Fallen Angel: Mythic Series, Book 2

by Abbie Zanders

  He thought of the beautifully crafted angelic sculptures found throughout the grounds, ever vigilant, always watching. Where were those angels now?

  His mother, Elizabeth Barrett Corrigan, was dying, and none of his wealth, power, or political connections could do a goddamn thing about it. There were no more drugs, no more treatments, no more surgeries. Modern medicine, the world’s best doctors, and the finest, cutting edge drugs and techniques were every bit as useless as the ancient Chinese healers, holistic medicine men, and shamans he’d procured.

  Scamming, pathetic, bottom feeders, all of them.

  His mother was accepting her imminent demise as she did all things – with a perfect poise and grace that put him to shame. She was okay with moving on, she’d said. It was just the next step, one that had her both excited and a little frightened, but ready to face head-on. She was such a strong, good woman. Wife, mother, business woman extraordinaire – it was difficult to imagine the world without her vibrant presence in it.

  David was a pragmatist. He knew that death was part of life. But she was only sixty, for Christ’s sake. Far too young. She should have more time. To travel to all those far-away places she had dreamed of visiting but somehow never got around to. To realize her dream of holding her grandchildren in her arms.

  Not that that was going to happen. David had only two requirements for a serious relationship: one, the woman had to be more interested in him than his bottom line, and two, he had to be more interested in the woman herself than just her bottom. Unfortunately, those two criteria had proven mutually exclusive thus far.

  As much as Elizabeth wanted grandbabies, she wouldn’t want him to settle.

  God, he was going to miss her. She was the rock, the glue that had kept the family business from going under when his father died in a plane crash years earlier. David had been just a child when she turned their small mom-and-pop business into a multi-million dollar enterprise. She was as loving as she was ruthless; ferocity personified when it came to protecting what was hers.

  David loved her. He respected the hell out of her. Would gladly offer his own life for hers if it would spare her even one iota of suffering.

  But he really, really didn’t know if he could do this.

  Not because he hadn’t been willing to do everything possible for her. It had been David that procured the best of the best. He who had insisted on flying in every specialist, every healer, every fucking charlatan who offered even a sliver of hope. Christ. He’d known some nasty characters in his life, but those that tried to profit from dying widows deserved a special place in Hell.

  He blamed himself. She hadn’t asked for any of it, not once the conventional treatments had proven ineffective. But she’d smiled and went along with him anyway, for his sake, because he refused to accept that she could just die. She was better than that. Better than him, better than all of them.

  And now, when she finally did ask for something, he was balking.

  He felt justified, though. One of the hospice nurses who cared for his mother had told her about a young woman who was said to help people pass from this world to the next. The nurse said this woman could see between realms, talk with angels and demons alike, and ease the passage of those whose time had come. The nurse didn’t know the woman’s full name, nor where she lived.

  And - this was the best part - the only way to contact the woman was by whispering a single name in the dark from beneath the ancient oak that sat at the highest point of the town’s oldest cemetery.

  It was complete and utter bullshit. An urban legend spread by the same kind of people who pretended the boogie man was real and made the sign of the cross when a black cat crossed their path. Total hokum facilitated by two-bit con artists hoping to make a buck off of other people’s fear and desperation.

  But, because David adored his mother, because she had asked this of him, he hadn’t been able to refuse.

  And so he sighed and turned away from the panoramic view once night descended in earnest. He wrapped his mother up in warm, fleecy clothing and drove her out to the cemetery himself. Carried her frail body to the tree and sat down beside her on the blanket while she closed her eyes and whispered the name beneath the silvery moonlight.

  Ryssa.

  Of course nothing happened. The gentle breeze blew the scents of freshly mown grass and graveside bouquets to them even as it tickled the leaves of the massive tree into a soft, soothing shushing above. They sat there for an hour, just the two of them, while she murmured that ridiculous name, over and over again.

  David bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. He was furious at the nurse for telling his mother about this, for making her do something so ridiculous. That woman and her crony friends were most likely getting a big laugh out of it. She probably had someone hidden in the bushes, recording the hilarity of it on an iPhone. The video would show up on YouTube by morning, and they would be the laughingstock of their elite community. Lifestyles of the rich and gullible.

  Elizabeth, however, didn’t seem to mind. She smiled serenely and held David’s hand, and said that even if nothing came of it, it had been an hour that she had spent in the fresh, clean air, beneath the stars on the beautiful moonlit night, with her favorite man in the world.

  Goddamn it. He was not going to cry again. He was a grown man, for Christ’s sake. A successful businessman. Worth a couple of million, give or take. At least half a dozen women had already decided they wanted to be Mrs. David Michael Corrigan II, willing and eager to give his mother the grandbabies she so wanted, even if it would be too late.

  Yet he’d give it all up in a second if he wouldn’t have to watch his mother die.

  Chapter 2 – You Rang?

  “You’ve been summoned.”

  Marcella drifted over to Ryssa, the touch of her ghostly fingers feeling like frost on Ryssa’s arm. It was more than welcome in the overheated interior of the demon-run club, thick with the scents of brimstone, blood, and sex.

  “Not again,” Ryssa groaned, balancing the tray of drinks as Tane, the shifter bartender, loaded her up. “I’ve barely recovered from the last one.”

  Marcella gave her a sympathetic look, her features smudged and otherworldly, but breathtakingly beautiful and glowing against the sea of black leather and crimson-clad patrons in the low-level lighting. The fact that she wasn’t fully corporeal didn’t detract from her stunning looks in the least. Knee-length blonde hair, made shimmery by the radiance that allowed her to be seen, curved around perfect feminine features. No one would know by the looks of her that she had murdered no less than seventeen men in her day. The exact number was unknown; some placed the guesstimate as high as fifty. Being one who valued her own privacy, Ryssa never asked.

  “I know, hon. I’m sorry.”

  Ryssa exhaled resignedly, lifting the tray to her shoulder with years of skilled practice. She could not ignore a summons. As drained as she was, it was nothing compared to what mortal souls went through when facing death. Fear of the unknown, anxiety, and sometimes downright terror often made one’s last moments in this plane especially difficult. Overcoming those things was sometimes harder than facing whatever it was bringing them to that point; after all, everyone knew they were going to die someday. She sure as hell wasn’t going to blow someone off because she was a little tired. If she could ease their passage, she would.

  “Tell me.”

  Marcella floated along behind Ryssa as she worked her way through the preternatural crowd, eliciting shivers and shudders as the ghost reached out and grabbed some of the more well-endowed males along the way, her icy fingers unerring in finding their targets. The reactions ranged anywhere from stunned hisses to requests to meet up later. Ryssa didn’t know the specifics of exactly how specter hook-ups worked, but Marcella was popular among some of the kinkier Extraordinaries.

  “Older woman, maybe mid- to late-fiftyish. Rich looking, very classy. Had a younger man with her, probably the son.” Marissa smiled. “He was hot, in a Wall Stre
et powerbroker kind of way. Total skeptic, though. You’re going to have your hands full with that one.”

  Just what she needed, a doubting momma’s boy, Ryssa thought. She handed out the drinks, slapping away the tail of the demon that tried to slip up under her micro mini.

  “Awesome,” she breathed. “Got an address?”

  Marcella beamed. “I followed them back to Brookside Heights. The big mansion on the hill. Whoever she is, she’s loaded.”

  “Thanks, Marcella.”

  “Anytime, Ryss. Want me to cover the rest of your shift?” Marcella was already eyeing up the table of fire demons in the corner with a lusty look in her pearly black eyes.

  “Would you mind?”

  “Hell, no. I’ve done my rounds.”

  Part of Marcella’s afterlife penance was being forced to visit the graves of those she’d killed. Marcella made a shooing motion, sending a blast of chilled air over her. “I’ll let Karthik know.”

  Karthik was Ryssa’s current boss, the owner of Seven Circles, and the regional Demon Lord. He knew Ryssa couldn’t ignore a summons, but he was more than capable of making her life miserable if she left him short a server.

  “I owe you one,” Ryssa called after her, but Marcella was already drifting over to the demons.

  A short while later, scrubbed clean and dressed in acceptable human attire, Ryssa worked her way through the woods that separated the bad part of town from the good on tired, aching feet. Wealth was not necessarily a good thing, in her opinion. Oh, there were benefits, of course, she thought as she took in the huge, imposing manor house. Money could get you a warm, dry place to live. It could pay for good food and cover your back with some nice clothes. Help others in need, if you were the charitable sort. But this place was more than meeting basic needs. This place was over the top.

  You couldn’t even call it a house, not by any stretch of the imagination. A mansion, maybe. Small castle, more like. How many people actually lived here? The place was bigger than three of the run-down tenement buildings she called home put together. And what was that behind the manicured topiaries? A freaking tennis court?

  She winced as a bright motion-sensor floodlight blazed in her face. What was it with people and these damn floodlights these days? If God had intended light to be a twenty-four hour thing, he wouldn’t have bothered with the moon and the stars.

  It forced her to focus, though. She’d been so busy gap-jawing at the sheer size of the place that she hadn’t been paying much attention. Good thing they were just floodlights and not bloodthirsty Dobermans or she’d be dog food by now. She might not be able to die, but she could hurt a hell of a lot in the time it took to heal.

  Taking a deep breath, she rang the doorbell. From far away, soft chimes sounded the notes of some classical masterpiece. Bach, she thought idly, going back to an eon ago and a universe away. Now there was a guy who knew how to party, she thought with a quirk to her lips.

  It was the middle of the night. Whoever was behind the door was probably long since in bed and wouldn’t be happy to be disturbed, but it was what it was. They summoned her, not the other way around. They would have to work with her timeline. Besides, a place this big probably had a slew of servants around the clock who got paid to answer the door at any time, day or night.

  Ryssa was forced to adjust that preconceived notion a moment later. The guy who opened the door was no servant.

  The scent of expensive men’s soap hit her first. She looked at the wall of the muscled male chest in front of her, tightly wrapped in a high-quality designer shirt. A shiver ran down the length of her spine.

  Lifting her gaze, she found cold green eyes looking down on her with absolute derision. Those eyes travelled down the length of her petite body over the span of several heartbeats, taking in her threadbare jeans, ratty sneakers, and plain black cotton T.

  “No solicitors.”

  The man’s upper lip actually curled when he said it. Without the snarl, she might have considered him handsome. His features were classically male and well-proportioned. Dark auburn hair cut close at the nape, and deep, penetrating green eyes that might have sparkled under different circumstances.

  Ryssa stuck her tiny foot in the door as he tried to close it on her, grunting softly when the heavy weight of the hand-carved oak hit the side of her arch. He looked down as if he couldn’t believe she’d done that, then shot her an angry look. Figuring he was about a breath away from shoving her back she said, “I’m Ryssa.”

  He stilled, his gaze growing even colder, if that was possible. She withheld the urge to shiver again. The ice in his human eyes made Marcella seem warm in comparison.

  “Ryssa.” He repeated the name, but made no move to invite her in or push her away. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  For a moment, Ryssa had her doubts. Maybe Marcella had been mistaken. Maybe this wasn’t the right place after all, though it would have been hard to mistake this house for any other. Her weight shifted from one foot to the other as she pulled the thin jacket tighter around her in the chill of the night.

  “My friend said a woman was asking for me.”

  Those perfectly cold, clear, green eyes narrowed on her. “Your friend? Who is your friend?”

  No way was Ryssa going to tell him about Marcella. Wealthy types like him didn’t typically buy into the supernatural. Money, power, prestige – that’s what they understood. Not that any of that truly mattered in the grand scheme of things, but it sure as hell wasn’t Ryssa’s job to enlighten him.

  Tired, cranky, and slightly unnerved by the power of his gaze, she opted for the direct approach. “Is someone here dying?”

  He winced at that, the only crack in his icy façade. Behind the frosty exterior, she could sense his pain. It was the only reason she didn’t knee him in his manly bits and beat feet out of there. People handled grief in different ways; maybe his was by being a condescending asshole.

  He stared at her like she was some kind of cockroach heading towards the caviar.

  “Look,” she said, reaching for her patience. “She called, I came. That’s how it works. Let me in or release me from the summons.”

  Avoiding the cold steel of his glare, she looked up at the position of the moon. At most, she had about an hour and a half before she had to turn and go back. Even cutting through the woods it was a long walk and she was beyond tired, having worked nearly a full shift at the Seven Circles before coming here.

  Still he made no move one way or the other. “Dude, come on. I’m on a schedule here.”

  His scowl deepened and his fists clenched, but she stood her ground. He might think he was big and bad, but he had no idea what was out there, the ones she dealt with on a regular basis. There were a very limited number of beings who could intimidate her, and they were a whole lot bigger and badder than this GQ jack-off.

  Just when she was sure he was going to push her back and slam the door in her face, he stepped back abruptly and opened it instead.

  “Follow me. And don’t touch anything.”

  * * *

  For the second time that night, David couldn’t believe what he was doing. First the trip out to the cemetery, now this. Every rational brain cell he had was screaming for him to toss the scruffy female out on her ass and call the cops.

  Shaggy, poorly cut hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail. Deplorable clothing. An attitude the size of Texas. This was the woman who was supposed to help his mother find peace? Yeah, and he was Bradley Fucking Cooper.

  He looked over his shoulder, surprised to find she was right behind him. She didn’t look any happier to be here than he was to have her. That little cupid bow of a mouth was turned down in a scowl. Big, silvery gray eyes peeked out from thick, inky black lashes, shooting icy daggers his way.

  He turned forward again, preferring the familiarity of the opulent corridor to the starkness of her gaze. They were some powerful eyes. So powerful that he hadn’t been able to speak in those first few moments afte
r opening the door, hypnotized by their clarity and brilliance.

  David mentally shook himself. What was he thinking? She was obviously in on this latest scam. Probably was the daughter (or granddaughter) of the nurse who had put the ridiculous idea in his mother’s head to begin with.

  At least she seemed to be clean. And she did smell kind of nice. Fresh, like moonlight.

  Quiet, too. He chanced another look back. Practically skipping to keep up with his long strides, she was looking around at everything and anything along the way. Probably trying to figure out how much she could pawn things for.

  “Know this,” he hissed quietly when he stopped at a pair of intricately carved wooden doors. “If you cause her even one second of hurt, humiliation, or disappointment, I will throw you out of here so fast your head will spin.”

  She pinned him with a glare of her own, but she seemed more bored than intimidated. “Duly noted. Can we move this along?”

  Bristling, David opened the door, forcing a smile to his face. “Mother, you have a visitor.”

  * * *

  Cancer, Ryssa sensed immediately, and yes, the woman was close to the veil separating this life from the next.

  Thankfully, Elizabeth Corrigan was nothing like her son. Despite her illness, she exuded warmth; her welcome was both appreciative and friendly. With snowy white hair, thick but short, and bright blue eyes, she was still a lovely woman. Her fine features were a bit worn from the disease and the treatments, but nothing could fully detract from the air of classic beauty.

  Ryssa liked her right away, especially when she commanded her son to leave them alone. Judging by the look on his face, David Corrigan was probably close to spontaneously combusting at that point, but Elizabeth was firm. Once he stalked out (with one last murderous warning look toward her), the initial awkward tension faded and Ryssa breathed a sigh of relief. The man could teach a demon a thing or two about presence.