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So long as Zaqiel knew a Sinistari was with the muse, the angel would not approach her. But it was in the angel’s interest to keep his muse in sight, for he could not track her by scent but only by the identifying mark. Though the angelkiss made all senses unnecessary.
If the muse irritated the angelkiss, it acted like a beacon.
Ashur did not want to use the angelkiss until he had the woman in a space he could control.
Slender fingers gripped him tightly about the waist, clinging to the front of his shirt. He’d gained a mortal’s raiments after surfacing from Beneath. Upon arrival following his summons, Ashur had taken a look around, seen what the mortal men were wearing and had assimilated the trousers, shirt, jacket and boots.
A few minutes observing the men and their motored bikes, and he had learned the driving technique. He’d stolen a bike, leaving behind a crew of leathered bikers shouting at him as they struggled to start their own vehicles. Only one had managed to follow him, but he’d given him the slip.
He’d sacrificed valuable time gathering a few essential tools of this realm, and because of his delay the Fallen was still alive. Yet the angel would have never attempted the woman out in the open with witnesses. Or would he?
The world had changed. Ashur expected everything else—including the Fallen—had changed, as well.
“Drive under there,” she said, pointing toward a slope in the street that lunged beneath a towering cement building. “It’s my building. You can park underneath in the garage.”
Ashur took in the rows of shiny metal vehicles as he rolled slowly down into the cool, lighted garage. Man had come a long way from the horse-drawn carts he recalled. The improvement was unnecessary to judge from the huge, dense city where he suspected most could walk to and from their destinations.
And yet the motortzed vehicles were bright and loud. He must get one of those if he were to spend any amount of time here. He slowed and read the words on the back of a vehicle that appealed—Ferrari.
Concentrate, Ashuriel. Do you fall to the old sins so quickly?
Heh. Sins? He’d mastered them all. And with ease. Mortal sins were not considered evil or wrong to his kind. In fact, indulgence was a way of life.
Theft had come easily, without thought. Vanity, well, he wasn’t sure if the clothing he wore was the finest, but he was clothed.
Lust? Well, that suited him fine. He vaguely recalled that particular mortal sin now as the woman’s fingers impressed upon his chest. Though the particular elements that designed the sin had been lost to him over years of desolation. He knew it had involved touch and emotion and intense physicality. It would come to him, surely.
Violence would be granted when he shoved Dethnyht into the angel’s glass heart.
Parking the motorbike, he pulled out the key, sensing he’d need it to restart the thing. He waited for the muse to slide off behind him. He could feel her head pressed against his back and her fingers didn’t so much dig into his chest as affix themselves to it.
Touch. He pressed a palm over her narrow fingers. Yes, he’d forgotten the pressure of another person’s flesh against his own. So odd how he could feel her warmth even through the shirt. It shimmered through him and—He must stop regarding the sensation.
“We’re here,” he said. “It is safe now.”
An easy lie. One thing he did remember was the muse was always frantic and inconsolable upon learning her fate—which was usually seconds before the Fallen attempted her. “My lady?”
“Huh? Oh.” She slid off and tugged at her torn skirt. It revealed so much of her fine, long legs, Ashur had to steel the sudden desire to stroke his thumb along her thigh. “Sorry. You were … nice to hold on to.”
Ashur lingered on her smile, knowing it was a distraction, but unable to resist.
He slid from the bike and tugged off the heavy leather jacket to offer to her. “Here. Your skirt is torn. This will cover your legs.” And keep his eyes from straying.
“It’s not torn.” She dashed a finger along the hem, which upon closer inspection didn’t look torn, rather straight, but it was above her knees. “You’ve never seen a miniskirt before?” She smirked. Somewhere she’d lost her shoes and she stepped on the balls of her feet. “Would you, um, give me back my blade?”
“Why?”
“It’s mine. And if you don’t, I’m going to scream.”
She sought a show of trust. Ashur handed her the blade, and she clasped it to her chest, yet not in defense. Foolish woman.
“Thank you. So, that man. He’s a real angel?”
Ashur detected a lightness in her tone that didn’t seem right after what she’d been through.
“I mean.” She absolutely beamed at him. “I’ve always wanted to see one. And everyone has always made me think I’m a nut for believing in them. But if he was the real thing I really need to know because that would mean I’m not crazy, and—”
“Yes,” Ashur blurted out, mostly to stop her from rambling. “Zaqiel is a real angel. A Fallen one.”
She sucked in the corner of her lip and her eyes flashed brightly. The shadows and shades of gray the world offered him shimmered about her and expanded into a brilliant aura of white. Something inside her wanted to explode, Ashur felt, yet she restrained it by tensing her muscles, and then she did a strange move by bending her arm up and pumping it once. A triumphant gesture?
“Come on,” she said, turning and rushing away from the parked motorbike. “I suppose I at least owe you a drink for saving my life. If you could call that a save. You coming?”
He followed her into a small box with doors that closed automatically behind him. The interior was lined with mirrors and a panel of blinking buttons. He recognized the numbers and assumed she knew what she was doing.
“You called this an angelkiss,” she said, stretching out her forearm.
“Yes, and don’t scratch it.” Not yet.
“And why did you lick it? Is that some kind of new pickup move I’m not keen on?”
“My saliva counteracts the angelkiss for a while, but it’s obviously wearing off if you are feeling the need to scratch. Whatever you do, Six, don’t scratch it. It acts as a beacon to Zaqiel. It is the only way he can track you and I’m not yet prepared to face him. I want you in a secure place first.”
“Right.”
He could sense her fear, but he also sensed her strange fascination. It put out a sweet odor that intrigued him. It had been so long since he had experienced the mortal condition. She was still traumatized. Her fingers shook minutely and she worried her lower lip. A pretty, thick lip that held his attention until the doors opened with an alarming ding.
“Did you call me Six?” she asked as she strode down a white marble hallway carved with elaborate designs. Steps bouncing, she appeared giddy. “What’s that about? I do have a name.”
“I don’t want to know your name.”
She glanced over her shoulder. Deep, dark eyes dusted by long lashes took him in. Ashur couldn’t determine if they had color; the world—which he knew should be in color—was revealed only in black, white and shades of gray to him. For now.
“Sounds kinky to me,” she said.
“Kinky?”
“Yeah, you—Sorry. It’s not every day I’m chased by an angel. Will we see him again?”
“Soon. Surely.” Ashur quickened his steps to join her before a door where she tapped in some numbers on a lighted panel. “Six.” He took her arm gently and turned it up to display the mark. The Roman numeral six sat on the surface of her skin, the color dark like her hair. “That is your sigil.”
“It’s a birthmark. It does kind of look like a six. But seriously, I’m not going to answer to a stupid number—”
He gripped the door as she pushed it in, stopping her abruptly. “Do not give me your birth name. Please. It is easier this way.”
“No commitment with fake names?” she asked. “Easier to walk away?”
“Trust me.”
“That’s a loaded statement. I distinctly recall you telling me to scratch this puppy to lure that man to us. How does using a woman to lure in a maniacal angel involve trust?”
She scanned his eyes for so long, Ashur had to look away, over her head and into the foyer. He’d never felt so noticed before. Easy enough when he’d just come from a long stint Beneath. It was as if she clutched her fingers about his black heart and actually squeezed the hard steel organ that kept myriads stolen souls locked away for eternity.
He was not accustomed to conversation or even the presence of another, yet he adjusted quickly. Acclimating to his surroundings was necessary to his task. But this closeness between them stirred something inside of him he’d long thought tortured out of him.
Women are dangerous.
He knew that, and yet he could not recall why. Were they not simply fine bed mates?
Tapping her lower lip with the blade, she captured Ashur’s attention, but he sensed her favor toward him had dissipated. “Maybe I don’t want you coming in.”
“But I must.”
“Must?”
“I find the day’s course of events has exceeded my grasp and you are … in need of protection.” She’d buy that one. “To be honest, it is new to me. Protection. But it is a task I will not refuse. The Fallen will not relent in his pursuit of you. And I need time to form a plan.”
“You don’t have a plan?”
“I should have already slain the Fallen. I’ve never before had to track one after they’ve made contact with the muse. As well, this world, and your need for me, is new.”
“My need for you?” she said on a nervous, chuckly tone. “Please. I don’t need any man.”
Quite a unique woman, then. What had become of the subservient, faithful and devoted women who answered to their husbands and cared for the children?
“Can you fend off the Fallen when next he shows?” he countered.
“I …” Divertí ng her eyes from his face, she looked away and sighed. She stepped inside the home, leaving him to follow, which he did. “Maybe I don’t want to fight him off. Maybe I want to talk to him. It’s not every day a girl gets to meet an angel.”
She may think she was strong, but he sensed her lacking confidence. Yet the tiny bit of gumption she did possess intrigued him. She had thought to defend herself with that little blade against a man twice her size and possessed of supernatural abilities.
Everything about her was different from the women he had known so long ago.
Ashur had been in fine palaces of marble and stone. This one was similarly luxurious, though on a smaller scale. The decorations were elaborate and resembled flowers and curved leaves. The style pleased him. Lights on the walls were not torches, but contained within fine glass. Remark able.
He must not question the changes in the world since he’d been Beneath. To do so would surely drive him mad. So he would simply accept them. Easy enough when he had greater things with which to concern himself.
Six opened a steel container lighted inside and which boasted an array of vegetables. The food storage box, he guessed. She took out a clear container and offered one to him, which he accepted. He watched her twist off the cover and drink from it.
Ashur tried it. Water in a bottle. Convenient.
“I know a thing or two about angels,” she said. And then as a challenge, she offered, “Does that disturb you?”
Ashur strolled through the room he labeled the galley and into a vast room with plush divans and chairs. Huge ferns and small decorative trees in pots gushed from every corner. The walls were floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of the city was remarkable, and he walked up to scan the buildings and tiny spots of people below.
“No,” he replied. Because whatever she thought she knew was wrong.
“Then you’re the first who is not troubled by it,” she said, joining him. “I’ve been dreaming about angels all my life.”
He turned to find her gazing out the window, a small smile curving her lips.
“I’ve been waiting for something like this to happen,” she said. “To finally have proof. To know that what I know is not delusional.”
Ashur sighed. Though he’d no protocol on how to interact with the muse, he did not think lying or avoiding the situation wisest. She needed to know the facts—which were undoubtedly far from her idea of the truth.
“Proof? Is that so?”
“Yes,” she said on a wondrous hush.
“Well, let me tell you about the Fallen. They once walked the earth, yet were removed many millennia ago, during Noah’s flood. Recently, though, Fallen ones have been conjured by ceremonial magic. Others are investigating who is behind the conjuring. That is not my concern. So now Fallen walk the earth, their mission renewed as they seek their muse.”
“I’ve read the book of Enoch. It’s about the angels called the Watchers, or Grigori, falling.”
“Was that book chosen to be included in the Bible? I’ve not been around since Constantine’s time.”
Fascination brightened her eyes. Ashur wondered briefly if they had color.
“No,” she answered, “that book was suppressed in the middle ages, and ruled fantasy. Pseudepigraphal. You’ve been alive that long?”
“Yes. But back to the Fallen. And you. You wear the sigil he seeks.”
“Seriously?” She stroked the skin near the mark on her forearm. “Numbers? What wiseass thought that one up?”
“Yours is the first number I’ve seen. They are symbols unique to the angelic dominions. It is a good means to locating a match.”
“And I’m that angel dude’s match?”
“You are a muse. Whether or not you are a match is something I do not know.”
“Well, if I’m not a match.”
“If the Fallen has already claimed his match, he can then seek other muses.”
“A muse. I thought muses were gorgeous women who inspired artists, and all that.”
“You inspire the Fallen to seek you.”
She leaned in the archway between the two rooms, tall and slender. The thin fabric shirt did little to conceal the gorgeous curves beneath. Curves Ashur assumed would feel exquisite to touch.
Touch? It teased at his memory. Her hand against his chest, clinging as they rode through the city. There was that want again.
And yet the desire was accompanied by a twinge across his back. Flesh-stripping ghosts of violence. A violence so dark and rending it had brought him, the Stealer of Souls, to his knees.
Inspecting the gash above her eyebrow with a finger, Six winced. That was enough to distract Ashur from his fall into wicked memory.
“I can heal that for you,” he offered.
“Really?”
