Angeli Trilogy: Angeli Books 1-3

by Amy Vansant

  Anne pulled herself up to sit on the bed, her eyes never leaving Michael’s.

  “You stabbed me,” Michael said, closing his jacket with disgust.

  “Sorry,” Anne said, rubbing her body, still sore from the siphoning. “You neglected to mention you were going to try to kill me.”

  Michael’s eyes flashed with anger. He strode towards Anne, stepping on the dagger and kicking it across the room away from her. In a blur of supernatural speed, Michael grabbed Anne by her hair, gathering her long locks in his grasp and pulling her to a standing position. Her head held back, her long, narrow throat exposed, he leaned down and hissed in her ear.

  “You don’t stab Angeli,” he said, his breath hot against her neck. “You drain us. I know that your trainers taught you that much.”

  Michael released her and stepped back.

  Anne felt her face grow hot with embarrassment. “I know that,” she snapped.

  “Then do it!” he roared. “Or the Perfidian you stab will certainly kill you!”

  Furious at the manhandling, Anne made a move to slap him. The Angelus caught her hand easily and spun her against the table near the bed. Anne’s eyes darted to the knife on the floor.

  “No,” said Michael, his hand on hers before she could begin to move for the blade. “No, no, no!”

  As quickly as he had grabbed her, Anne’s free hand clutched Michael’s wrist. With everything she had, she pulled at Michael’s energy, absorbing it into her own body, the warmth of it easing her own pains.

  The power flowing into Anne’s body infused her with a surge of strength unlike anything she had ever felt. She had siphoned Yuko in the past during practice sessions, but never with such force, and never had the power tasted so sweet.

  Michael went slack long enough for Anne to free her other hand. She grabbed his head in both hands and launched herself on him. Together, they fell back on the bed.

  Michael found his right hand pinned by Anne’s left, his face pressed against her bosom as she tried to wrap herself around him. Anne pulled energy from every inch of exposed flesh she could touch.

  “Enough!” Michael roared, his sharp bark muffled against Anne’s breasts. Michael reached with his left hand to tear at Anne’s dress, the seams giving way easily. He felt her bare back and stretched his palm against it, now pulling energy away from Anne as quickly as he lost his own.

  Anne recognized the sensation of Michael’s siphon as the more unpleasant of the two she had experienced earlier, and ceased siphoning the Angelus. Squirming away from his palm, she threw her hands in the air to signify surrender. His painful touch had cleared her head of the power rush gained from draining him. Michael dropped his arms to his side on the bed.

  For a minute, the two of them remained on the bed, panting like animals. Anne remained partially straddled across Michael’s supine body, one hand holding her dress to her chest. With the other hand, she pushed her wavy locks from her eyes, only to find Michael staring at her, his expression unreadable.

  Michael lifted his hand. Anne flinched. Michael paused to display his open palm, indicating his peaceful intentions. When Anne relaxed, he continued forward and gently grasped the torn portion of Anne’s dress, helping her to cover herself as he aided her in sitting upright.

  “You’re a disaster,” he mumbled.

  Anne removed herself from her seat on Michael’s hips.

  “I apologize if that was too much.”

  “Too much?” said Michael, a smile creeping to his lips. “Such brazen—”

  Anne squinted at him and he cut his thought short, his smile dissipating.

  “No, no, my fault,” he said, before clearing his throat. “I should have warned you that the siphoning process could be used to lull you into complacency as well as cause you pain.”

  “Lull me into complacency?” asked Anne, remembering the pleasurable first few moments of their training. “I don’t know if that’s what I’d call that.”

  Michael stood and brushed himself off, taking a second to survey the damage to his shirt. Anne saw a blue light appear around his wound. As it faded, she saw both the stain and the hole in his shirt disappear. He pulled his jacket tight around his body and smoothed his hair, looking around the small room as if searching for something.

  “Do you have a hand mirror?”

  Anne laughed.

  “No. Why would anyone forced to live like this ever want to see how they appear?”

  Michael chuckled.

  “Agreed.”

  Anne righted the one wooden chair and sat on it, tying a knot in her dress to keep it in place.

  “So,” Michael took a deep breath. “I have a plan for when the Perfidian worshippers come for you.”

  “No stabbing.”

  “Yes! First, no stabbing. And if you can, feign swooning so that you won’t have to struggle. If they feel how strong you are, it could frighten them or make them suspicious. They won’t harm you. After their ceremony, they’ll leave you for Alexandre to collect. Prepare yourself for his arrival after they leave.”

  Anne nodded. “And then stab him.”

  Michael took a slow, calming breath.

  “I’m kidding,” she said.

  “I’m not.”

  Michael paused and held her gaze. “I would like it if you did not die.”

  Anne put her hand on her chest. “Oh my,” she said flashing a demure smile of her own. “You are too kind, sir.”

  Michael looked away and glanced around the room as if searching for unfinished business. Finding none, he offered Anne a curt nod.

  “All right, then. Bonne chance.”

  Anne nodded. “Thank you for the training.” She stood and mimed a quick curtsy. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Oh,” Michael said, returning the curtsy with a stiff bow. “You, too, of course.”

  He moved toward the door.

  “Careful no one sees you when you leave,” added Anne.

  Michael stopped and turned.

  “Why?”

  “If anyone sees you leaving the apartment, a fine gentleman like yourself,” Anne paused, and gave her torn dress a flounce for effect. “The cult will never believe their sacrifice is still a virgin.”

  Michael’s eye twitched, and without further comment or expression, he turned and phased through the wall.

  * * *

  Two hours later, Anne lay bound by coarse ropes to a T-shaped stone table. She had been carried deep into the wooded swamp by the worshipers. The humid air felt nearly as heavy as the ropes that bound her arms to the slab. She made a mental note to insist that her next assignment be somewhere with a much cooler climate.

  Anne had assumed the rabble would tie her with some insubstantial twine to some ultimately breakable item. Now she found herself, even with her enhanced strength, unable to snap the heavy rope or break the stone to which she was bound. She rubbed her wrists bloody, only to have them heal, and then rubbed them raw again.

  “Who taught these people how to tie ropes like this?” Anne hissed to herself. She stopped resisting as the truth dawned on her. They were wharf workers. No wonder they were so handy with a line.

  Anne sighed. She’d spent all day hiding knives in her dress, and now she was bound like an animal, her blades infuriatingly close, but ultimately unattainable. Michael had told her not to resist in order to speed the sacrifice process; perhaps, she had been a little too accommodating.

  After five minutes of excruciating struggle, Anne pulled her right hand free from the bindings. She heard a splash not far from her position and froze. Another wet footfall followed.

  Anne heard a grunt, and breathed a sigh of relief; the noise sounded like an alligator making its way through the swamp. She imagined that was how Alexandre hid the corpses after draining his victims. Though, she knew leaving the bodies anywhere in the endless swamps would be sufficient, with or without help from the alligators.

  Anne moved to retrieve a blade from her gown to cut the re
maining line. Just as her fingers brushed the hilt of her hidden knife, there came a rush of air and Anne found her free arm slammed back onto the stone. A man straddled her midsection, bent at the waist, his face drawing ever closer to hers.

  “I have been watching you,” said Alexandre. “I am afraid I cannot let you get away.”

  Anne turned her head to the side to avoid the Perfidian’s rancid breath.

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t feel that way.”

  Alexandre sat back with a laugh, still holding her wrist tightly.

  “Very funny, cherie.”

  Alexandre ran his right hand through his greasy black locks, pushing them from his face. By the light of the full moon, Anne could see that his corruption had progressed significantly. His cheeks were sunken, his hawk-like nose pronounced. His clothing was of high quality, but ill-fitting and dirty. His eyes had a strange green glow that Anne had only seen in the Perfidia she had assisted in reaping during training. Alexandre’s sharp jaw, covered with at least a week’s worth of stubble, clenched as he looked over Anne’s supine body.

  “You are beautiful, no?” he whispered, as if seeing her for the first time.

  Alexandre ran his free hand across Anne’s bosom and down her waist until his own leg blocked his path. To Anne’s relief, he narrowly missed finding one of her hidden knives.

  “You will enjoy this more than you can imagine,” he said, swinging his leg over her and standing to her right, where he could more easily hold her free right arm to the stone. “Alexandre is a very generous lover, I assure you.”

  Anne knew she had to find a way to coerce Alexandre to release her hand long enough that she could retrieve her blade and free her other wrist. Alexandre seemed blessedly unaware of her Sentinel status. Yuko and her Sentinel trainers had schooled her in cloaking techniques to hide her own red aura from Perfidia in order to appear human and non-threatening.

  Alexandre reached toward Anne’s toes and slid his hand up and under her dress. She felt his fingers slide along her leg and noted with discomfort that he no longer radiated the warmth of a healthy Angelus. Anne jumped as his icy paw came to rest on her thigh.

  “Are you ready, cherie?” he asked, his voice ragged as his breathing intensified with arousal.

  Before Anne could react, a dull pain began in her chest. She could feel her energy leaving at Alexandre’s touch.

  “Wait!” she yelped.

  Anne groaned a little, attempting to convince the egomaniacal Perfidian that she was in fact enjoying the process as much as he had promised. She needed him to release her hand.

  “Make proper love to me,” she breathed.

  Alexandre’s thin lips curled into a smile. Anne felt his grip tighten on her wrist as he bent to put his face menacingly close to hers.

  “Sentinel,” he said in a low tone. “You will not have the pleasure of my company.”

  Anne’s face fell. He knew what she was.

  Pain began in earnest as Alexandre gripped the tender flesh of Anne’s thigh and began to siphon her life away. She felt his long blackened nails puncture her flesh. In increasing agony, Anne found it impossible to concentrate on an escape plan. Panic began to well inside of her.

  Just as Anne opened her mouth to scream, she heard a loud crack and her pain ceased. She focused where Alexandre had been, only to find Michael in his place.

  “OhmygodMichaelyouheartybastard,” said Anne in a rush of grateful relief.

  “Not the first time I’ve heard that,” said Michael, brushing his hands together.

  Anne frantically looked for Alexandre, her neck craning in all directions. Michael reached forward and lightly grasped her jaw, using it to turn her head and force her focus on Alexandre, who lay in a heap on the ground beside them.

  “I’ve broken his neck. But you have only a moment or two,” he said in a calm, measured tone. “It is a liability to have me here. Though he cannot kill me, all Angeli, even the Perfidian, share a common energy. My very presence could make him stronger. Hurry and finish this.”

  Anne nodded and Michael released her chin. As he turned to step away, Anne saw him bend and snatch something from the ground without slowing his pace. He slipped it into his pocket, but she could not see what it was.

  Knowing there remained little time to regret her clumsy first reaping, Anne whipped a knife from her waistband and with a flash of metal, freed her left hand. She caught a glimpse of Michael looking at her blade disapprovingly from the edge of the clearing.

  Alexandre recovered quickly. He struggled to rise, his neck twisting back into place with a sickening string of snaps. By the time the rage returned to his eyes Anne had launched herself on him, and again he fell, his arm wrenched behind his back by the Sentinel.

  Anne felt the power of the corrupted Angelus flowing into her, every bit of it making her siphon stronger and faster. Weakened by his injury, Alexandre had little chance to recover. He roared with pain and frustration, and then with a flash of white light, he was gone.

  Anne collapsed to the swampy ground where his body had been beneath her.

  She clambered to her feet, covered in mud. Her body pulsated with power. She felt as if she could pull a tree from the roots and throw it across the swamp, though she couldn't imagine what that would accomplish for anyone.

  Anne scanned the clearing and spotted Michael still standing on the edge, his arms crossed against his chest.

  She felt her face flush with embarrassment.

  “Thank you,” she called to him, hoping he would come to her. She’d love a chance to wrestle with him now!

  Anne realized she still had a small knife in her hand. Michael wouldn’t approve. She looked down just long enough to slip the tiny blade back in her hidden pocket. When she looked back, eager to relive her triumph with her mentor, she found herself alone.

  Michael was gone.

  Anne stood in the clearing, a clump of Alexandre’s empty clothing at her feet, and sighed.

  Chapter Five

  Philadelphia, 1750

  “Abigail!”

  Anne sat nestled on a loveseat in her reading room. Someone was pounding the doorknocker of her Philadelphia home and, dressed only her chemise, she was in no position to answer it. She found her proper clothing uncomfortable and had adopted the habit of reading in the afternoon wearing only her undergarments. Her maidservant had warned Anne she should stay dressed during the day. As she stared with dismay at the door, old Abigail’s disapproving voice echoed in Anne’s mind.

  She was caught.

  “Abigail!” she called again over the din of barking dogs. Anne’s three smaller mutts jostled against each other, scratching at the door, while the barrel-chested bulldog stood behind them and released a single, deep woof! every ten seconds like clockwork.

  Getting no answer from Abigail, Anne grunted and made her way to the door.

  “Move it, Max,” she said, pushing the bulldog out of the way with her foot. “As if anyone would be afraid of you, you lazy hunk of dog flesh.”

  Anne parted the curtains and peered through the window. Immediately, the man on her doorstep spotted her.

  It was Michael.

  Anne sighed with relief and tried to squelch a grin. She loved it when Michael checked in on her. It made her feel protected. And she had to admit, he was easy on the eyes. When he stood near, she could feel the thrill of her energy reaching for his; it made her blood rush with excitement. She had to believe that he felt it, too. Though in three years, he had yet to express those feelings.

  Anne hid behind the door as she opened it to let in the Angelus. He stepped gingerly into her parlor, trying not to crush the three small dogs running circles around his feet.

  “Is that some sort of domesticated rodent?” he asked, pointing at a white dog with large pointed ears.

  “That’s Piddles. He’s a toy rat terrier,” said Anne, closing the door behind Michael.

  “What kind of a name is—” Michael stopped in mid-sentence, noticing the s
prinkle of liquid on the floor around his feet. “Never mind.”

  “He gets excited.”

  Anne opened a wooden box sitting on the table just inside the adjacent reading room and retrieved a folded handkerchief to absorb the mess. “We’re prepared for such things.”

  Anne finished and set the handkerchief on the table. Turning her attention back to Michael, she found him staring at her.

  “What?”

  “You’re wearing your undergarments.”

  “Oh,” Anne put her hand over her chest. “Yes, sorry. Fashion isn’t comfortable. And it was just you.”

  “Just me,” echoed Michael. He crossed his arms and stared silently at the floor, his head tilted as if he were thinking.

  “Well,” he said after a moment. “Fashion isn’t about comfort. If it was, it wouldn’t be fashionable.”

  “You would know. Do you want me to get dressed? Do you have a few hours? Or would you prefer to be the pretty one?”

  Michael wore a dark blue coat with deep cuffs, worn over a long, gold brocade vest. His shirt had full sleeves gathered at the wrists, boasting ruffles that flounced when he moved. His hair was long and pulled back at the nape of his neck. As always, he was dressed in the highest fashion of the time.

  “No, don’t bother,” said Michael, ignoring her joke. “I’m just checking in. You recently retired a Perfidian in the area?”

  Anne nodded. “Hardly put up a fight at all. And I liked the area so I thought I’d stay a while. I’m known as the Widow Bonny here. People don’t pay as much attention to a single woman if she’s a widow. It also explains why I’m rich and alone.”

  “You’re doing quite well,” said Michael, looking around at the expensive furniture. “This is much nicer than the place I first met you in New Orleans.”

  “Just a little. Please sit. Can I get you something to drink? My servant seems to have abandoned me, but I’m sure we have something somewhere.”

  “No, thank you,” said Michael, sitting on a Queen Anne sofa with a high, arched back. The moment he touched the cushions, the three smaller dogs jumped up and sat beside him. Piddles put a paw on Michael’s leg, begging for a scratch.