by ML Guida
Concentrate, asshole.
The light turned green and Heather slid her hands around his hips. She scooted her body against his back, molding to him. His tightening pants were unbearable. Forget it. Blade waited. Like Raphael said, Heather was a distraction, a distraction that could get both of them killed.
Ahead, the convenience store was between a donut shop, and an Italian delicatessen. A beat-up green truck, a suped-up, blue sedan, full-size car and a compact were parked in front of the store. Young kids milled around the front, smoking cigarettes. A woman pumped gas into her yellow car. He didn’t see Blade’s motorcycle, but that meant nothing.
He turned into the parking lot and parked to the side, then switched off the engine. He glanced over his shoulder. “I want you to wait inside.”
“Yeah, that will happen.” Heather lopped off the bike and headed for the rear of the building.
Foolish woman. He jumped off the bike, ran over to her and hauled her around. “What the hell are you doing?”
She motioned with her hand. “I’m not waiting in the store.”
“Yeah, you are or forget about painting me.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “You said I could come.”
“I lied.” He wanted to shake some sense into her. Zeus, didn’t the woman grasp who she was dealing with? “That didn’t mean you could confront him. You heard what Stan said. Blade wants you dead.”
She broke free of his grip. “What am I supposed to do in the store?”
He towered over her. “If something goes awry, call the police. That’s the plan.”
She punched him in the arm. “It’s a stupid plan. I can’t keep walking around the store. They’ll think I’m there to rob the place.”
Her punch didn’t hurt as much as it did his pride. “What the hell are you talking about? People are loitering all over the place in there.”
“They’re teenagers. I’m not.”
Scythe ran his fingers through his hair. “Don’t you get it? I can’t concentrate with you near me. Blade’s not kidding around.”
She rolled her eyes. “No shit, like I didn’t know that.”
“Heather, I mean it. Stay in the damn store.”
“Fine.” She swung her arms and headed to the store. He didn’t move until he was sure she didn’t pop back around. She didn’t disappointment him.
A second later, she ran around the corner and skidded to a stop. “Shit!”
He jerked his thumb toward the store. She whirled around on her sandals and stormed back.
He half smiled, but a motorcycle roared behind him. Turning, he saw nothing. The air grew heavy and his skin hurt, as if tiny fire ants bit him. His eyes watered. Evil had arrived. Blade.
He cracked his neck and walked toward the alley. Across the street, a group of kids played soccer. Their laughter and screams touched him. So perfect, so innocent. Why would his brother want to corrupt such angelic souls? He shook his head.
This time, he was prepared and pulled out his heaven sword. One good turn deserved another. Maybe it would knock some sense into his brother, if it didn’t kill him.
He walked around the corner. Blade sat on his bike next to a trash bin. He mumbled something to someone, but Scythe couldn’t hear. A sinking feeling hit his soul.
“Hello, brother,” Scythe said.
Blade stopped talking and turned. His Satanly smile turned his blood cold. “You’re too late brother.” He motioned. Stan stepped out from behind the metal bin.
“Shit,” Scythe mumbled.
“Shit is right.” Blade slapped Stan on the back, and the kid stood still. Prison bars of blond strands hung in his face. His eyes glazed, then turned red.
“Stan,” Scythe said.
Stan possessed a zombie stare and drool drizzled down his chin. No doubt he was high on Xanadu.
“Go, now.” Blade snapped his fingers. “Kill her.”
“Yes, master.” His vacant face matched his computer voice and robotic walk.
Scythe ran toward him. Blade blocked his path and held a black jagged dagger in his hand. Great, another hell blade.
Behind him, Stan walked in a trance and clutched a switchblade. He opened the convenience store’s back door and entered. Scythe’s heart stopped. Heaven’s gate, Heather. He spun around, but Blade stood in front of him.
“Why?”
“Tit for tat, brother.” His smirked. “Isn’t that what the humans say?”
Scythe tensed. He itched to rip out his brother’s icy heart. “I’ll kill you first.”
Blade put his hand over his heart and blinked his eyes. “Aw, and I thought you wanted to save me.”
“Kill me if you want, but let her go.”
Blade’s sarcastic face vanished. Pure hatred replaced it. “No, she deserves death as much as you do.”
Screams emitted from the store. Fear pooled in his stomach. Heather. Scythe jerked to the side, but Blade slashed the dagger, missing his arm by inches.
“So you want to play rough, brother.” Scythe held his dagger loosely in his hand. “Game on.”
“Wouldn’t want it any other way.” Blade tossed his knife from hand to hand.
Scythe lunged, his dagger aimed at his brother’s stubborn neck. Blade jumped to the side, then swung his blade and lashed at Scythe’s stomach. Scythe sucked in his gut, but this time, he belted his brother in the mouth. Blade stumbled. Blood dripped from his lips onto his naked chest.
Blade touched his lip, and blood darkened his fingers. “Lucky shot, brother.”
Scythe shrugged. “What are older brothers for?”
“Older. Yeah, right.” Blade drawled. He swung his arm and sliced Scythe’s jacket, but wind whizzed over his skin, the weapon missing him by inches.
Thank God, if Blade would have nicked him, he’d go down and who knows what would happen to Heather. He grabbed his arm and held it close to his chest as if wounded.
“Say hello to Raphael, big brother.” Blade smiled.
His over confident voice grated Scythe’s nerves. He swung and slashed his brother’s stomach.
The cobra hissed. Blade grabbed his stomach and fell to his knees. Blood seeped between his fingers.
What had he done? “Blade, I’m sorry.”
“Like I believe you,” Blade panted. “Laehcim.”
Scythe reached for his arm. “No, Blade, let me take you to Raphael.”
He jerked away. “Don’t touch me!”
Scythe sighed. His brother’s hate never failed to astonish him. Wind stirred around him. Something was coming—something straight from hell. His skin tingled, and sharp pain slammed into his gut as if someone had sucker punched him. He bent over and dropped his heaven knife, now stained with his brother’s blood.
Black smoke rose from the pavement and swirled around Blade.
“No, brother!” Scythe panted. “Don’t!”
Blade laughed and disappeared.
Scythe saw red, clouding his vision. Uncontrollable anger shook him. He slammed his fists into the brick wall repeatedly. Bits of brick spun into the air and cracks split the mortar. He didn’t care he lost control of his angelic strength. He didn’t care he could bring the store down. He didn’t care Michael would be mad. All that mattered was he’d failed his brother—again.
He inhaled and exhaled his breath faster and faster in short quick gulps. Sweat trickled down the side of his temples. He put his hands against the wall and leaned his forehead. “Damn it, Blade.”
Sirens wailed. He raised his head. Zeus, Heather!
He drew on his strength, grabbed the knife, and sprinted around the building. An ambulance pulled into the convenience store’s parking lot. Two paramedics hoped out.
“He’s in there,” a man yelled.
Heather, what happened to her? If she died, a tremor would rip through his soul, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be wounded. Bless it, if he’d consummated his claim, he’d know.
He raced toward the store, but a police car
screeched in front of him and blocked his path. Two cops jumped out and aimed their guns at him. “Drop it, buddy,” the muscular black cop said.
Shit, he still held the damn blade in his hand, stained with his brother’s blood.
“All right. Don’t shoot,” Scythe mumbled. If he disappeared, he’d create quite a disturbance. He knelt and placed the dagger onto the ground. The cops followed his every move with guns pointed. He couldn’t let the police touch the blade, or they’d turn into a pile of dust. No human could touch a heavenly weapon.
He snapped his fingers. The cops narrowed their eyes at him and took their focus off the blade. In an instant, he changed it—now an earthly blade, stained with cow’s blood.
“Put your hand over your head,” the white cop ordered.
Scythe did as he was told.
“Push the knife over here.” The black cop walked toward him.
Not arguing and being the compliant prisoner, Scythe did it. What would these two do if they knew they arrested one of the Angels of Death? Pee their pants.
“Put your hands behind your back,” the cop said.
Scythe put his hands behind his back and handcuffs were snapped on his wrists. He was patted down. Of course, no weapons were found. He’d go along for the charade for a while, but he’d only go so far.
“Stevens,” the white cop said. “You got him?”
“Yeah, he’s not going anywhere.” He clasped Scythe’s arm. “Come on.”
A black sedan pulled up, then two men got out—Mason and Hewitt. Scythe groaned. How did they get here so fast? He gritted his teeth. Heather would be alone with those two bastards while he sat in a damn police car.
“I know the man inside,” Scythe blurted.
The cop dug his fingers hard into his flesh. “What? You know the nut inside.”
The lack of human compassion never failed to sadden him. The cop didn’t even know Stan. Wasn’t his job to help people, not to condemn them? May he receive the same mercy.
“Barrons,” the black cop said. “Says he knows the nut inside.”
“Fine, I’ll tell the two suits inside,” Barrons grumbled.
Scythe stared at his jailer. He refused to sit in the damn car. His mate was in danger. The cop would take him inside. Now. With a slight mental push, careful not to turn the man into a permanent mindless robot, he ordered, “Take me to Hewitt and Mason.”
“What? I’m not…” the man’s voice faded. His brown eyes glowed. Like a good soldier, he led Scythe to the store.
Hewitt and Mason had Heather cornered against the pop dispenser. Her face was pale and she appeared distraught, but she was alive. That’s all that mattered. Other blue uniforms interviewed a couple of workers, a thirty something female and a forty something male. Their faces were ashen like Heather’s. Tears streamed down the woman’s face.
The cop led Scythe through the glass doors. Blood stained the floor and broken glass.
His mind compulsion slipped and he struggled. “Let me see if she’s all right.”
“If you don’t knock it off, you’re going back into the car, Tonto.”
“Tonto?” He shook his head. Original.
Back in control, Scythe ordered, “Take me to her now.”
The man eyes glowed again, and he escorted Scythe to the two detectives and Heather.
“I told you for the last time,” Heather said. “He came at me with a knife. His eyes were burning red. It wasn’t Stan. He was possessed.”
“Possessed?” Hewitt scoffed. “I don’t think so. “Why was he pissed at you, Ms. Bowen?” He motioned with his hand toward the frightened employees. “They said he came straight for you. Walked right by the cash register and stalked you around the store. Why? I’d like to know.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Why do you keep asking me these same questions?”
“Detective,” the black cop said. His voice sounded more like a recorder than a human.
Heather smiled and the fear in her eyes lessened. “Scythe.”
He liked the way she said his name. It wasn’t hard like she’d been earlier. It was soft and husky. Tears formed in her eyes. He wanted to hold her in his arms and brush away those tears. Red stains splattered on her pink peasant blouse and jeans. He stiffened. Her hands were bloody.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.” She rushed passed the two startled detectives and flung her arms around his neck. He could feel her fast beating heart. It beat faster than a terrified rabbit. “I killed him, Scythe. I killed Stan. I didn’t mean too.” She burst into tears and wept on his shoulder. “He kept coming for me. I hit him again and again.”
“Shhh,” he said. “It’s all right, love.”
What did he say? He’d never said that. Blast these damn handcuffs. He wanted to whisk her away from her, but in her state, it would send her over the edge. Too many questions. Bless it, Blade. Stan had only been a stupid kid. He’d beat the shit out of his brother for doing this and for tearing his woman apart. His woman. Such a strange thought. Never imagined he’d be thinking it.
Mason and Hewitt pried her fingers off him and slapped handcuffs on her slender wrists. Bastards. At her stricken face, he tensed. It took all of his might not to use his heavenly powers and break the puny handcuffs, but now wasn’t the time. He’d bust them out later. Neither one of them would stay the night.
“How did you kill Stan?” he asked.
“She broke a beer bottle over his head. Died instantly,” Mason said.
Heather stopped sobbing. She shook her head. Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks wet, but the same determined face returned. He’d never guess she could kill. For a petite woman, she had the strength and courage of an Angel of Death. People like Hewitt and Mason underestimated her. But what could he say? She was his angel-mate.
“Now, what do you know about this?”
Mason stood next to him and put on his best bad cop look, but he was at least four inches shorter than Scythe. Scythe had to work hard not to laugh.
“We followed Stan here,” Scythe said. “He’d been acting strange all day.”
Hewitt frowned. “Strange how?”
Scythe shrugged. “Pacing, mumbling under his breath. He’d start to leave and then come back in. Not usual for him.”
Mason crossed his arms over his chest. “And you didn’t think to call us?”
“He’s a drug addict.” Scythe glared. “Not really unusual behavior is it, Detective?”
“And?” Hewitt watched him with eyes of a hawk, looking for the littlest slip up.
“We followed him,” Scythe said. “I had a hunch. That’s all.”
“So, what happened in the alley?” Mason asked.
“Lost a fight with a cow.”
Mason shoved him. “Don’t get smart. The uniforms found blood all over that dagger.”
Heather sucked in her breath. Hewitt gave her a triumphant smile like he’d found something.
Idiot.
Scythe met Mason’s predatory glare. “Prove it.”
“Book him.” Mason motioned with his hand.
“On what charge,” Scythe asked.
Mason went toe-to-toe with him. “How about murder for one?”
For one quick instant, Scythe thought about killing him, but it was against the rules. Michael wouldn’t be pleased.
“It was self-defense,” Scythe struggled. Even if he couldn’t kill him, he could still belt Mason in the mouth. “You’ve got no witnesses.”
Mason jammed his finger into Scythe’s chest. “That’s for the DA to decide.” He turned away in disgust. “Get them both out of here.”
Scythe glared. “What are you doing, Mason? Can’t you see she’s in shock? She needs to see a doctor, you bastard.”
“I’m fine, Scythe.” With her huge eyes and her lower lip trembling, she wasn’t fooling anyone.
A male paramedic walked into the store. He took one look at Heather and frowned. “She going into shock.”
“Zeus,” S
cythe said. “Do you think so? Do your damn job and take care of her.”
The paramedic shook his head, but edged his way between Hewitt and Mason. “Come with me, ma’am.” He put his arm around her shoulder. “Remove her handcuffs. She’s not going anywhere.”
“Wait a minute.” Mason blocked their way.
“Mason.” Hewitt unlocked the cuffs. “She’s not going anywhere.”
“Fine, take her.” Mason mumbled something else under his breath. Scythe narrowed his eyes. He swore it was bitch. Someday, he and Mason were going to have a serious talk.
“Let’s go,” the black cop said.
Like a good prisoner, Scythe dropped his compulsion and allowed the man to escort him to the car. Scythe almost felt sorry for the man. He’d have a hell of a headache tomorrow, but he wouldn’t suffer any permanent damage, unlike a demon compulsion.
As long as Heather received medical treatment, he could go along with the charade. He leaned his head on the back seat and looked out the window. A heavy weight landed on his heart as the ambulance pulled away. At least, she’d be safe.
A motorcycle engine roared. Crap, he knew that engine. Out of the alley, a bike swerved onto the street. A long black braid hung down a man’s back. The man glanced over his shoulder at him and smiled. Blade. But how could it be?
He’d stabbed Blade with a heaven blade. He should still be recovering. Had Balthazar figured out a way for demons to heal faster? He had to warn Michael. His fellow angels were in danger.
11
Heather lay on the stiff gurney and stared at the ambulance’s metal ceiling. Even with a soft wool blanket covering her, perspiration dripped down her face, and she shivered. Cold gripped her. Her fingers and toes tingled as if they were going to sleep. She gasped for air. The metal walls seemed to slowly move toward her, ready to squeeze her to death.
“It’s Heather, right?”
She turned.
A paramedic sat on a stool. He had dark blue eyes and a short blond crew cut. He looked down at her with a worried face. “How are you doing? I’m Greg.”
“I-I-I can’t breathe.” She dug her fingers into the cot.
“Just breathe in out and out. Try to stay calm.” He mopped her forehead with a cold rag. “Your skin is turning blue.” He picked up an oxygen mask. “I’m going to place this over your face, and I want you to relax.”
