot on Sophie, to be sure. But luckily for Jules, Soph could handle it. She didn’t have a lot of memories from her early childhood. But what she did have from those precious days, she held on to with unequaled fierceness. She’d had six treasured years with her parents. They’d died in a car accident a week before her sixth birthday. Until that day, Sophie had been in paradise.

  Her mother had been an assistant curator at the American Museum of Natural History in New York. Her father had been a pilot. When he was out of town on a job, Sophie’s mother would take her to the museum after hours and the two of them would explore ancient Egyptian tombs and tell ghost stories in what Sophie called the Whale Room.

  Sophie’s mom, Genevieve Bryce, had been a unique woman possessed of an open mind. Nothing was impossible to her. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,” she would quote from Shakespeare to Sophie. It was one of the few things she could remember her mother saying. Such things as magic and miracles were not pipe dreams upon which to fantasize, but very real possibilities to Genevieve. This respect for a world greater than human knowledge was passed on to Sophie, even in the six short years she had been with her parents.