by Judith Post
Fallen Angels
by
Judith Post
Not one person in this book is real or based on anyone who’s real—no waitresses, shop owners, detectives, or vampires. And no bodies that appeared in doorways, alleys, or parking lots were based on true crimes. Several locations in this novel might feel familiar to some, but I’ve claimed literary license and taken no measures to be accurate with details. I’ve used whatever I need to make my story work and peopled establishments with characters from my imagination.
Dedication:
I have many people who have supported me and believed in me as a writer. Too many to thank properly, but I’d like to acknowledge some here:
To my husband, John, who loves me no matter what my moods, no matter if I have dirty hair and bad breath, who took “for better or worse” at its word—who’s my rock. He’s pretty fun to live with too.
To my daughters Holly and Robyn, who always believed that someday, I’d make it and always encouraged me. No mother could have daughters who are more fun to hang out with. And to my “adopted” daughter Heidi who always makes me feel better than I am. And to Tyler and Nate—some teenagers are pretty cool.
To my partners in crime—my writing group, The Summit City Scribes—for their honest critiques. They tell me what they like and what they don’t, and they don’t let me get away with lazy or sloppy writing. A special thanks to the brave friends who critique my entire manuscripts (and who are wonderful writers themselves): Ann Staadt, Mary Lou Rigdon, Paula Adams, and Connie Paxson. They don’t cut me any slack, and for that, I’m profoundly grateful. A special, special thanks to ANN WINTRODE, who has faithfully copy edited every manuscript I’ve ever written (even the beginning, bad ones that shall not see light). Any errors in my novels are due to the fact that I’m a hopeless tinkerer and rewrote scenes and sentences after she returned a clean copy to me—which means, it was my mistake, not hers. And to Karen Lenfestey, who was the first of us brave enough to give online books a shot—she’s made us all proud with her sells!
Last, but not least, a huge thank you to my agent Lauren Abramo—whose patience, I hope, shall be rewarded. She is constantly cheerful, positive, and unfailingly nice. I always dreamed for an agent I could work with. I got better. I found an agent I like and admire. And to Abby Reilly (who made everything easy for me) and Michael Prete (who designed my book covers).
Prologue
The sun set, and Voronika woke. Hunger gnawed in the pit of her stomach. When was the last time she fed? She crawled out of the small space she slept in—once a storage room for coal—in the rundown, deserted house she now called home. A slice of moonlight streamed through a broken basement window. She ducked her head to clear the large metal arms that sprawled from the squat furnace like tentacles.
She stopped to listen and could hear the scurrying of small feet. Mice. Rats would be better. More blood. But any snack would do. Rodents were fast, but vampires were faster. She drained three of them before leaving the house.
It was cold enough, she put on a jacket. She took a deep breath and could smell a raccoon rummaging through trash bins behind the new condos down the street. A cat too. If it was a stray, she could drink it. She'd never harm anyone's pet. She headed in that direction. She was walking through the parking lot when a girl who lived there hurried from a front door and almost bumped into her. They'd met a few times before, and Voronika had the feeling the girl would like to take her under her wing, to "fix" her.
"Oh, sorry. Not paying attention to where I'm going." The girl stopped and stared. Voronika ducked her head. The girl mustn't see her eyes. "Are you okay?" she asked, her voice filled with concern.
Voronika pressed her lips together tightly. She could hear the steady rhythm of the girl's heart. She could sense the blood pulsing through her veins. Human blood. The elixir of the undead. Health and energy in one, red liquid. Hard to resist. She forced a smile, keeping her face in the shadows. "I'm fine. The holidays…" Every human bought that excuse. It was almost Thanksgiving. Christmas followed, and humans ran around like marbles shot out of a pinball machine.
The girl nodded, still concerned. "I'm Liza. I've seen you before. I was just running to pick up a pizza. Want to come with me? I bought a large."
How naïve was this girl? Didn't she know better than to talk to strangers? To invite them into her car? Voronika shook her head. "No thanks. I have to get going. I don't want to be late."
The girl didn't believe her, she could tell, but what was she going to say? She was too nice to call her on it. "Okay, then. If you ever need anything, I live on the third floor of this unit. Just knock. And…" She hesitated. "If you don't have some place to stay, my dad's out of town right now. I have an extra room."
It was too much. Voronika seethed. Humans should never invite a vampire into their house. They shouldn't invite anyone inside they didn't know. And know well.
"You have to get smarter," she said. "You don't even know me. I could be a thief or a mass murderer. You have to be more careful."
Liza stared. "But I see you on the streets a lot. I feel like I know you."
"Well, you don't. And not everyone's nice. Grow up and get smart." Voronika had learned that the hard way. Maybe Liza could figure it out without getting hurt. "You can't trust anyone, and you'd better watch your back."
Liza blinked, then put out a hand to touch Voronika's arm. "That's so sad. What happened to you?"
Pity. The girl felt pity for her. Voronika hated that. Damned humans with their red blood and their mortality! It made them stupid. Turning on her heel, Voronika stalked away.
****
Liza glanced up and down the streets on her drive to school—no homeless girl wandering anywhere. Come to think of it, though, she only saw the girl at night. Why would she wait to wander the streets until the temperatures dropped and it was cold outside?
Liza shook her head. It was Friday. She'd have extra time to look for the girl over the weekend. All she'd ever seen her in was a jacket, and she always looked underfed. But for now, Liza had a class to teach. Rescuing strangers would have to wait. The day went faster than usual, and she waited for the last student to walk out of the classroom. "Come on, guys, hustle." But as usual, Richie and Robbie were in no hurry to leave. Richie wiped the last dust from the chalk tray, and Robbie slid the final chair under the reading table at the back of the room. "Move it, kids. Mrs. Crawford and I have a few things we need to do. You have to go home now."
Richie shrugged into his worn, winter coat. Robbie pulled a too large, hand me down hoody over his head. No hats. No scarves. Typical of this neighborhood. People struggled just to pay rent and buy groceries. Liza doubted the homeless girl even managed that. Liza called the boys to her desk and took two big, chocolate bars from its drawer. "For all of your help."
"Thanks, Miss Marsdale."
It was their usual routine. They stayed as long as they could after school, and Liza rewarded them with candy bars.
When they were finally on their way, she went to join her supervising teacher in the teacher's lounge. Mrs. Crawford smiled when Liza entered and handed her an evaluation sheet with a row of checkmarks all lined up in the "excellent" column. "You're a natural at this. The students love and respect you."
A glow of pride warmed Liza's chest.
"It's Friday," Mrs. Crawford said. "Take a break. Have a nice weekend." But Liza grabbed a stack of teachers' manuals to take home. Even though no one else had expectations for these kids, she wasn't ready to give up on them.
She had one last chore to run before she could call it a day—a trip to the store. She meandered up and down aisles, stocking up for the week. As she passed the flower arrangements on her way to the check out, a bouquet of yellow roses and daisies c
aught her eye. She got a rave review at school. Why not celebrate? She was reaching for the flowers when a man snatched up the bouquet before she could grab it. She turned to stare at him, surprised.
He glared, but felt obliged to say something. "My wife's favorites are daisies."
Liza looked at the display. Every other daisy was gone. "No problem. I like them all." She reached for roses and baby's breath.
Her answer seemed to aggravate him even more. She could feel the anger roil off him. He made her nervous, so she hurried to say, "I hope she likes your surprise."
His eyebrow rose and he took a step toward her. What was it with people lately? She tried to be nice, and it only aggravated them. Intimidated, she turned her cart and went to pay for her purchases. She glanced down the lanes to see that he was checking out too. She didn't want to leave at the same time he did, so she stalled on her way out. By the time she reached her car, he was nowhere in sight.
The five o'clock traffic was heavier than usual, and she was relieved when she finally pulled into the parking place in front of her condo. A pick up slowed on Main Street—the same one she'd seen at the grocery?—and cars honked. "Learn to drive!" someone shouted, and the truck drove on.
Could the man have followed her? Liza gave her head a quick shake. She was letting her nerves get to her. Balancing a grocery sack in each arm, she trudged up the steps to the third floor. Her dad was spending time with his sister in Arizona, so she flipped on the lights when she pushed through the door. She kicked it shut behind her, dropped the sacks on the kitchen counter, and tossed the teaching manuals on the armchair in the living room. She hurried to turn the latch and slide the bolt on the door. Now she was safe. The place felt empty without Dad, but she was glad he was in the sun, enjoying himself. He'd had a rough time since her mom died.
A few hours later, she carried a cup of hot tea to her room, changed quickly, and curled up in bed with a book on phonics. It was almost midnight. The room felt stuffy, and even though it was cold outside, Liza cracked the window an inch and pulled the quilt closer. She liked fresh air. It cleared her mind. She wondered if the homeless girl was out wandering the streets tonight. It was so cold. She wished the girl had taken her up on her offer of a place to stay. She was so pretty, so thin. Lost and alone. What had happened to her? Maybe Liza should make her a pot of soup. Visions of minestrone danced in her mind. She'd make some tomorrow, look for the girl… But tomorrow never came.
Chapter 1
Enoch walked at a fast pace along the deserted streets. His long, black coat blew behind him like a fluttering shadow under the dim street lights. It was damned cold, but he hardly noticed. He'd left New York to follow the rogue here, to Three Rivers. And he intended to find him.
New York was only a base, anyway. When he'd come back from his last mission, he came home to problems. Alessandro was in trouble. Why hadn't his friend listened to him? Enoch had made it abundantly clear. One more bite, and he'd be changed over. It took three in all. And not just nibbles. Draughts. If Alessandro tried to run, the vamps would find him. And they'd punish him. So Enoch had offered him protection. He let him stay in his apartment while he tried to find and deal with the rogues. But they found Alessandro first, scared him enough to make him panic. Easy enough for vamps to do. And Alessandro had tried to get away. Enoch shook his head. He hadn't had a prayer. It was sport for the vamps after that.
No. Not vamps. Rogues. There was a difference. There were good vampires too. Enoch worked with them. Hell, they did the same thing he did—hunted down rogues and killed them. He was as close to Bart and Claudia as to anyone. It was better to keep a distance from mortals. No connections. No close ties. Every time he let anyone in, started to care, he lost them. Alessandro was the last. From now on, he'd keep to himself. No friends. Only work. Every time he passed an alley, he pictured the horde of vampires ripping into Alessandro's body…or what was left of it…and bile filled his throat. He'd killed them all, except for the one. And Enoch would find him too. That was his job, the reason he was stranded here on Earth. Rogue patrol. It wasn't supposed to be a punishment. But it felt like one. This time, it was more. It was personal.
Night after night, he searched the nooks and crannies of Three Rivers. The rogue had run here, and he'd followed, leased an apartment, and started the hunt. But finding a vamp who didn't want found was no easy feat. The rogue couldn't stay in hiding forever, though. Eventually he'd slip up, and Enoch would skewer him with the Light. It would be too good of a death for the bastard after what he'd done to Alessandro, but once Enoch found him, he'd never bother anyone again.
Tonight, Enoch stalked the length of Main Street past the newspaper offices, past the old houses of yesteryear that were being restored to their former glory, and on to the tired, rundown homes of the working poor. Empty fast food wrappers blew past his feet. The wind tossed chimes hanging on a front porch in mad motion, setting up a cacophony of clinking metal. Enoch stopped to stare into the dimly lit interior of an elegant seafood restaurant, incongruously nestled between seedy neighborhood bars and darkened window front businesses. He made a mental note to try it sometime. Angels had to eat, after all, at least here on Earth. Why not eat well?
His cell phone rang and he dug it out of his pocket, glancing at the caller I.D.—Danny. A mortal who'd plopped onto a bar stool next to his the first week he'd come to town. A cop. Someone who did the same type of work he did. Common interests—Danny in the mortal world, Enoch in the supernatural. It was a connection he shouldn't have made, but he wouldn't be staying in Three Rivers long. A little fellowship couldn't hurt. He'd be gone before it turned into friendship.
Enoch flipped open his phone.
“What are you doing up at three a.m.?” Danny asked.
“Couldn’t sleep. How about you?”
“I’m at a scene. Just like the Jurgenson girl. We grasped at straws there, got nowhere. You catch things the rest of us don’t. Thought something we missed might grab your attention.”
When they first met, Danny reminded Enoch of a fresh-faced kid right off the farm with his blond hair and blue eyes, round face and youthful appearance, but the eyes had webs of worry etched at their corners, and his forehead had sleepless creases that pulled at his skin. It came as no surprise that he was thirty-two, a homicide detective, and nothing but observant.
Danny noticed when Enoch put his arm out to stop him from stepping into the street just before a car flew around a corner. The gift of acute hearing—angels' powers are every bit as hyped as vamps'. When Enoch grabbed the wrist of a man who stopped them for directions and Danny patted him down to find a gun under his coat, Danny was impressed. No big deal. Enoch could smell the man's pent-up fury. But after that, when they bumped elbows at the bar, Danny started to drop small pieces of information about cases he was working on. More often than not, Enoch could steer him in the right direction. This was different. To help with this, Enoch would have to get more involved.
Only on the fringes, he assured himself. As a sort of consultant. Mortals came and went. He had more important things to worry about.
Danny’s voice sounded tired. “I could use some help. We have a killer running around, developing a taste for it.”
"Another young girl?" Enoch remembered the details Danny told him about Luci Jurgenson. Danny was sure that a jealous ex or a stalker type was responsible for her murder. There was no rape. No burglary. But an odd m.o. The man had slit the screen of the girl’s bedroom window to gain entry and strangled her in her sleep. Then he painted her face with rosy cheeks, bright eyes, and a big red mouth like a clown’s and left her propped up on her pillows to greet the morning she wouldn’t wake to see. No wonder Danny thought her death was personal—until tonight. But these were mortal deaths. And mortals should deal with them. If he got involved… He'd be straddling two worlds again. But if he could help… wasn't that why he was here?
"Where are you?" Enoch asked. Maybe he would notice something small, something Danny could use to
solve the case.
"The old knitting mill on Main and Fourth.”
“She works at a mill?”
“No, some guy bought it and made it into condos. Gentrification at its grass roots. Our girl’s on the third floor. No hurry. The crime scene guys just got here. They’ll take a while.”
“I’m on my way.” The condos were only a few blocks from where he was. He could walk it. He'd look at the body, try to find a clue that Danny could follow up on, and then he'd leave. Simple as that.
He ducked down an alley. The wind hit him full force, bitter cold. An empty trash can rolled across the cracked cement and lodged against a fence. He was passing a small church when two men stepped out of its darkened back door. Enoch didn't need intuition to warn him this wasn't a visit from the area's Welcome Wagon. When they stepped into the light, Enoch saw that the first man held a gun, the second a knife.
“Hey, Mr. Fancy Dresser, you can spare a few bucks.” The first assailant looked to be in his late twenties with a stubbly chin and a knit cap pulled low on his forehead. “Hand it over.”
Enoch sighed. He wouldn't miss the money in his wallet and his I.D.'s were fake—nothing lost, but he didn't like their attitudes. He'd spent centuries ridding the world of bad vamps, and he sure as hell wasn't going to roll over for a couple of punks. “Sorry. No donations, but I don't want to hurt you. Just go.”
“I said, give us your money.”
“And I said, no.” If they walked away now, he'd let them. They weren't his concern.
“There are two of us." The second man was taller and stringier looking. Lots of liquor, Enoch guessed. "Is your wallet worth your life?”
“That's not really a worry.” Enoch was telling the truth, but they wouldn't believe him.
