Deception
Page 1
Deception Angels of Death
Deception
Angels of Death
By
M.L. Guida
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Dear Reader
Cupid, Angels of Death, Excerpt
Copyright
Chapter One
The Archangel Michael flipped through the Book of the Dead that listed the time and date humans would die. “I have a mission even you can’t screw up.” His lips turned up in a sneer.
Despite the warm temperature in heaven’s throne room, Poison shivered. She didn’t know if it was from the cold or the contempt dripping from his voice. She squared her shoulders and met his dominating stare. “I won’t, sir.”
“Good. I need you to go to a Halloween party and kill a woman—Lisa Evans. She’ll be dressed in a purple genie outfit.”
“Kill, sir?” Angels of Death only escorted the dead to their destinations. They didn’t kill humans.
He slammed the book shut. “Are you questioning me?”
She nearly jumped out of her fatigues. His ‘you’re-pissing-me-off’ look froze her heart. She bowed her head. “Forgive me.”
He stepped around the altar. His white wings spread out behind him, making him larger than any angel in heaven. His black hair flared out around his massive shoulders. The sconces behind him flickered, and he cast a long shadow, dwarfing her. He was the Angel of Death, the commander of all of them. His deeds were legendary. But she’d disappointed him.
“Before you kill her,” he said. “I want you to bring me board game.”
Michael never played games. Playful was not his middle name. “What kind of a board?”
“All you need to know is that it looks like an oak Ouija board with a ruby in the center of it.” As usual, his lips were tighter than Ebenezer Scrooge’s purse strings. He leaned close. “Bring it to me. You have until midnight. I don’t care how bad the demons reek, you get the job done.”
She winced. “Yes, sir.” Since the damn demon Balthazar had cursed her less than a year ago, every time she was around a demon—all except for one—she’d barfed her guts out, making her useless in a fight. Now, no one wanted to work with her. Could she blame them? She was the fat kid no one wanted on their team.
A young man walked into the room. “You forget, dear brother. I’ve given her the potion.” He smiled at her. “She can fight.”
Michael grunted.
Some of the fear and dejection left Poison’s churning insides, and she couldn’t help but grin. Raphael was an archangel, but he looked like a high school boy with his long blond locks and causal T-shirt and jeans. He was the Archangel of Healing, and she’d hoped he was right.
He was shorter and slender compared to Michael, but he was powerful and very, very old. “You’ll do fine, Poison,” he said. “I promise.”
“She’d better,” Michael said. “I want the board.”
Poison stood at attention. “I’ll bring it to you.”
His silver eyes glowed. “See that you do. Or you’ll be shooting arrows with cupid.” He snapped his fingers.
The wind swirled around Poison, and heaven’s throne room vanished. She was outside a large, brick, red Tudor house decorated for Halloween. Pumpkin lights were strung around a large oak tree and hung from the gutters. A human-size witch stood on the porch, and when guests walked by, she cackled, “Happy Halloween.” This had to be Lisa’s house or Michael wouldn’t have sent her here.
She’d bring the damn board to him and kill Lisa. She had no intention of becoming a cherub, shooting arrows of love. She was an Angel of Death and in the most respected garrison. How could she hold her head high if she was demoted to an Angel of Love?
Dressed in her usual army fatigues, she headed toward the front door.
No one noticed her as she leaned against the bar, sipping a glass of wine. Her prey—Lisa Evans—pranced around the party in a fuchsia genie costume as if she had a sexy, twenty-one-year-old body. She walked over to a good-looking man dressed as a cowboy.
She batted her brown eyes. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”
He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I am.” At least he’d probably had been until the gigantic genie cornered him.
The DJ played Boris Picket’s infamous song, “The Monster Mash,” for the millionth and one time. Thanks to Lisa, Poison could now recite it by heart. She half smirked. Maybe that’s why Michael wanted her dead.
Lisa ran her hand down the man’s arm. “Would you like to dance?”
He looked at his half-full beer. “I have to go refill my glass.”
Lisa narrowed her eyes and clutched his arm. “That wasn’t a question.”
His face stricken, the man put his beer down and followed her to the hardwood dance floor. Lisa laughed and danced, while the man grimaced. But could Poison blame him? Lisa’s arms flapped back and forth like a saggy swing, and her breasts jiggled, threatening to pop out of her too-small bikini top. Her belly shook like a tub of jelly.
If her sweat-glistened body escaped the tiny outfit, she could go as Lady Godiva and win the scariest Halloween costume.
It was less than four hours to midnight—nothing like shaving it too close. What was so urgent about the board? Poison bet it had something to do with Balthazar. But it wasn’t a dark-haired demon that popped into her mind when she thought of Lucifer’s second in command, but a red-headed one—Ringmaster.
Thinking about him made her gooey inside. She still remembered the night when he’d stood up to Balthazar and told him to leave her alone. She and the twin brothers Scythe and Blade had been on a mission to escort the dead from a sinking cruise ship when Balthazar arrived with Ringmaster and another goon. Balthazar had blown into her face, cursing her to be deathly sick around any demon. Their stench of maggot-infested, rotting meat brought her to her knees. But Ringmaster didn’t. He smelled like a smoldering campfire, strangely comforting. And his voice—damn, his throaty voice melted her panties.
Stop it. Angels were forbidden to mate with demons. Duh.
Lisa was kissing the poor chump on the dance floor. People were dressed in every costume imaginable, and they indulged in dancing, drinking, and eating just like they had in Gomorrah before Michael had ordered it destroyed. The gruff male laughter and the high-pitched female giggles and the clinking of glasses frayed her nerves, but she didn’t see anything that resembled a wooden game board.
The air rippled around her, and a shiver ran down her spine as if someone had blown on the back of her neck. Goose bumps broke out on her arms. She stood on alert. Evil was here. A demon had arrived.
Great, that’s all she needed—a demon to muck up her mission.
She studied each decked-out vampire, princess, monster, ghoul, or whatever the humans were dressed up as to determine if they had a soul. So far, everyone was human, or at least appeared to be human. But someone here wasn’t what they pretended to be. The demon must be powerful enough to shield his or her essence, but she’d find it. Demons had no souls. Beneath their flesh, blood, and tissue, there was nothing but emptiness, blackness, loneliness.
When she got closer to a demon, the tingling sensation would get stronger—the more powerful the demon, the more powerful the stench. She inhaled but only detected pumpkin spice and chocolate—dark to be exact.
The air thickened around her, and the tingles grew stronger, much stronger. She shuddered. Where was this breeze coming from? Angels never got cold, but it didn’t feel like air, more like frozen fingers tapping her spine.
All the windows and doors were closed, but the temperature had dropped as if someone had splashed the occupants with ice water. She exhaled and could see her breath. A fireplace roared in the room, but there was no warmth. The flames emitted an eerie glow and cast long, shadow creatures onto the floor. She stood straighter, and her senses prickled. What did humans call it? A cold spot? She was an Angel of Death. What did she have to fear?
Something bumped into her. Poison jumped. She whirled around, ready to do battle.
A woman dressed like Snow White wobbled and spilled her goblet of red wine onto the floor. She put her hand over her mouth and giggled. “Oops. Oh, I didn’t see you there,” she slurred. She flashed her glossy eyes over Poison as if she’d flunked the sexiest Halloween costume. “God, you look like you stepped out of an army movie.” She laughed and stumbled.
Poison gave her a quick toothy smile. “What can I say?” She didn’t deny it. She was a soldier and wore her typical olive T-shirt, camouflage tactical pants, and lightweight, laced beige boots. At least she didn’t look like an over-the-hill Snow White doll. How would the little wanna-be princess like a red apple dipped in Sleep—a special heaven poison, Michael’s own invention? One bite, and no kiss would ever wake Snow White, but she wasn’t listed in the Book of the Dead—yet.
A bent, graying Prince Charming grabbed Snow White’s arm. “Sorry, miss. Come on, I think you need some fresh air, hon.”
“Sure, Princey.” Snow White patted his hand and allowed him to maneuver her to the double French doors that led out to the patio.
Poison rolled her eyes. Stupid humans.
The song ended, and the man hurried away as fast as he could. Lisa left the dance floor and stopped and talked to people.
Poison forgot all about little Miss Uppity. She put down her drink and followed close until a sexy, muscular pirate blocked her path. He put all of Hollywood’s hunky pirates to shame and turned her insides to jelly. His black, feathered hat sat skewed on his head. He had thick black hair. His masculine scent stumped her—smoky embers, as if he’d sat in front of a camp fire on a cool summer night. Ringmaster? No, it couldn’t be him. The pirate had a soul. Ringmaster didn’t have one, and his hair was red.
The pirate nodded and gave her a devilish smile. “Having a good time?”
His husky voice tempted her to kiss him. A memory flashed into her mind. She’d heard that voice before. Forget it. He’s not Ringmaster. She had a job to do. “Yes. If you’ll excuse me.”
Lisa was talking to people at the bar, moving farther and farther away from Poison. She cornered a man dressed as a sultan, forcing him against the bar. Poison took a step to close the distance, but the pirate edged slightly toward her, and his large muscular frame obstructed her view.
“Have a drink with me.” It was more of a command, than a question. Clearly, this man was used to getting his way. He reminded her of the pushy angels that thought a petite blond had no business being in the garrison.
“No, thank you.”
He motioned to a fully stocked bar of every type of gin, vodka, wine, and beer. Lisa had spared no expense. People crowded the bar, but the man maneuvered his way through the sea of people and leaned against it. “I promise you won’t regret it.”
She was done arguing. “I said no.”
He held up his finger. “One drink.” He said something to the male vampire bartender.
The bartender handed him a glass full of dark beer—her favorite. He hadn’t even asked her what she wanted. He gave her a sultry smile and raised his glass to her, as if it was a temptation. Chills ran over Poison. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he was a demon. Demons knew everything about their victims—even angels—to get them to bow to their will.
She wasn’t bending.
Poison moved to the left of the pirate and took a sip of her beer. It’d been so long since she’d had a dark stout. But how did he know?
He watched her underneath his hat and his eyes glowed.
She jerked her head up.
His eyes turned brown and he gave her a curious gaze. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
The sultan managed to edge around Lisa and escape with a pretty vampire. Lisa slammed her wine glass down on the counter, sloshing wine. She slid off the barstool and dodged people dancing. She headed toward two mahogany doors across the room and then slipped inside. Still scowling, she closed them. She was up to something.
Poison glanced at the clock. Less than two hours—great.
She put her glass down. “Sorry, but I have to go. Maybe some other time.”
Disappointment flickered in his eyes. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Chills swooshed down her spine. She didn’t like the matter-of-fact tone in his voice. It was as if she’d just unknowingly agreed to a deal.
He bowed. “I’ll take my leave.”
He maneuvered through the dance floor, but then half way through the floor, Poison couldn’t make out his feathery hat. Where did he go? He wasn’t anywhere. It wasn’t like he was easy to miss. Humans couldn’t move that fast. The man had a soul, but it didn’t mean he was human.
Uneasiness swept over her. She noticed something else. The air had lightened. She sniffed. The evil was gone.
She fluttered her gaze over the party and stopped at the bar. Where was the pirate? He’d only been a foot away from her. Humans couldn’t move that fast. Yet, he was nowhere to be seen. Something wasn’t right. The man had a soul, but it didn’t mean he was human.
Was some other supernatural force her to snag the board? Her angel senses didn’t detect anything, but what if something was power enough to hide? Nothing was going to steal her prize.
Gritting her teeth, she maneuvered her way through the crowded party. Humans jostled into her. A pudgy, furry werewolf with a bulbous nose painted black stopped in front of her, staring at her as if she was his favorite Halloween candy. His obvious garage sale costume had bald spots and matted fur. He swayed on his feet. “Hello there, Sarge.”
He slurred, and then belched.
A bucket of beer breath spit into her face. Poison wrinkled her nose and waved the stench away. “Excuse me.”
“What’s your hurry, Goldilocks? You shouldn’t piss off the big bad wolf.”
Please. As if. She glared. “You’re in my way.”
“Dance with me.” He jiggled, and his beer splashed onto her boots.
“Move.”
“I don’t think so.” He grabbed her wrist.
If the idiot knew who she was, he’d molt. “I see you’re a real hit with the ladies, aren’t you?”
“They beg for me.”
She pushed on his flabby hand. “You mean they beg for you to let them go.”
He pulled her to his saggy chest, knocking the wind out of her. “Give me a kiss, Sarge.”
He bent his head and she turned her head. Holy hot potatoes, she wanted to use her powers and knock this balding fat werewolf to oblivion, but Michael forbade it. She’d blow her cover—another task forbidden. She’d have to rely on female ingenuity to duck sloppy-drunk guy.
“Let her go,” a deadly voice said.
She inhaled the scent of smoldering embers, but it quickly melted away. Shivers ran down her spine. Her heart beat tripled. No, it couldn’t be. She slowly glanced over her shoulder. Disappointment stained her tongue. Pirate man was back. He was definitely good-looking, but he wasn’t the wicked temptation that haunted her dreams.
His broad-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his mask. He scowled and towered over the wolf that was too stupid to obey.
He elbowed the pirate in the side. “Hey, she wants to be with me.”
“She’s not into shaggy dogs.” The man seized the wolf’s arm and twisted.
“Hey,” the wolf yelled. He released Poison, and then dropped his beer. Glass shattered. Golden liquid splattered onto the floor.
A belly dancer whirled around. “What are you doing? You just got beer all over my costume!”
Fists flew into the air. Humans.
Poison pushed through the crowd of more ghouls, werewolves, and monsters to get to the doors Lisa had slipped inside. First things first.
Chapter Two
Ringmaster released the stupid, drunken human’s arm.
The fat werewolf fell to his knees and glanced up at him with glassy eyes. “Geez, buddy. I was just having a little fun. Didn’t know you’d stamped your label on her.”
“Got that right, asshole.”
He pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring the whispers and jeers. If the humans knew what he was, they’d cry out for God to save them. But he could care less what they thought. However, he did care what Poison thought. The little blond angel had slipped out of sight. But then, why would she stay?
Ever since the ocean liner, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. But he’d bet she’d scratched him off her attraction list a long time ago. After all, he was the enemy. He clamped his jaw tight as he remembered that dreadful night. He’d wanted to smash his fist into Balthazar’s smug face for making Poison heave up her guts. His boss liked to humiliate people—especially, angels and demons. Got off on it. He ought to know. Balthazar had done it to him more than once.
He should have drawn her trembling body into his arms after Balthazar cursed her. He’d known what would happen. Had he helped her? Hell, no. He’d fled like a worm.
He’d forgotten how her luscious scent of gardenias sent his blood on fire. He wanted her—him—a demon wanted an Angel of Death. Whoever heard of an angel and demon mating?
When he’d arrived at the party and saw her leaning against the wall, he’d nearly lost his mind. He itched to run his fingers through her short blond curls to see if they were as silky as they looked. He swore her locks were the color of the sun. Her lush red lips begged for him to kiss her. Not to mention her sinful body. She was all lean muscle, not an ounce of fat on that girl, but she managed to be soft and sexy as hell.
What was he doing? Balthazar wanted the spell board and Lisa’s soul by midnight. Easy enough to do, but instead, he played knight-in-shiny-armor to an Angel of Death who didn’t need his protection. Not in the least. Why hadn’t Poison killed the lumpy werewolf? The man had already signed up for heart attack central. If it were up to Ringmaster, he’d have skinned the wolf alive, but no, not his little angel. She played by Michael the Archangel’s rule book—no one died without their name being written in his stupid, little black bible. Spontaneity was definitely not in the rule book.