Hope's Prelude: The Angelorum Twelve Chronicles #2.5

by L. G. O'Connor

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, and picked one up. She gasped as she flipped through it. “No, no, no, no!” she screamed as they fanned through all the notebooks.

  “They’re blank. All of them,” Achanelech growled. He picked up the briefcase and flung it across the room. An envelope fluttered out . . . addressed to “Emily.”

  Emanelech lunged for it and ripped it open. She ground her teeth and read it aloud. “Did you really think I was that stupid? Consider this my letter of resignation. I quit. The vaccine is safe. You’ll never find it. Oh, and by the way, rot in Hell demon . . . bitch.” The last word came out as a high-pitched squeak. The letter spiraled to the carpet as her hands flew up to cover her mouth.

  Achanelech shook his head, passing a palm down his face. “Fine mess, Em. Replace him tomorrow. We’ll find his vaccine or recreate it.”

  She stood, shaking and mewling like a wounded lamb. Ice crystals fell from her eyes onto the desk, pinging against the wood surface as they landed and bounced off.

  Achanelech rounded the desk and took her in his arms, a steamy cloud rising between them on contact. “There, there. Tomorrow is another day. All is not lost, ma chérie. We still have time.”

  Samuel looked on, shocked at the demon’s tenderness. Thinking this might be a good time to leave, he backed slowly toward the door.

  His movement caught Achanelech’s eye. The archdemon’s expression hardened. “We have one more matter to settle, Em,” he said, dropping his arms. His eyes narrowed at Samuel.

  “What’s that?” she asked in a small voice.

  “You have enough specimens for your experiments for now. No more.”

  Ice water ran down Samuel’s spine as he stood rigid and motionless, rapidly assessing what this could mean for him. He could kick himself for not executing his plan sooner.

  “Bu-But—” Emanelech sputtered. Samuel hoped she’d manipulate a reasonable compromise.

  “They are not pairs of shoes you can pick off of shelves at the mall. Enough.” An evil smirk formed on Achanelech’s lips, hatred burning in his eyes. “And you can return that to the dungeon where it belongs. But not here. I no longer want him in my house. Put him with the others at the warehouse.”

  Before Samuel could react, one of the ice minions seized him from behind, the same way they’d captured all the other Nephilim.

  “Acchie!” Emanelech said, throwing a regretful look at Samuel.

  “Discussion closed,” he snapped.

  Samuel waited for Emanelech to fight back, to do . . . something.

  “But . . . but what are we going to do now?” she asked, wiping at the black smudges under her eyes and then giving Samuel her back.

  “We wait for the Angelorum’s next move,” Achanelech said with resignation, taking a seat behind his desk, “until we can think of something better.” He pointed to Samuel. “Now go take out the garbage.”

  Straightening her spine, she slowly spun to face Samuel. Devoid of emotion, she signaled the ice minion restraining him with a nod of her head.

  “Mistress?” he whispered, dread coiling like a tight noose around his throat.

  “C’est la vie.” She gave him an icy glare, and turned back to Achanelech as Samuel was dragged from the room.

  The chill of her betrayal hit him in the gut with ice-pick precision.

  Chapter 22

  ISA

  Menlo Park, California.

  A WISP OF ENERGY pulled at Isa, rousing him to the dark shadows of his cell. This time he recognized it, the Nephil present during his capture.

  “Who’s there?” Isa growled, shaking off the disorientation of sleep, his only solace from the grief of losing Hope.

  The fetid smell of his accommodations hit him as his eyes adjusted. A large form dressed in white prison garb came into view, sitting cross-legged in the corner of his cell. A Nephil about his size, only younger.

  “An ally . . . and now a prisoner like you,” he said quietly.

  Isa frowned, and snapped, “An ally? According to everyone imprisoned here, you’re a traitor.”

  The Nephil shook his head. “No. I assisted in their capture because I had no choice,” he said, his voice filled with regret.

  “Choice? Of course you had a choice,” Isa hissed.

  “Like your Hope, my choice was for the greater good. You of all people should know what that means,” he accused, rising to his feet. In a softer tone, he added, “I think she’d be pleased to know that Dr. Peyton completed the vaccine.”

  “How do you know that?” Isa stood, clenching his hands into fists, ready for a fight if warranted.

  “After you were taken, when I could get away, I tracked your mate and Dr. Peyton’s progress. It was I who left Dr. Peyton the original sample.”

  “What do you know of my mate?”

  “I know . . . enough,” he said, and walked out of the shadows into the small area lit by the dim hall lamps shining through the bars. Blond with wary, crystal-blue eyes, he held his mouth in a grim line.

  “You know she’s dead?” Isa asked.

  He bowed his head and nodded. “Yes. I didn’t find out until after it happened . . . I’m sorry.” He looked up. “Another reason I came . . . Dr. Peyton died last night.”

  Pain hit the center of Isa’s chest anew. Hope, and now Tom. Lord, please help us all.

  Isa pointed at the Nephil’s heart, wanting to know the lineage of the male who bore such good and bad news. “Lift your shift and show me your Mark.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Why?”

  Isa narrowed his eyes. “To see who birthed you.”

  A look of surprise crossed the other male’s face. Tentatively, he reached for the hem of his shirt and lifted it up and over his head.

  Isa stepped back, his knees weakening. Missing was the red Guardian Mark he expected to see; in its place deep scars crisscrossed the male’s hairless torso. “Turn,” Isa whispered, an ache forming in his heart. The Nephil gave him his back. More of the same but worse. Livid keloid welts covered every inch of his exposed skin. Indignant tears sprang to Isa’s eyes. He wiped them away as quickly as they came, cursing his raw emotional state. But never had he seen a Nephil scarred such. His hatred for the Dark Ones bubbled up until bile seized the back of his throat.

  “How does this give you the name of my mother?” the Nephil asked, puzzled.

  Isa laid a hand on his shoulder. The male flinched as if burned by his touch, whirled to face him, and took a step back.

  “Come and sit,” Isa whispered, suppressing a look of pity. “Put your shirt back on.”

  The Nephil slipped on his tunic. “Can you tell me her name?” he asked with a look of anticipation, sitting on Isa’s pallet while leaving a comfortable distance between them.

  “I wish I could. This is what I sought.” Isa removed his own tunic to reveal his tattoo. The other male’s eyes lit up.

  Isa pointed to the crest at the bottom. “This symbol,” he said, “represents the Angelorum Guardianship. Right here, above it, is my name written in the angelic language. It says, ‘Ishmael, Son of Derdekea.’ Derdekea is my mother.”

  The Nephil’s expression crumbled into a look of disappointment. Hanging his head, he pulled a piece of straw from the mattress. “So, you can’t tell me who my mother is,” he said flatly.

  “Tell me who you are,” Isa coaxed. “Even without a Mark, I may be able to help.”

  He released a breath. “As far back as I can remember, the archdemon called Achanelech has claimed he’s my father and that my mother abandoned me, leaving me in his clutches. Punished for merely drawing breath . . .”

  Isa listened patiently as the male told him of Marie-Claire and her prophesy, his years of solitude and neglect, the lifeline given to him by Achanelech’s consort, how Isa’s capture had been a mistake, and what he’d gleaned so far on the inner workings of Achanelech’s holdings—including how he came to have a key to Isa’s cell.

  One thing was certain. Isa believed him and h
ad found an ally. By the time the Collins Trinity arrived, they would be ready.

  After the male finished, Isa sat back and smiled. “Do you realize that you’ve still not told me your name?”

  The side of the Nephil’s mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “Maybe it’s because no one has ever cared to ask. Samuel . . . my name is Samuel.”

  Isa’s chest filled with warmth and his eyes welled as he remembered Hope’s parting words, “Find Samuel.” He didn’t have to; Samuel had found him. Isa took a deep breath and swallowed. “Extend your arm and place it on my shoulder.”

  Samuel hesitated and then did as he was told.

  “May I do the same?” Isa asked, sensing the other male’s discomfort with physical contact.

  Pressing his lips together, Samuel nodded.

  Isa rested his hand on Samuel, and said telepathically. “This is an official Guardianship greeting. From this day forward, I call you brother.”

  Samuel’s jaw locked and he turned away. But not before Isa saw the glistening in his eyes.

  “I think I know who birthed you,” Isa whispered.

  Samuel’s head jerked back, his eyes shining and eager.

  “She will come for us . . .” Isa said.

  “How do you know?” Samuel asked.

  Isa squeezed Samuel’s shoulder, and gave him a reassuring smile. “Because she is the Angel Who Thwarts Demons.”

  Want more Angelorum Twelve Chronicles?

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for entering the World of the Angelorum! If you enjoyed HOPE’S PRELUDE, please leave an honest review on the retailer site where you purchased the book. I promise that it will be greatly appreciated. Truly, word of mouth is what helps authors sell books.

  The Angelorum Twelve Chronicles is an adult urban fantasy / paranormal romance series, which is one story told in four books, plus this prequel novella. That said, each book can be read to a satisfying conclusion.

  If this is your first trip into my world, I hope you’ll try the series from the beginning. I’ve included the first three chapters from the Young Adult Adaptation of TRINITY STONES, Book One in the series. If you want the full spice of the adult version, it’s available at your favorite online retailer and wherever fine books are sold.

  Thank you and I hope to hear from you!

  TURN THE PAGE FOR A PREVIEW OF TRINITY STONES...

  Hugs,

  L.G.

  Chapter 1

  CARA

  New York City. Wednesday, March 19, 7:30 a.m. EDT

  “Heal me,” he whispered.

  What?

  Cara ignored the man with the V-shaped scar on his cheek, who was pressed up against her side in the fast-moving subway car. With her face half hidden behind a curtain of auburn waves, she continued to scroll through the e-mail on her work phone. Taking a step away, she tried to create some distance between them.

  The car banked hard to the left, a metallic squeal of brakes echoing off the tunnel walls as the train barreled around a turn. Cara swayed under the weight of the briefcase slung over her shoulder and shifted back into the man.

  “Sorry,” Cara mumbled without looking up. Readjusting her grip on the overhead bar, she widened her stance to gain better balance in her high heels. She’d debated wearing her birthday splurge, a new pair of Christian Louboutins, but decided if she had to spend another day at her miserable job she could at least be miserable in style.

  She crinkled her nose at the man’s overpowering cologne. One glimpse at him sent a shiver down her spine. Even though he was well-dressed, something about the hardness of his black eyes and his long, slicked-back hair made her skin crawl. She made another attempt to shift away, but found it impossible to put more distance between them without rudely pushing her way through the jammed car. But it might be worth it.

  Standing just shy of six feet tall in her heels, Cara’s eyes surfed over the crowd. She spotted a clearing farther down. Everyone appeared to be packed into her half of the train, giving wide berth to a muscled hulk of a guy dressed in black with a dark-blond ponytail hanging just below his shoulders. She couldn’t understand why—he didn’t look particularly dangerous. Granted, he was built like a linebacker. Had he not been slouched over and staring intently at something inside his massive palm, he would’ve stood somewhere between six and seven feet tall. Her eyes traveled over his chiseled profile, and concluded that, at least from the side, he was handsome in a gladiator sort of way.

  As if sensing her eyes on him, he glanced her way. His intense, crystal-blue eyes locked on hers for a split second before he turned around and gave her his back.

  A surge of heat coursed through her, and her cheeks reddened. Make that a Greek god. A big, gorgeous, intimidating one, she thought, abandoning her plan to move. Too bad he was the kind of guy who’d never look at her twice—or even once, it appeared, for that matter.

  Taking a deep breath, she shook her head and turned her attention back to her smartphone. She opened her next e-mail and began to read. Her stomach lurched and she paled as her eyes scanned the paragraph-long rant from one of her best clients: “... incompetent... scheming... pulling my assets...illegal trade...”

  Trade? What trade? She hadn’t made a trade for this client yesterday or even this week. Her bastard boss, Rick, must be screwing with her portfolio again. She nervously fingered the diamond solitaire she wore around her neck—her anchor in times of distress.

  Cara’s chest grew heavy, and an impending sense of doom gripped her like a riptide about to pull her underwater. It was the calling card of a long-buried and half-forgotten specter rearing its ugly head.

  No, not now! Not again after all this time. Her eyes widened in panic, and her breaths came in short bursts. She needed out. The space in the train was suddenly way too small.

  Her rusty coping mechanisms churned inside her, kicking into gear. There wasn’t much time before the panic attack escalated and took over.

  Only a few more seconds, she thought, unconsciously tapping her shoe. Chambers Street was the next stop. Instead of changing trains at Wall Street, she’d find another way to work. If she made it to work...and didn’t end up paying a voluntary visit to the emergency room at New York Downtown Hospital.

  Her heartbeat picked up steam, and her chest constricted until her vision tunneled down into pinpricks.

  I won’t suffocate...I won’t suffocate...She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to readjust her vision as her hand gravitated to the Xanax inside the emergency kit in her handbag. While she panted in shallow breaths, crazy health stats from years ago came rushing back: six to nine minutes of oxygen deprivation caused irreversible brain damage. Chances were good she wouldn’t black out before she made it safely above ground. But if things got worse, she knew the Metropolitan Transit Authority had access to oxygen.

  “Heal me.” This time the stranger whispered directly into her ear with warm, fetid breath. His voice sent a tremor along her spine.

  “Leave me alone,” Cara mumbled, consumed by the anxiety attack blooming inside her.

  The car came to a sudden halt and the doors flew open.

  Thank God! Cara shoved past the man. Clawing her way by a girl with blue streaks in her hair and guy in a Brooks Brothers suit, Cara propelled herself through the door and into the flow of people on the subway platform.

  The man with the V-shaped scar sunk his fingers painfully into her shoulder and spun her around to face him. Alarm rose inside Cara in a violent wave. An odd heat warmed her shoulder as his black eyes bore into her. She could’ve sworn light flashed around them. As a scream rose in her throat, the man dropped his hands, wearing a condescending smile.

  Cara turned and blindly bolted through the crowd, her lungs struggling for air.

  * * *

  CHAMUEL

  On the other side of the train, Chamuel’s blood raced as he silently cursed the lack of service on his cell phone.

  What in hell is Achanelech doing here? The bastard had gotten on at the last
stop. Chamuel needed to let Isaac, his friend and the leader of the Tri-State Guardians, know ASAP that a Dark One lieutenant had just swung into town from the West Coast unannounced. Worse, the archdemon was sniffing around Chamuel’s new charge.

  Chamuel cursed again when he glanced over and saw Cara Collins staring straight at him through the crush of people on the train. He abruptly turned his back on her. Under better circumstances he wouldn’t have minded gazing into her lovely green eyes, but he didn’t want her to notice him tracking the demonic energy of the man standing next to her. The train car was too full to allow Chamuel to effectively cloak behind a veil of invisibility. The best he’d been able to do was shield his energy from detection, which was good enough. Achanelech’s attention seemed fixated on Cara.

  Chamuel sensed her discomfort and desire to get away from the archdemon.

  Smart woman, he thought. When he suspected she was no longer staring in his direction, he turned back to survey the scene. Had she known the truth about the being standing next to her, he would have understood the sudden panic that consumed her.

  Instead, he frowned, puzzled by her strange reaction. It wasn’t the archdemon, but something else driving her fear. He didn’t expect Achanelech to break the rules and make any sudden moves. Either way, Chamuel was ready.

  The train screeched to a halt at Chambers Street, and Cara scrambled her way to the door. Chamuel blended into the flow of bodies, hanging back to follow her.

  Achanelech grabbed her shoulder through the crowd, pulling her to a stop. Chamuel growled in his throat and reached for a blade underneath his duster. Cara’s eyes widened. Fear rolled off her, hitting him straight in the gut.

  No one in the crowd noticed the sudden burst of light that flashed from the archdemon’s hand before he let her go. After giving Cara a mocking smile, Achanelech melted into the crowd. Cara took off toward the nearest exit like a woman running for her life. Without thinking twice, Chamuel tore off through the crowd after her.