Angel Fire: Angel Fire, Book 1

by Johnston, Marie

  She turned toward Harper and Abby, diving back into the conversation but Bryant leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Tell them it’s time you be going.”

  The feel of his breath tickling her ear sent shivers down her spine. Ones she couldn’t conceal. Did the guy know how potent he was? Even after his asshole move the previous night, then crashing her girls’ night, it wouldn’t take much for her to change her mind about him.

  She glanced at him. His expression was grimmer than usual. “I’m not ready to leave.”

  His lips flattened and he leaned in again, making her body want to meet him the rest of the way. To smash into him, letting him cover every inch of her possible. “If you don’t want your friends caught up in your drama back home, you need to leave now.”

  His words drenched her stubbornness like a bucket of ice water. If Cal was murdered and her work had made her a target, then her presence endangered those most dear to her. Bryant had come to the club with her and waited until now to mention something. If her warrior mate was concerned, she should be, too.

  Odessa faced her friends. “I think it’s time I head out. I’m sure it’ll be an early morning, you know, with everything going on.”

  That earned her compassionate hugs and well-wishes from Harper and Abby. After a quick “call me” from Harper, Odessa stiffly followed Bryant out of the club.

  Bryant put his arm nonchalantly around her shoulder and spoke quietly. “Let’s get to the parking garage before we transcend home.”

  She curved into him automatically, enjoying how he was tall enough for her to snuggle into his side. He hugged her closer and pressed a light kiss on top of her hair. She brought her head up, startled at his display of affection, but he was surveying the street behind them.

  Her heart sank. It was just for show and she was stupid enough to fall for it. Couldn’t the guy just like her?

  Did she like him? He was surly, argumentative, and despised her birthright. He was also honorable, loyal, and currently trying to protect her. Maybe she liked him a little… His subterfuge stung all the more.

  “Did you happen to see the guys sitting across from the bar tonight?” he asked.

  Odessa frowned. She had noticed how the two men kept their attention focused on her, but that wasn’t unusual in this realm. “I did. I don’t know who they are, though.”

  “I sensed no demon in them. They were focused on you in a way that wasn’t romantic. Let’s get out of here.”

  They reached the entrance to the parking garage. A shout stopped them from going inside. Odessa peered in the direction of the noise. One of the men Bryant had asked about were flagging them down.

  “Hey! You forgot your purse!”

  She didn’t have a purse.

  Bryant pushed her into the ramp’s entrance. She stumbled from the momentum and narrowly missed a knife swinging in her direction. The blade belonged to the second man, who must’ve run around the back and jumped the ramp’s low walls.

  Her gasp jerked Bryant’s attention off the man outside. He lunged through the doorway, grabbing for the attacker with the knife. Odessa twisted out of the way just as the other man stepped through the door and charged her.

  Fear flooded her system. Like most Numen, she didn’t know how to fight. She was too scared to run away. What if there were more out there? She’d be safest near her capable warrior.

  The human stalked her into a corner, a long, wicked blade in hand. She gulped, looking for something to throw, somewhere to run and hide, but there was nothing. She envisioned her mansion to transcend—to hell with human witnesses—when Bryant tackled the man.

  Punches muted by clothing thudded through the parking garage. Bryant’s grunts mixed with the attacker’s. The human snarled profanity, but Bryant was a silent fighting machine, ducking and hitting with precise efficiency. Odessa squinted through the chaos. Was the other guy coming for her? But the knife wielder lay prone on the floor of the parking garage, the metal blade resting several feet away. A sickening smack ripped her gaze back to the fight. The human was limp on the cement. The two men had been no match for her mate.

  Bryant stood still, his chest heaving, his intense gaze sweeping her body. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

  Yes. No. Odessa couldn’t speak. Her gaze darted between the two men laying still.

  “They’re just unconscious.” His growl dropped low like he was reassuring her.

  She nodded numbly. They weren’t possessed and killing a human would lead to a senate trial, possibly an excruciating loss of wings. A shudder raced through her at the thought.

  “We need to get you back home,” he said, misinterpreting her reaction.

  Yes, they couldn’t hang around unconscious humans. She and Bryant would have to leave soon, before the men awoke or anyone walked in on the scene. But being an analyst was her nature and she had to ask. “Can you see if they have any tattoos?”

  Bryant’s face scrunched. “What? Why?”

  “My work, the data I gave Cal.” Impatience spurred her into action. She marched over to the first man that had attacked her and tugged his clothes around to get a look at bare skin. Her nerves were strung tight and she wanted to vomit touching the vile human, but her analyst mind was in overdrive. “See if they have a black rose, or bloody barbed wire inked anywhere, but note any other tattoos. I think there are more symbols than I figured out.”

  To Bryant’s credit, he didn’t hesitate—much—and followed Odessa’s lead. “This guy’s got a black rose on his inner wrist and a dragon on his torso.”

  “I don’t think the dragon means anything, but I’ll make note of it.” Odessa had to grunt her words. Heaving her load left and right, she pushed and pulled clothing.

  Bryant came over and helped move around heavy limp limbs to roll him over. “I need to knock out the cameras before we leave.”

  Of course, cameras. Bryant encountered this stuff all the time. She usually arrived in an unmonitored corner across from the mall but two people disappearing on camera would attract the wrong attention. Especially after a knife fight.

  She was so out of her element.

  “There.” Bryant pointed to a smudge of black ink. “Black rose on the back of his neck. That it?”

  Odessa nodded. Her little isolated office world was no longer. Her research was dangerously real.

  Bryant towed her along when he took care of the cameras. She put up no resistance, loathe to be far from his protection. Once the cameras were down, Bryant hooked an arm around her and ascended with her.

  * * *

  Jameson Haddock brought the cheap whiskey to his lips and grimaced. Uck.

  Why bother with drivel? It was worth saving pennies for one drop of the quality amber liquid. But he had to blend and this place offered nothing better.

  Around him, slot machines pinged and beeped. Ah, the sounds of nature in Las Vegas. Tourists of all shapes and sizes flowed around the bar where Jameson waited for his target. Bawdy laughter sprouted from more than one corner of the giant room and interspersed with tinkling giggles from groups of women strolling by.

  What a fucking happy place.

  Setting the glass down, he wandered through the casino. He sensed the watcher close by, he just needed to find the subject being catalogued by the Numen. Then he could pinpoint, maybe even visualize, the winged bitch upsetting his meticulous plans.

  Ah. Two women walked between slot machines in front of the watcher. Those lovely ladies must be the targets. They looked like his avid follower—skirts as short as their heels were tall, hair as darkly colored as their skin was pale, and of course, the tattoos. Some days he pondered paying a few girls to go blond, even dirty blond, or red. Why did they all assume that since he meddled in the underworld he preferred the goth look?

  No wonder Miss Lindy Sampson spun his head so fast the other night. He had strolled through the club on the way to his penthouse, looking for a voluptuous toy for the night. His lips quirked slightly. While Busty was an accura
te description, he’d finally gotten her first name. It had even gotten wrenched out of him during one intense orgasm where she’d—

  Moving on.

  It did no good hunting a watcher sporting an erection. Besides, he needed to make himself obscure so the two young women didn’t recognize him. All of his faithful disciples would know what he looked like if they had visited his club. There, all they saw was a mysterious rich man in an expensive suit. Some lucky doves got to see a little more of him. Occasionally, with one like the carnal Miss Lindy, he might form a fleeting attachment.

  There was no way of knowing if the watcher’s subjects had ever seen him. Or whether it was enough to recognize him dressed down in jeans and a T-shirt, like an everyday tourist searching for the “what happens” part of what stays in Vegas. Jameson let his hair fall over his forehead to mask his most identifying feature, his unique, dazzling eyes.

  There was also no way of knowing if the watcher would recognize him. Her name was Magan, and he didn’t recall her from his previous life as an esteemed senator. After disgraced Numen had their wings brutally ripped from their back and were dropped in the human realm to fight for survival like unwanted pets, they were often forgotten. Numen didn’t believe in luck, but mentioning a fallen’s name was as close as they got to believing in bad luck. As if the very utterance would bring doom on the speaker, or at the very least, remind the naïve idiots that they were fallible.

  Jameson’s back burned at the reminder of his punishment. The memories this place resurrected were not treasured. After finding himself in Sin City without an identity, much less a cent to his name, he’d used old contacts and resources and clawed his way to the top. All the while plotting his reclamation of power.

  The fools. At least his mate had thrown him back to Las Vegas, snidely asking him if his lovers would help him now that he had nothing.

  Yes, he was that good and they had. He winced again for the second time that night. Perhaps not the help he would’ve preferred, but it had given him the start he needed to thrive.

  And thrive he had.

  Ducking into a dark corner near the restrooms, he waited as his two disciples passed, laughing animatedly. One of the women had such a short skirt that he could see the tip of a black rose poking out beneath the fabric on one pale thigh. It wasn’t completely visible, meaning that when they hit up his club, her skirt would hitch higher. On her friend, the black petals stuck out from between the corset lacing that crisscrossed her back. Which also meant, at his club, she would be shucking her corset only to wear a thin scrap of material over her breasts.

  He loved his disciples.

  Jameson unfocused his gaze until he could make out the fuzzy image of the watcher trailing behind the two women. Watchers had the same ability as the demonic sylphs. They were like ghosts in the realm. Intangible, invisible, not completely here but present enough to look, listen, and sometimes touch.

  Ah, there she was. Being able to see her was a talent that made him the only one able to carry out this mission over any of his human disciples. Watchers had the power to stay in the earthly realm without being seen, no morphing of wings required. They only watched. Humans couldn’t see them. But Jameson could.

  The ability was a remnant of his former self, a skill that shouldn’t remain. After his wings had been wrenched from him, he should’ve lost all of his angelic abilities. Then one day, he’d been drinking himself into a stupor out of self-pity, letting his body get debased for a few bucks. He’d gotten the thousand-yard stare and noticed a watcher observing his degradation. The watcher probably had orders to report back to Jameson’s bitch of an ex-mate and maybe have a good chortle over his demise.

  In that moment, Jameson had formed a new identity. He gave a proper show of his misery and when the angel had left, he earned his money and hit the town. Jameson had gone to the most crowded places he could find and relaxed. Eventually, he could make out sylphs, the little demon nuisances that messed with fragile humans, ripening them for possession. From there, he sensed a symaster, riding around on a suburban dad, encouraging his host to gamble away all his money. Symasters were literally like the devil on a shoulder, but they couldn’t take full control of a soul. Finally, Jameson had hit jackpot. A possessed soul. An archmaster.

  He had confronted the archmaster and made a bargain. With demon weapons and his knowledge of Numen routines and tactics, they could finally make some progress against the arrogant asses behind his fall. And the demons, well, he’d let them think they were going to get whatever they wanted.

  Together, they hunted the watcher Jameson had encountered and with the demon’s help, tossed him into the Mist and killed him. Then Jameson turned on the archmaster, using the demon’s own weapon to destroy him. Demons were sneaky. The archmaster would’ve tried possessing Jameson next, in hopes of using him against the Numen.

  Jameson attempted to use the ascension ability in the watcher’s blood to transcend, but it only allowed him to leave the Mist. It was a start. He started negotiating with every demon he could find to gain Daemon steel and Numen blood. From there, he threw a little money around, made some promises about power, and built a human following and earned a new level of respect on the earthly realm, not unlike the kind he had experienced as a senator.

  Only better.

  He was in charge. Using demons and their ability to possess and utilize human assets to help amass the fortune he dreamed of, build his club, and continue recruiting humans for his grand plan. He provided humans. Demons gave him weapons. Together, they would amass an army and storm the gates of Numen. And then he’d be rid of them, but that was a worry for another day.

  Pulling out of the shadows, he followed the women and the watcher out of the casino and into the concrete walkway between the palace of slots and the parking garage. Now was his best chance.

  Gliding up unnoticed behind the watcher Magan, he reached under his suit jacket and grabbed the handheld double-bladed scythe he’d stolen off that archmaster many years ago. An otherworldly weapon capable of making the ghostly angel tangible. He could get to her now. Grabbing one of the watcher’s wings in one hand, he drew her blood with the scythe. The blood on the metal was the key, like a built-in system to protect their kind. If blood was shed, the Mist automatically let them in to help prevent human detection. His blood was no longer as angelic as it used to be, but the watcher’s blood now…

  He moved so fast, they disappeared into the hazy realm just as the two women turned around at the whisper of feathers. The watcher’s cries were lost in the Mist.

  Chapter 8

  Bryant stared at the living room wall, contemplating Odessa’s predicament while she rested in her room. When he and Odessa returned after the attack, she had talked for hours about the notes she’d been working on the previous week. At times, his eyes had glazed over from sheer boredom. Give him throwing stars, give him vials of angel fire, make him face an archmaster with nothing but a dull blade. Anything but pile after pile of mundane compilations of human life. How an analyst could sit and comb through them and remain cognizant enough to find historical trends and Daemon interference, he would never understand. He was a man of action.

  He had perked up when Odessa mentioned she had started interpreting strange patterns from the watcher’s notes. A form of communication that originated in tattoos. The basic symbol being the black rose tattoo Odessa hypothesized meant dedicated servant. Bryant would’ve been highly dubious if he hadn’t seen them inked on both humans himself.

  “Where’s my daughter?”

  Bryant jumped up at a male’s voice and spun toward the intruder, dropping to a fighting stance. He regretted throwing on a standard long gown instead of his field clothing.

  Kreger Montclaire tramped through the lower level, peeking into rooms. The steady boil of anger Bryant carried with him threatened to bubble over. The male must’ve landed on the dais and entered like he still owned the place. He’d have to get the locks changed.

  “Sleepi
ng.” Bryant gave Odessa’s father no further information. She had fallen into an exhausted sleep after making sure he’d hang around the mansion until she woke. He had agreed as long as she accompanied him to discuss their dilemma with his team and Director Richter. She had no choice but to accompany him, but she felt powerless enough as it was.

  Creases lined the older male’s face. He was gaunt, his shoulders stooped, unusual traits in an angel less than several centuries old. The years had not been kind, and for a brief moment, Bryant pitied the senator. All that power didn’t equate to happiness. A few years after Bryant’s encounter with him, he heard the male’s mate had passed—by walking into the fire.

  Then there were the male’s daughters. Before Odessa had marched into his life, he’d only known that the male had two, one with a hearty reputation around the barracks. Kreger’s other daughter was considered a piece of promiscuous bad news. Bryant hadn’t cared one way or another but had discouraged gossip regardless. Then there was Odessa, who had willingly mated a warrior she’d never met.

  Not many of the senators had happy, serene home lives. Much like what Bryant witnessed of the superrich on Earth—too much time, too little responsibility. Or vice versa. They lacked balance and their children were surrounded by greedy people who did not have their best interests in mind.

  Kreger managed to stare down his nose at Bryant despite being shorter. “Go wake her. I must talk with her.”

  Bryant’s fury roiled. The senator was in his house now and would not be telling him what to do this time. “Pardon me if I don’t follow your command, Senator. It didn’t work out so well for me or my team last time.”

  To his surprise, Kreger looked contrite. His brow furrowed and his gaze dropped to the floor. Concern appeared to override any other emotion. But the expression was brief. Kreger straightened, assuming his regal senator air.