by Michele Hauf
Eden couldn’t remember when she’d been more frightened by a stranger…
…and more intrigued.
If Ashur had told her the truth, she was in deep trouble. How did she dare escape an angel with supernatural abilities? Her only choice was to trust this man who called himself an angel slayer. What was that exactly? Was he even human?
But what she craved now was something entirely different than she was accustomed to dating. Like the sexy, rock-hard abs of her slayer—whatever he was.
Ashur was the opposite of everything she’d ever found sexy in a man. Pure muscle and might. Commanding. And a bit arrogant, too.
And she wanted it all.
Books by Michele Hauf
Harlequin Nocturne
*From the Dark #3
Familiar Stranger #21
*Kiss Me Deadly #24
*His Forgotten Forever #44
*The Devil to Pay #55
†The Highwayman #68
†Moon Kissed #72
**Angel Slayer #90
HQN Books
Her Vampire Husband
MICHELE HAUF
has been writing for more than a decade and has published historical, fantasy and paranormal romance. A good strong heroine, action and adventure, and a touch of romance make for her favorite kind of story. (And if it’s set in France, all the better.) She lives with her family in Minnesota, and loves the four seasons, even if one of them lasts six months and can be colder than a deep freeze. You can find out more about her at www.michelehauf.com.
ANGEL SLAYER
MICHELE HAUF
Dear Reader,
I’ve done a few series for the Nocturne line, including Bewitching the Dark, Wicked Games and now Of Angels and Demons. Even though they are placed into different “series,” all these stories take place in the same world. I always know that anything can exist in my world, be it vampires and werewolves, or faeries, golems and witches—even the devil Himself. It was time to explore truly vast opposites.
So set aside all you know and believe about angels and demons. I’m going to twist things up a bit. You think all angels are benevolent and good? And demons are bad, right? Well, not in this story. I based some of my mythology on the Book of Enoch, a pseudepigraphic work ascribed to Enoch, the great-grandfather of Noah. But that was merely a starting point. It’s all my crazy thinking in this series, so you can blame me when your guardian angel shoots you a sexy grin or even a malevolent sneer.
Michele
The Internet makes it possible to “meet” and “know” so many people. As a writer I am always thrilled to hear from fans and readers. One reader, in particular, Anna Dougherty, hung around a bit on a blog I participate in with a group of writers. I didn’t know Anna at all, but sensed from her comments she liked paranormal romance. So when I began my vampire book club project, Bite Club, I e-mailed her to see if she would have an interest in heading it up. She agreed, but I don’t think she realized it would become such a “huge” project. Bite Club takes a lot of time and dedication, and Anna has it in spades. She dove into the project and made it her own, and Bite Club simply would not exist without her devotion, organization and vamp-smarts.
So, here’s to you, Anna! Many thanks!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Prologue
An obsidian sea roiled behind a black titanium throne. The throne grew up from the sea at the tongue of a dark steel island, its surface intermittently visible through the wavering liquid surface.
A demon sat upon the throne, his horned head bowed. A crown of bone and feathers tilted upon his skull. His powerful forearms relaxed upon the throne arms. Taloned fingers of muscled black flesh tapped resolutely.
He had been tapping for centuries. It meant nothing. It passed the time.
A silver cloud, thick as mercury, dusted across the sea. The commotion behind him made no noise.
Noise did not exist here—Beneath. At times he attempted to sense his own heartbeat. He had a heart. It was black, forged from the same ineffable substance of which he’d been forged. But he had never heard it beat. Never.
He did not require that confirmation of life. He knew he existed on a level forbidden to most, and unreachable by mere mortals. Feared by all others.
He was Ashuriel the Black, Stealer of Souls, Master of Dethnyht. Only he wore the crown. Not a mortal or paranormal creature in any of the realms—no matter how twisted and black—should like to claim the same.
Time did not exist here, though he knew he had once grasped the hours and days and even years that some valued to order their lives. He had no need. He had lost memory of time, of physicality and sensation, and emotion.
Save the one emotion he yet clung to as if a screaming soul seeking escape—but he would not think on it, for to do so would render excruciating pain throughout his being.
When a brilliant burst shimmered across the jet surface of the sea it startled him. He had not been aware such light could exist Beneath.
Ashuriel lifted his head. The black armor he wore—fashioned from demonic metal mined from the depths of his realm—clanked, but the noise was only imagined, not real.
He waited for the light to form into shape, a recognizable creature, something that would remind him of what he’d once known in another time, another place. It did not.
Instead the light brightened until he had to close his eyes, and yet the intensity seared a bold flash across the inside of his metallic lids. Strange warmth welled inside him, but he could not touch the meaning or properly label it.
“You are summoned, Sinistari,” the light intoned in a voice so deep it vibrated inside Ashuriel’s metal chest.
And then the light vanished, leaving only a fading silver resonance behind his eyelids.
Reaching for the crown of bone and feathers upon his head, the Sinistari demon removed it. He stroked a talon over the thirteen feathers of all colors and design that marked a kill, each of them.
The Sinistari were summoned for only one reason. He’d thought the threat was controlled and swept away with the great flood. A time long ago, or perhaps only moments had passed.
But he would not question a summons.
Cracking his neck from side to side, he stood from the throne and stretched out his arms, thrust out his chest and sucked in the airless nothing about him.
Ashuriel let out a roar. The noise was audible, and it shuddered waves across the obsidian sea. It pleased him. Dangling the crown on one long finger, he flicked it over a shoulder to land upon the throne.
The master slayer was back in business.
Chapter 1
Eden Campbell worked the small corner art gallery across the street from Chelsea Park like a pro. Though she cautioned herself not to break into song or shout, “Hey! This is my first gallery showing and it means the world to me, and it’s going well!”
No, that would be crass. Beyond the occasional eccentricity, she was known for her
calm, collected demeanor—and her killer legs, which she’d decided to showcase as well as her artwork this afternoon.
She was happiest in sweats and a T-shirt when painting, but she could do the sexy businesswoman look, too. A black leather skirt skimmed her thighs. A white long-sleeved silk blouse boasted a deep V-neckline and ruffles at wrist and waist. Diamond chandelier earrings added a necessary touch of romance. She’d pulled her waist-length wavy hair into a loose ponytail to keep it from tangling in her earrings. Sexy violet suede stilettos finished the look with a promise of things Eden usually only whispered, and only to men.
She unbuttoned her left sleeve because her forearm tingled weirdly, much like getting hit in the funny bone. The thought to scratch it was put off when she caught the eye of a woman in black horn-rims who thrust her a discerning nod.
“Act professional,” she coached inwardly. “You want them to take your work seriously.”
As seriously as a woman with preternatural knowledge of the heavenly ranks could be taken. That was a detail she kept close to the cuff.
The people milling about were all like her—rich, stylish, entitled—but not like her. Eden wondered if they had heartbreaks, dreams and obsessions. Or did they simply exist on the surface, decorating themselves to catch an approving nod from the right kind and class of person?
Eden didn’t require approval. She wanted to exist in her world, even if it wasn’t like their world beneath the surface. She tried to fit in, and succeeded. Most saw her as a privileged society woman who attended charity balls and had once been a common fixture on Page Six.
But this artistic side of her was the real Eden, no fake smiles allowed. This showing was her attempt to show them she needed to breathe her own air, as different as that may be.
It was easier for her to walk behind people and listen in on conversations about her work than to boldly approach a visitor face-to-face. Control the urge to tell them what you know. It’s all there on the canvas; they can figure it out for themselves. Sure, a few friends were in the mix for support, but Todd, who worked part-time at the gallery, and Cammie, a friend since prep school, lingered somewhere off near the wine and cheese.
Eden caught the middle of a conversation and frowned.
“But angels are heavenly beings. Innately good,” the critic argued with a friend. “What the heck is that?”
That was one of her favorite pieces.
Eden painted only angels, but their variety was as vast as her imagination. Rarely did she paint a winged angel descending on a beam of light from the clouds. That image had been overdone.
And really, she knew fluffy wings and white robes were all wrong.
Hence, her titanium angel with steampunk-geared wings of binary code. Its face was hollow, exposing honeycomb bone, and silver filaments sprouted on the skull. A halo spun like the rings of Saturn at the back of its head. The angel’s grin was more seductive than some of the expressions Eden had seen on her lackluster dates of late.
“It’s blasphemous,” the critic decided.
Eden shrugged and walked on. Definitely not her sales base. Didn’t matter. She wasn’t showing her work to make a profit; she simply wanted to hear what others thought. And so far most of the feedback had been awesome.
A particular man caught her eye. He stood before The Fall, her depiction of an angel falling from the heavens. The angel wore a devious smile on its glass face and its redwood wings blazed with blue fire. Steel rain extinguished some of the flame. Its halo, detached, cut through the rain, spattering it like oil stains. A single crystal tear dripped from the angel’s eye and stained the ground it had yet to touch.
Though he was unusual in appearance, the man who studied her work didn’t shock Eden. All sorts crowded Manhattan; she loved the exercise in individuality. Silver-white hair punked about his head. He wore a black eye patch over his left eye, and a tight white T-shirt enhanced considerable abs. Gleaming silver hardware hung from his ears, nose, eyebrows and chin. Leather pants hugged his lanky legs like plastic wrap, rendering the belts buckled about his thighs and hips unnecessary. The entire look screamed anarchist raging for a fire to fan.
Paralleling him, Eden waited to see if he would make the first comment. She didn’t like to influence her viewers one way or another.
A familiar scent emanated from him. Sweet and subtle like fruit. He smelled enticing, which baffled her because she was not attracted to his type—it was Wall Street business suits all the way for her.
Her forearm tingled again, like the pins and needles sensation she got when her arm or leg fell asleep. What could it be from? She hadn’t challenged Cammie to a match of tennis for weeks. She shrugged up her sleeve to scratch, then reminded herself to be cool.
When finally the punk jerked a shoulder back and looked at her it was as if she had materialized beside him out of the blue.
“Sorry,” Eden offered politely. “Didn’t mean to surprise you.”
“My fault. I was lost in the painting. It’s interesting. You are very…” His one pale gold eye squinted as he studied her face. Rather, gold was the prominent color. Many colors glittered like a kaleidoscope in that single eye. A trace of blue curled out the bottom of the eye patch. Must be a tattoo.
“Unremarkable,” he finally announced. “Your voice is green,” he continued. “Square. And your scent…” He sniffed. “Smooth. But those shoes. Violet. Yes. Nice. Short leather skirt. Hair…chestnut.”
His weird inventory unsettled Eden. She didn’t judge people by their clothing choices, personal habits or even religion. Hell, she’d been judged far too many times.
Intuition, on the other hand, had a tendency to knock a little too late on her skull.
“Who are you?” He tilted his head and looked her up and down. It was the most uncomfortable dressing down Eden had ever experienced. She should politely dismiss herself.
Yet what was with her arm? Eden’s divided attention pestered her. Something strange was going on beneath the silk sleeve. That was the last time she took her shirts to the dry cleaners on Fifth. She suspected they weren’t as green as their ads claimed to be.
“I’m the artist,” she offered and thrust out her hand. The punk looked at it a few moments before shaking it. “Eden Campbell.”
“Eden. How…sardonic. Means nothing. What I want to know is how you know all…this.”
“This?”
“That!” He gestured angrily toward the painting. “You’ve quite the talent. One could call it a preternatural talent.”
“You think?” Heartbeats skipping, Eden beamed at the painting. No one had ever labeled her work that way. She was the only one who believed she had—
Stop it, Eden. He hasn’t a clue. Do not make a fool of yourself.
“If I were of the mind to purchase I’d buy them all,” he remarked, “but unfortunately I’ve no permanent residence. Bit of a world traveler.”
“That must be exciting.”
“There is something about you, Eden.” He leaned in close and his fruity scent enticed her to remain in place, despite the creepy stranger signals he was sparking out at her. “Do you by chance,” he whispered, “wear a sigil on your body?”
“A sigil?” That was a weird question, but oddly intuitive.
Could he also know what she knew?
The man glanced about the crowded gallery, not appearing too interested in her response.
No. What Eden knew about her paintings was private, personal. He hadn’t a clue, and she didn’t dare discuss it because she had a healthy fear for mental wards.
Compelled to get away from the man, Eden slipped away while he studied the painting, insinuating herself behind a few tall men in business suits.
Todd appeared and slipped a goblet of pinot noir into her grasp. “I thought you were taking off before six, Eden? I can close up shop and handle the stragglers.” He tugged at his pink tie; it clashed brilliantly with his purple shirt and his soft emerald eyes.
“Thanks, Todd. Did you
talk to the guy with the white hair and all the nose rings?”
“Not yet. He just wandered in. Creepy?”
“To the tenth degree. He makes me feel uncomfortable.” And yet, intrigued. Could a person be compelled and repelled at the same time?
“Want me to go punch him for you?”
She hugged Todd across the shoulders. “No. Save those valuable fingers for your IT work. I think I’m going to sneak out, though. I’ve been here six hours. Need to sit and put my feet up. See you tomorrow evening for part deux of Eden Campbell’s fabulous debut.”
“I’ll be here. But it’ll be a close call. I’ve a shift at Cloud Nine until five.” He kissed her check. “Talk to you later, sweetie.”
Eden tilted down the wine and claimed her purse from the office before deftly making her way toward the front door.
Rolling up her left sleeve as she gained the door, she spied the top of the strange man’s white hair. He still stood before The Fall. His attention was rapt, so she was able to slip out without his notice.
After hobnobbing in the stuffy gallery for hours, Eden welcomed the refreshing summer rain. She lifted her face to catch the light mist. She should have utilized her father’s limo, always at her disposal, but the driver’s son turned twelve today, so she’d given him the day off. She wasn’t one of those trust-fund babies who thought they were entitled to everything. At least, she tried not to be.
The July sun peeked through the clouds and glinted high on the windows of another trendy little gallery across the street. She examined her forearm. It had stopped tingling and the skin wasn’t red so it couldn’t be a rash.
