She glanced at Jagger.
He mouthed, “Sylphs.”
How had she never heard them before? Was it just a case of not paying attention? No, just as this realm wasn’t overrun with angels, it also wasn’t spilling over with demons.
Why were the sylphs still around if the archmaster had gotten ahold of Mrs. Washington’s soul?
She made out growled orders. “Scare the kid. Scare the kid.”
More than one sylph and they were exiting before Mrs. Washington. Those little bastards were hers and he’d dive in to get the archmaster out.
Balancing the knives in her hand, she dropped into a ready position.
The handle jiggled. Poor Mrs. Washington. She was trapped in her own body, no longer the driver of her brain. From what Jagger had taught her, most humans had no recollection of what happened while they were possessed. The few that did had allowed the possession in the first place.
The door swung open and two sylphs arguing with each other spilled out. Neither one noticed her or Jagger at first.
Her hands tightened around the blade as her breath caught in her throat. She’d expected them to be small, but reality stalled her initial pounce. Somewhere between bipedal and four legged, they also had features reminiscent of an ogre. Tiny ogres. The mix gave them a familiar look. All those horror movies must derive their inspiration from somewhere, even if the creators didn’t realize how close to reality they’d come.
When Jagger slipped behind them into the bathroom, she broke into action. Her one shot at surprise would take out at least one of them. Jagger had said they could still be killed in this realm. She was going to test that now.
Swinging her arm down, she buried the blade in the skull of the first sylph, using the follow-through momentum she’d learned in the gym. The knife sank through the skull just like Jagger had said it would.
Our steel isn’t ordinary steel.
The second sylph cried out at the same time Jagger’s words drifted to her. Thunks and grunts came from inside the bathroom. Jagger was still here.
She was jerking her weapon free as the demon disintegrated around it.
Damn.
It threw her off. The second sylph screamed and darted down the hall toward the stairs. She charged for it, Jagger’s instructions streaming through her head.
Her arms wrapped around the creature and she pictured the hazy, cool environment of the Mist.
Wet droplets surrounded her as she rolled onto fluffy wet grass. The sylph didn’t waste time while she was down. It jumped on her, yellow fangs flashing in her face.
She’d lost her knives in the transition. Punching out, she caught its jaw and flung it back. Rolling up, she did exactly as it had done and jumped it while it was down.
The creature brandished an impressive set of claws on its hands—paws?
Blocking its attempts to slash her, she stayed in a crouch and landed every hit she could. This wasn’t a form of fighting she’d learned, battling a demon that stood less than three feet tall.
Her brain registered a fight behind her. Snarls and grunts lingered in the Mist, and the metallic tang of sour blood hit the air. Jagger must be making progress.
A silver gleam caught her eye. One of the knives.
The creature spotted it. She dove for it at the same time it did.
Claws jabbed the back of her hand, but she got the blade, spinning her body at the same time. Her knee clipped the beast’s head. It toppled back and before it could right itself, she hammered down. The blade embedded into the skull.
Kill two. Done.
The knife wasn’t as easy to free this time. The sylph didn’t disintegrate. She didn’t have time to recall what Jagger had said about bodies in the Mist. She wiped the steaming blood off on the grass as she evaluated Jagger.
As soon as we get into the Mist, let your wings go. You’ll need them for protection.
He wasn’t going to take her disobedience lightly. He might even use it to refuse additional training. She’d have to deal.
Readjusting her grip on the knife, she approached the dueling males. The archmaster wasn’t what she’d expected. Just as tall as Jagger, the male was packed with muscle. Powerful frame, thick thighs, and lightning-fast moves. His wings were a leathery, inky black and he used them as ruthlessly as his fangs and claws.
Jagger’s moves were as fast, his hits as lethal. They were locked in a gruesome dance. The archmaster’s wings had claws as sharp as razors. One bop to the head and she’d be reeling, trying to stay conscious.
She’d have to make sure she stayed far enough away.
But they shuffled closer, their wings locked together, grunts dying in the Mist.
She weighed the blade in her hands. All she needed was an opening and she could bury it in the demon’s back, just under the wings, where he’d be nice and tender.
Balancing on the balls of her feet, she slipped closer.
“Felicia,” Jagger’s warning growl hit her ears before the whoosh of a wing.
The demon had spun, shoving away Jagger and whipping a dark wing down on her head. She’d been so focused on her own stealth, she’d miscalculated the boldness of the underworld. And she had no wings out to block the move. Her arm wasn’t strong enough for his momentum.
A solid thump to the head preceded total darkness.
Chapter 7
A warrior had lost his legs because of her.
Sierra stared at the winged statue outside of an old Catholic church. An angel. Cold. Unfeeling. Covered in bird shit.
She could be that statue.
Her entire life, she’d had a single-minded mission. Get close to the sister who knew nothing about her, then eventually reveal their connection.
I know your secret.
Because she shared it.
If anyone knew about them, they’d be killed. The senate would go apoplectic before going after them with such zeal they’d foam at the mouth.
Two girls who shouldn’t exist, yet here they were. Warriors for their people.
Except, was she?
The male who’d blackmailed her for information was the real villain. But she was an accomplice, a sad excuse for someone who’d vowed to put the safety of the realm over her own life.
She hadn’t been able to put the safety of the realm over her sister’s, though. Not before the female knew about her, before she knew she wasn’t alone.
Her gaze lingered on that marble statue, on the melancholy expression as it watched over the cemetery. Sadness, caring, servitude.
What was she? A lying, weak, poor excuse for a warrior. She should confess and lose her wings, but call her a coward, she didn’t want that fate.
Though sometimes she wondered… Her gaze swept from the statue to the cemetery plots. Watched over after death. In her efforts to find the one responsible for the plot against the realm, she’d tracked down one of the fallen here. Most of her team’s search had led to similar places. Cemeteries and nondescript headstones.
Not Jameson Haddock. He’d proved that falling did not mean certain death.
She sighed, the sound lost in the gentle breeze blowing over the plots. A human stepped out of the church, an older woman with salt-and-pepper hair tied down with a scarf. She was wearing floral-print work gloves and sturdy blue jeans and carrying a small trowel.
Sierra was about to turn and go, but the woman waved, her smile wide. It’d be rude to turn and run. Half of her screamed to do it, to wait until the woman was a few feet away, then flounce off. At least her dark side no longer demanded violence. Her work as a warrior helped with that.
“Can I help you find something?” The woman’s voice was kind. The crinkles around her eyes and mouth spoke of a history full of smiles and laughter.
Sierra envied this human. Her time was winding down, but she’d probably lived more joy than Sierra would ever know.
“No.” Sierra’s gaze landed on the unmarked plot labeled Jane Doe. Jane wasn’t her name. The female had a whole hist
ory in another world, but she’d developed feeling for a human who loved another. One murder motivated by jealousy later, “Jane” had lost her wings and wasted away on the street she’d been dumped on.
It wasn’t a coincidence that Sierra had located her new headquarters by this church in Vegas. A reminder that, eventually, she’d pay for her crimes.
The woman looked toward the headstone. “Ah. I was here when they brought Jane Doe in.” Her face scrunched up briefly. “Forty-two years ago. I was all of twenty-seven. I remember the day like it was yesterday.”
“What happened?” Why was she asking? Her fate was in that rectangle of dirt. She didn’t need to hear the gruesome details.
“Poor soul. We tried to help her, find out who’d attacked her, but she kept muttering that she deserved it. Refused every ounce of help. Wouldn’t even allow us to wipe the blood off her back.” The woman shook her head. “We’re here to help. We can’t force ourselves on someone, but we’re here.” She bobbed her head. “We’re here.”
Jane could’ve had help. This woman and this church would’ve nursed her back to health and found a place for her. After taking a life, Jane had chosen death.
But there had been people willing to help her without knowing a single bit about her past or what she’d done.
Something to think on.
She turned and followed the path back to the sidewalk. Her rental was only a few blocks away and the sun was beating down. She relished the burn. A small discomfort compared to what Director Richter had gone through—was going through.
A man waited at the junction of the pebbled path and the cement. He was vaguely familiar with greenish-yellow eyes and artfully arranged, sand-colored hair. His suit was light gray and tailored for every inch of his tall frame.
She sensed no demon involvement in or around him, but his presence didn’t register like an ordinary human’s.
She’d take the long way home.
She was about to turn the other direction when he spoke, his voice rich and the timbre way too pleasing. “Ms. Cormorant.”
“Not interested.” She should find out who he was and how he knew her name, but she’d had enough of strange males in her life.
“Ah, but you work with my son. Julian.”
She didn’t know any—oh. Jagger.
She stopped and slowly spun around. “Mr. Haddock.”
A grin spread across his face and damn, it was so unfair that a male so vile should be so handsome. Now she saw the resemblance. Jagger didn’t have the refined maturity of his father. He didn’t wear his power like his father wore that suit. Jameson Haddock’s hair was more brown than blond, but his eyes were as unique as Jagger’s. They were a sharper green, nearly yellow.
“Call me Jameson, please.”
Hot or not, she didn’t trust him. “What do you want?”
“Your word that our business doesn’t go further than the two of us.”
She lifted a brow. “No promises.”
He lips quirked. “Wouldn’t it be hard to explain me without explaining how you know our mutual friend Stede?”
She winced. Of course Jameson Haddock would know, but she liked pretending the dirty secret didn’t go further than a male she still had a chance of killing.
“What do you want?” she asked again.
“Perhaps we could talk somewhere more private.”
“Nope.” Sweat trickled down her back. It was going to drip off her hair onto her shirt soon. Jameson looked like the sun was too timid to touch him.
“Very well.” He hooked his hands in front of him. He had nice hands. She’d always had a weakness for a guy in a suit and the way they fought with their minds instead of their bodies. A consequence of training around so many sweaty, macho males. “I want you to report to me whenever Stede asks for information regarding my son or that female he’s protecting.”
“Stede is done with me.”
He tilted his head and gave her droll look. “Do you really think he’d let such a good resource go?”
He hadn’t found her yet. “Why’s he after Jagger? I thought you two worked together.”
Even his chuckle was sexy. “Demons haven’t cornered the market on wickedness. But I’m a fair partner. Do this for me and tell me what you need in return.”
Oh, she needed a lot. A way to turn back time, but he couldn’t help with that. A father who was from Numen. Did Jameson know about her secret? Did he know who Harlowe was and that she was related? He had to if Stede did. And since Jameson was standing here on the edge of religious property in a city she’d lived in for all of a month and a half, he could find out easily enough.
“I want to know everything about falling and how you survived.”
“I don’t think you’re ready for the truth, but yes. I can share the whole sordid story.” His expression darkened momentarily before his lips curved and he turned the charisma on. His smile was the most charming she’d ever seen. It was unfair. He’d had everything and he’d thrown it away. She’d worked for what little she had and was losing it all.
But that didn’t stop her libido—it had been a while since she’d gotten laid.
“Deal.” She might have to spare a few hours to swipe right on her dating app. Was it just being around Jameson that set her hormones ablaze?
“Deal. You know how to find me, Sierra.” He damn near purred her name before he strode away. A dark sedan with tinted windows that were probably illegal drove down the road and stopped next to him. He climbed in.
She stared at the car as it passed her. He still looked like an angel, but she felt like she’d made a deal with the devil.
* * *
Jagger’s chest heaved. He’d killed the archmaster and a report to Director Vale was already forming in his head, but Felicia was his first priority.
He spun and rushed to her side, but the sight that greeted him slowed his footsteps like he was trudging through fresh concrete.
In her unconscious state, the morph on her wings had released.
Instead of a glorious unfurling of her wings, there was a misshapen bundle of the softest pewter-gray feathers piled at her back. He’d have to make sense of it after he checked on her.
Kneeling in front of her face, he examined her limp body. He spotted no singe marks from angel fire, and the bruising on her face was purpling but would fade in a day. The head trauma was more significant, but she’d also recover within a day. Vulnerability while unconscious was his kind’s biggest concern, but he was her guard after all.
Now, about the wings.
Had they somehow gotten injured even while in the morph?
Maneuvering around to her back, he failed to find any fresh streaks of blood on the feathers. Tenderly shifting their downy weight, he inspected them. Where bone should’ve arched in elegant lines, it was crooked and bare of all feathers. Each naked expanse of skin was mottled in a too familiar way.
Angel-fire burns.
Working his way to the wing joints in her back made the sourness churning in his belly creep up the back of his throat.
Where creamy, bronzed flesh should’ve been, the tissue was stretched and scarred, like she’d been carved up by a knife doused in angel fire. He’d seen the injuries before on warriors. Maximal injury, minimal chance at healing properly. And she hadn’t healed properly.
Her constant wing morph had to be taxing. The image of her swallowing OTC pain meds jumped to mind.
Who had hurt her like this?
“Fuck.” He rested on his heels and stared at her. Guilt waged with rage inside of him. Steadying his breaths, he calmed himself until his emotions no longer clogged his thinking like a sandstorm.
She hid her injuries. From him and everyone else. Did her sister know? Was this why Felicia avoided Numen? His kind were vain, believing that, because they lacked many of the same flaws as humans, they were somehow superior. He wasn’t exempt from taking his healing capabilities for granted either. As a warrior, he should be the last of his kind to forg
et, but he relied on his healing, often taking risks knowing that unblemished skin was a few hours away.
With the heat of battle wearing off, the damp, cool air of the Mist settled in. Felicia needed somewhere to recover. Going back to her apartment was a no-go. It was nighttime and he could morph his own wings in, but no way could he carry an unconscious woman through the streets of Atlanta with her wings dragging on the sidewalk.
Numen it was then. He could leave the Mist close enough to his place to get into his house without being seen.
He eased her into his arms, cradling her wings to keep them from stretching the scar tissue. Navigating the Mist would be impossible if he didn’t know his way around it already. Nothing populated the divide between his realm and the human world but grass, mist, and spirits no one wanted to admit were there. The Mist was all about feeling and intention, and while his kind liked to pretend they knew how it worked, there were mysteries yet unsolved. He’d learned to do his job in the Mist—killing demons—and get home. The demons were dead. It was time to get Felicia home.
Several minutes ticked by. He approached the Mist’s edge and treaded along the thinnest portion of its border. His home was several blocks away from the barracks. He’d never crossed the Mist so far from the warrior’s living and training area. Was it even possible? Most angels had no reason to go into the Mist. Only warriors required the privacy of the in-between for their battles. Those that weren’t granted access to the human world had no business in the Mist.
He exited the Mist at the edge of the barracks, drifting close enough to make out the ordinary rectangular buildings before turning away for home. When he’d been dating Valerina, he’d moved into this place. Valerina had found it and while it was inconveniently blocks away from the warrior training ground, he’d wanted her to be happy. Perhaps she’d assumed he’d eventually leave and become the senator she’d thought he was destined for.
She could join Mother in her delusions. He’d grown up in the senator’s life and its unfeeling, backstabbing duplicity.
No, thanks. He’d rather get impaled by a demon claw.
Wicked Fire: Angel Fire, book 2 Page 7
