Angel Fire: Angel Fire, Book 1

by Johnston, Marie

  Odessa flew past the manors as large as her own, over smaller housing structures situated in blocks, each with a tidy lawn surrounding it. A faint glow dusted the horizon. Its source was the angel fire fountain the rest of the realm was constructed around. Angel fire. She shuddered. It’d stolen so much from her while at the same time keeping their entire realm safe. The ethereal plasma was a tried and true weapon against demons and its origination was a gift from the Almighty.

  She was happy to put her back to it and fly in the opposite direction. Her realm was beautiful. Manicured. Pristine. There was no garage spilling over bins, no smog, no pollution. Angel fire burned clean. The energy required came from the realm itself. The borders knew no bounds. Numen was as large as it needed to be.

  Finally, she located the large, square buildings that comprised the training center. She drifted down in front of the most ornate one. Her gaze flicked to the sign: Numen Warrior Training Center. She was at a loss for where to go from there.

  A familiar male spoke from behind her. “Miss Montclaire?”

  She spun to face Director Richter. Humiliation nearly lifted her wings for a flight home versus having to tell him she didn’t know where her mate was. What she wouldn’t give to be able to ascend or descend in her own realm, but ascension was only for travel from earth to Numan, and vice versa was called descending. Besides, that’d smack too much of desperation. Pride was in short supply. She’d seize it when she could.

  “Can I help you with something, Miss—I’m sorry, Lady Vale?”

  Pleasure warmed her at the use of her new name. At least something about her mate gave her satisfaction.

  She plastered on a false smile. “I’m looking for Bryant, Director. I haven’t seen him all day.” She winced at her own confession.

  Surprise, then irritation highlighted his eyes and was quickly replaced by a competent, professional demeanor. No wonder Director Richter garnered so much respect.

  “Come. I know where he might be.” His mouth was set in a determined line. He inclined his head in an invitation to follow.

  They passed several gray stone buildings, each a uniform three stories tall, until they arrived at the end of the line of barracks.

  “Wait here, please.” He disappeared inside.

  She did as he asked, clasping her hands in front of her. What was the best way to loiter outside of warrior barracks? And why barracks? Why didn’t Bryant have his own home?

  Male warriors drifted in and out, throwing curious glances her way. She avoided eye contact, didn’t want to acknowledge that they may know who she was, or give them any indication she was hunting down her mate.

  “Odessa.” The clipped accent brought her head up.

  Her heart fluttered. Damn her nerves. He was even more imposing in the twilight. The shadows that tormented her only increased the span of his shoulders. His wings blended into the fading light, his expression obscured so she couldn’t gauge the strength of his emotions. Director Richter was nowhere to be found.

  “You didn’t come home.” She crushed her hands together to keep from fidgeting.

  “This is where I live.”

  She studied the gray building and then him. His resolute expression and solid stance screamed that he wasn’t leaving with her. Hurt flared, hot and bright in her chest.

  She tilted her gaze skyward and took to the air, not trusting herself to keep her tears at bay. Staying any longer would have resulted in a bout of ugly crying, or worse, begging. She’d had enough semi-public disgrace today.

  But landing outside her home was akin to diving into the middle of shark-infested waters. Her skin prickled like danger swarmed around her. With an unsteady breath, she faced her door but didn’t open it. It was dark. So dark and quiet. She usually left a light on but had forgotten since she’d left so quickly. She reached for the doorknob. Her fingers trembled. She snatched them back, cursing her weakness then cursing Bryant.

  How could he treat her like that? If he was all about duty, wasn’t his mate his duty?

  An owl hooted and she jumped, expecting hands to reach out and grab her any moment. Terror threatened to override common sense as she imagined being pinned down, helpless—again.

  Desperate, her mind spun, searching for a way to calm herself down. An idea formed.

  No. She couldn’t.

  Or could she? It would be embarrassing, but she survived the wait of shame outside the barracks. Plenty of angels had witnessed Bryant avoiding her. Good gossip stopped nosy angels in their tracks. She and her mate would be the hot topic at the angel fire fountain by morning. So what if she added more fuel to speculation? The only thing to lose was her pride, but she’d make, in Harper’s words, a helluva point.

  Raising her wings with determination, she fought off her fear. Odessa stalked over to her bed and chose a pillow and a blanket. She stormed back to the dais with her bundle and flew to the barracks.

  * * *

  Bryant tossed and turned in his bunk in the bay he shared with his team. They could have separate apartments, but then they might as well live in the heart of the realm. It was easier for unmated warriors to reside in barracks. It was just as easy to live in a house and walk or fly here, but no one mentioned that. Sometimes, the horrors they witnessed in the field stayed in the shadows when surrounded by other warriors who understood.

  Director Richter’s ass chewing still rang in Bryant’s ears. Be the male I know you can be, Vale. Don’t act a fool.

  Easy for a happily synced guy to say. His sync happened the way it should for a warrior. The male had earned himself a fine mate, one who made brownies divine angels would fall for.

  Bryant had gotten himself synced to the daughter of the most devious, corrupt, and heartless politician he’d ever dealt with. The one and only conversation Bryant had ever had with Odessa’s father was more than memorable. His blood boiled and his scars throbbed thinking about it. One conversation, one order from the senator, and Bryant had found himself burning alive, with over half his team already dead.

  Now the despicable senator was linked to him through that frustrating, unearthly beautiful daughter of his. Had it been Daddy’s idea, or his daughter’s?

  Movement outside the door caught Bryant’s attention. He rose on his elbow to see what was going on through the bay window. A head with long, dark hair bobbed through the hall.

  He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth. The audacity. He’d underestimated his unwanted mate.

  Odessa stopped to ask a young warrior a question. Bryant wanted to throttle the male when he blushed and grinned broadly before pointing in Bryant’s direction. He grew even more pissed at the sweet smile the male earned from her.

  Bryant glanced at his teammates. He’d choke them as well. All six were eyeballing his woman with shit-eating grins they pointed in his direction before they settled back on their bunks to watch the show. Bloody tossers.

  Glaring at the female striding toward him with mile-long legs, Bryant’s gaze kept drifting to her one bare golden shoulder. Shite. Was she carrying a pillow and blanket?

  Bryant sat up, scowling. “Odessa?”

  “Unlike you,” she said coolly, “I take my sync seriously.” Flipping her pillow down between his bunk and his teammate Urban’s bunk, she folded her blanket in half and laid it down. She crawled between the fold like a makeshift sleeping bag.

  “You’ve got to be joking,” he said for her ears only. The floor was marble and awfully cold in the morning.

  She rolled onto her side, her back toward him, her wings tucked into the blanket. “Good night, Bryant.”

  Urban peered down at her, the dim lights of the bay reflecting off his dark hair. He smirked up at Bryant. “Good night, Bryant.”

  Bryant glared at his friend.

  Sierra, one of the females on his team called, “Good night, Bryant,” in a sweet tone.

  “Good night, Bryant,” echoed the other two females, Harlowe and Dionna.

  “Good night, Bryant,” cooed Bronx.


  “Good night, Bryant.” This from Jagger, who had the bollocks to blow him a kiss.

  They were his closest friends, and right now, he loathed them all.

  With a huff, Bryant rolled off the bed, snatched the pillow and Odessa’s arm. She didn’t say a word as he pulled her up and hauled her out of the bay and down the hall. He refused to look at anyone, his gaze plastered to the wooden exit door at the end of the corridor. As soon as fresh air hit his face, he released her and flew to that damn mansion, praying she’d follow.

  He snapped his wings closed as she landed. Startled, she faltered and was mid-stumble when he caught her around the waist. The mystery of how good her body felt should have remained just that.

  When she regained her equilibrium, he gently pushed her inside, handing her the pillow. “Go to bed. You’ve won. I’ll sleep here from now on.”

  Hurt wiped out the hopefulness in her expression.

  “I made a point. I didn’t win anything.” She hugged her pillow and trudged toward the stairs to her suite, leaving him to feel like he’d kicked a defenseless puppy.

  Chapter 4

  Bryant stayed on Odessa’s sofa for three days before he decided it was time to move his stuff over. He was only around long to catch a few winks and he was gone again. The arrangement provided little contact with his mate.

  What contact he did have was excruciating. She was a beautiful female. Achingly so. Her long gown did nothing to conceal her curves, or the slope of her neck, or the radiance of her wings. He caught himself staring too long when she wasn’t looking. But each time she attempted conversation, he cut her off with an “I gotta get to work” and rushed out before he tented his own gown like a randy boy veering into puberty.

  Like it or not, this cold, stale mansion was his new home. He couldn’t risk her coming to the barracks again. He’d lose his credibility as a proper leader if it appeared he couldn’t care for his own mate. As obstinate as he wanted to be, he couldn’t sleep in a bed while she took the floor. Having her in the tiny bunk with him wasn’t an option, either. He grew irritatingly hot at the thought alone.

  His workday done, he changed out of his black tactical demon fighting clothes and into a standard gown in the barracks before packing his meager belongings. He loaded the rest of his clothing into a bag. The trunk at the foot of the bed would haul his equipment. He opened it and dumped his weapons inside—knives, throwing stars, vials of holy water, and small bottles of angel fire. Many thought he’d be too edgy to carry angel fire, having been marked by it already. He wasn’t. It was a weapon, nothing more.

  And also a wicked fast way to maim or kill an angel.

  Shoving his weapons into his bag, he slammed gear around to make it all fit, releasing his irritation with each satisfying thunk. He stewed over those who vexed him—the director for trying to get him to settle down; Odessa for being Kreger Montclaire’s daughter—and so damn beautiful; himself for being too risky in the field and allowing this union to happen.

  Bryant’s job was to kill demons. Because of his work in the human realm, naïve angels never felt the true destruction of demon malevolence. He also kept those festering parasites from latching onto humans and destroying the poor mortal’s life. He lived for killing demons. He didn’t want a female who might interfere with all that.

  He protected humans from all the creatures spawned in the demon realm of Daemon. He hunted archmasters out to possess souls. He tracked and killed the slightly weaker symasters that influenced morally weak humans into dirty deeds. Then there were sylphs. It was his life’s work to kill those nuisance sylphs as they disrupted the daily life of people.

  He couldn’t deny that Daemon tactics were organized. Sylphs created the bad day that turned into a human’s bad week. As their mental status deteriorated, symasters took their turn, the evil fiends. Once the soul was vulnerable, archmasters swooped in to claim it. Bryant protected humans. It was all he ever wanted to do. His work came first. His mate second.

  But it was getting harder and harder to keep his mind from straying to the alluring female that claimed him.

  His packing was done, but he wasn’t ready to move out. The barracks had been his main home since he’d started training as a warrior. It was the only place he stayed unless he was pressured to take time off. This was…home. He stood over a duffel bag and the trunk full of everything he owned lost in thought until he heard someone approaching.

  “Director wants to see you.” Harlowe eyeballed his stuff with shrewd lavender eyes. “You’re really moving?”

  “Aye.” He hated his gruff tone. Moving out of the barracks shouldn’t bother him like it did, but he’d lived here for decades. It was like the teammates he’d lost never left when he lived among their memories.

  His inner turmoil went unnoticed by the tall, blond warrior. “Good. Don’t fuck it up.” As usual, she was brutally honest. Usually—not today—it was why he liked her.

  “Did he say why?” Did it matter? It prolonged the inevitable move to under Odessa’s roof.

  “Does he ever?”

  Urban strolled in. His coffee-colored eyes read the luggage like Harlowe’s had. “About time.”

  Urban was a male of few words and much honor. Bryant missed living here already. They were his family and, apparently, they all thought he was being a plonker in how he was treating Odessa. But they didn’t know his history with her father. Not even Urban or Dionna knew and they were part of his team when it happened.

  Harlowe stopped him before he charged to the director’s office. “Oh, FYI, there’s some political hotheads in the office. You know, the ones who are young and drunk on power.”

  Bloody perfect. Once outside the director’s office, he knocked. Maybe they’d be gone already.

  He entered at the command. Harlowe had been spot on. Three young senators stood around the director’s desk, wings flared in a display of power. Director Richter appeared unruffled, but that didn’t mean anything with the bloke’s admirable poker face.

  After introductions, the director cut right to the chase. “Vale, the senators want us to hunt an archmaster demon suspected of targeting angels living in the human realm.”

  Obviously. That was his job. He didn’t spend his time hunting demons that only preyed upon humans. He meticulously hunted demons that stalked angels who dwelled in the human realm to perform service. Was this a case of young senators demonstrating their power? Lord knew it wouldn’t be the first time. Bryant pitied the director for having to waste his time.

  Bryant’s face must’ve said so. The director rushed on like he was afraid Bryant would speak his thoughts out loud. “So far, the demon has been sporadic. In one country, then another the next day, making it appear as if there’s no rhyme or reason. One of the angels is the relative of a senator. We can get more data from an analyst like your mate to narrow your search. We’ll get a specific region.”

  Wait—Odessa was an analyst? Foolishness threatened to flood his cheeks with color. He didn’t know what his own mate did for work. He’d assumed she lived off of her daddy’s coattails and strolled through Numen networking and looking pretty. Analysts were angelic nerds and that wasn’t a description he’d pin on Odessa.

  “Given the sensitivity of the target…” Director Richter leveled his gaze on Bryant.

  Bryant read between the lines. Given it’s a relative of a senator who could make life hell for us…

  “I’d like you and one of your team to look into it,” the director continued. “Find the demon, yank it out of the human host into the Mist, and kill it.”

  The Mist, the misty realm that separated Numen and the human realm, was Bryant’s battleground. It was where they did their dirty work outside of the human realm, to protect both their existence and innocents from happening upon the battle.

  “Give me the details and we’ll find the demon.” Bryant never lost a demon. Not even the one that used his fallen teammate’s angel fire on him. That bastard had died violently.
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br />   Director Richter rattled off data and the cockiest of the young senators interrupted sporadically to fill in more information. He was being redundant and undermining the director, who calmly paused at each interception, then continued his report.

  The restraint the director showed increased Bryant’s respect. Bryant’s fist would’ve connected with the senator’s nose before he interrupted a second time.

  Armed with the information he needed, and more than eager to leave, Bryant marched out. He would walk back to the barracks to prolong the move. Hauling his gear would take his mind off the task. Every time he faced Odessa, his body threatened to override common sense.

  The senators trailed him out of the office. Once the director’s door shut, the cocky one caught up with him. “The analyst who’s your sync mate—is that Odessa Montclaire?”

  The gleam in the male’s eyes ratcheted Bryant’s ire up a notch. He had luggage waiting for a move he wasn’t looking forward to and an exotic angel that he somehow had to try to ignore. But he didn’t quite like another male inquiring about his mate, either. Especially not this posh wanker who represented everything Bryant wasn’t—polished, handsome, and affluent.

  “Aye. Why?” If Bryant’s team had heard his tone, they would’ve known better than to pursue the line of questioning.

  The senator slapped him on the shoulder. “I heard she claimed some unfortunate soul who doesn’t know the load of crazy she brings to the table.”

  Bryant glared at where the senator thumped him on the shoulder as if they were human fraternity brothers. Had the senator called Odessa crazy? Protectiveness surged, his wings puffed, ready for a fight.

  A male had his pride, and no one insulted his mate.

  And Odessa wasn’t crazy. She was… Bollocks, he didn’t know her that well, but she wasn’t deserving of this senator’s treatment.

  Clueless, the young male continued. “Needy, am I correct? I bet you can’t even shower without her there asking where you’re at. I wouldn’t have hung around so long, but she was so good in bed. I kept tapping that a—”