Death's Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels

by Heather Killough-Walden

  Sophie, came Azrael’s voice in Sophie’s head. She turned to look at him. His gold eyes were glowing. Marry me.

  Sophie went still. Her breath hitched, her jaw went slack. The room fell into silence. She could feel everyone’s eyes on her and Azrael . . . as if they’d heard what he had just thought. She wasn’t even certain she had heard it correctly.

  But he smiled, again flashing the faintest hint of fang.

  Marry me, Sunshine.

  He slowly stood up, all fluid grace and darkness, and Sophie’s heart danced in her chest. Amid the rapt attention of the room and the unmoving universe, Azrael bent over the love seat where she sat, bracing his hands on either side of her to lean in until they were inches apart.

  Marry me and I’ll only bite you once. His eyes glittered intensely, his smile thoroughly promising.

  Sophie felt her entire body flush with heat and anticipation. Liar, she said.

  Azrael’s deep, dark chuckle echoed through her mind. Is that a yes? he pushed.

  Sophie waited a beat. Then another.

  Yes.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  “Is it like you imagined?” Sophie asked, leaning over to whisper the words in her lover’s ear.

  Azrael’s gaze remained locked on the spinning carousel, his smile one of peaceful bliss. He shook his head distractedly and gave her hand a squeeze. “No,” he said. “It’s better.”

  He reminded her of a child in that moment, held rapt by the eye candy he’d dreamed about for oh, give or take forty years—as long as the carousel had been open. The carousel on Pier 39 turned and turned, a whirlwind of color and sound as children waved for cameras and mothers held toddlers tightly in their painted saddles. All around them, tourists and shopkeepers traded their services and money, and the smell of sourdough bread and fresh-cooked waffle cones pervaded the air.

  Seagulls cried overhead, swooping over the crowd. Out on the bay, a tugboat sounded its horn. A group of teenagers rushed past them, giggling about something one of them had done the night before. A father turned around and pulled his four – or five-year-old son closer and reminded him not to stray.

  Sophie and Azrael had walked the circumference of the seaside tourist attraction several times that morning. Az hadn’t gotten tired of the morning sounds, the feel of the sun on his face, or the way the seagulls and pigeons acted differently when vying for food in the mornings than they did at night. They were hungrier now. Sophie enjoyed watching Azrael smile as he fed them almost more than she enjoyed watching them eat.

  In front of Pier 40, tourists lined up for Blue and Gold Fleet ferry rides out to Alcatraz Island and the Golden Gate Bridge. As the line grew, those waiting shifted their weight from one foot to the other, clearly weary of standing but humming with excitement for what they were about to do. The kite shop nearby buzzed with color as the sea breeze brought its displays to a rainbow of whirling, spinning life.

  On the south side of the pier, the sea lions slid heavily off of the wooden rafts set up for them and then expertly climbed back up. They barked at the tourists, slapped their bodies with slick black flippers, and yawned lazily as they squeezed in for a midmorning nap.

  It was just past noon and a band was setting up in front of the Hard Rock Cafe at the opening to Pier 39. While Azrael watched the carousel, Sophie watched the lead singer test out the microphone, switching wires and adjusting the stand. She recalled the bands she and her parents had caught here when she was a little girl. Thinking of them now, she turned to look at the man beside her, probably the single best lead singer on the planet. No one knew who he was here. Onstage, he always wore a mask, just as he’d done for the wildly successful concert he and his band mates had given two days earlier.

  No one recognized him, though Sophie had to admit to her slightly jealous self that quite a few women—and men—stopped to ogle him when they thought no one was looking. She couldn’t really blame them. He was gorgeous. If she hadn’t been who she was and hadn’t known him for who he was, she would have wondered whether the tall, beautiful, and built man watching the carousel was a famous actor on holiday, hiding out from his adoring fans. Or maybe a model.

  At the very least.

  And because he was out during the day, she would have had to disappointingly toss out any fantasies of him being a vampire.

  Which made her laugh. Because that was exactly what he was. At the least.

  Azrael turned to look at her then, his smile turning slightly mischievous. “You have a dizzyingly busy mind, Sunshine,” he told her softly, his deep voice wrapping around her. “But I like it that you get jealous.” His smile cracked into a grin, and she caught the hint of fangs.

  Sophie rolled her eyes and punched him gently in the arm. It was like punching a tree trunk in a leather jacket. She winced and gave her hand a small shake and Azrael took the hand in both of his to lay a tender kiss upon her knuckles.

  “What’s next?” he asked then.

  Sophie’s mind must have been in the gutter, because all she could think of for a moment was taking him back to the mansion and ravishing him—and having him ravish her.

  But she did actually have things planned for the day. She’d gone out of her way to make up a list of attractions she wanted to show him in the light of the sun. There was so much she wanted him to see. . . . Pier 39 was just the beginning.

  So she swallowed hard, cleared her throat, and said, “I was thinking we’d cross that bridge,” she said, pointing in the general direction of the Golden Gate Bridge. Az had only ever seen it at night. It wasn’t orange at night. He’d always missed the very best part of it.

  “Sounds good,” Az said, smiling broadly. There was a sparkle in his eye that made Sophie both nervous and excited. He leaned in a little. “Go on.”

  Sophie’s gaze flicked from his eyes to his mouth, where she knew his fangs were hiding. She licked her lips. “Um . . . Well, depending on how long it takes us to cross it both ways, I was thinking that we’d go to Golden Gate Park. I mean, I know you’ve always been able to go through the park whenever you wanted, but it’s pretty impressive in the sunlight.”

  Azrael’s smile deepened, and something dark flashed behind his eyes. “Okay,” he said, leaning in a little more. “And after that?”

  “We’ll probably be starving,” Sophie ventured, her heart rate picking up. “So we’ll need to eat. Or at least I will.” As she said it, she thought of what exactly it was that Azrael would “eat.” Lately, his diet had consisted mostly of her.

  “I imagine you’re probably right,” he agreed too easily. His gaze slid from her eyes to her lips to her throat and the top button of her long-sleeved Henley shirt. She looked down, as if to see what he was looking at. But then she closed her eyes as he curled his finger beneath her chin to pull it back up and brushed his thumb across her cheekbone.

  “Or . . .” she began, but had to stop when his thumb dropped to the pulse in her throat. She took a shaky breath and started again. “Or we could eat now instead. We could use the energy to get across the bridge,” she finished in a rush. She opened her eyes.

  Azrael cracked a grin, exposing the fully lengthened fangs that had been lying in wait behind his lips. “Now that sounds like a plan.”

  * * *

  The name of the boat was the Sand Dollar Angel. She was another cutter ketch, with two masts and four sails, and this morning, the pristine sailing ship was outfitted with silk streamers and wedding bells.

  Michael adjusted his collar and took in the scene. The sun had yet to come up. Twilight smoothed out the surface of the water, giving it an airbrushed quality. The Angel, as Michael called the boat for short, was anchored nowhere near any bridge of any kind, as neither Azrael nor Sophie wished a repeat of what had happened with the Calliope.

  The ceremony would take place at dawn. Michael and his brothers had always assumed that when Azrael found his archess, the two would be married at night and he would be surrounded not only by his brothers but by the vampir
es who loved him as well.

  But fortune had turned a page on Azrael’s life. Because of Sophie’s love, not only was the sun no longer a problem for him, it was no longer a problem for any of the other vampires who had been turned under his sovereignty.

  The members of Azrael’s band were there on the boat, each of them wearing dark sunglasses and dressed in varying degrees of dark shades. It was fortunate for them that the area had been blocked off for the private event, or Valley of Shadow fans would have been swarming the docks to get a look at them.

  Randall McFarlan now stood in a group on the dock with Terrence Colby and Casper MonteVega. The vampires wore dark suits, as was customary, but was also most likely as they preferred. Michael had noticed that despite Azrael’s immunity to the sun and his reduced need to feed, nearly everything else about his vampirism remained the same. He still loved black, he still preferred the night. He possessed all the strengths and powers of a vampire but now he suffered from almost none of the weaknesses. If Azrael had been formidable before, now he was nearly unbeatable.

  It was a good thing, not just for him, but for Sophie. The young archess now not only had the protection of Azrael’s vampires during the day as well as the night, but she also had their gratitude. In becoming vampires, they had all lost something very precious, and Sophie Bryce had given it back to them.

  There were issues the four brothers had yet to contend with. Gregori was out there and none of them could tell what exactly he had planned for them. The consensus was that Michael’s archess would most likely be in great danger, since stopping their mating would stop the “Culmination.”

  There was also a general awakening of the supernatural world to come to grips with. Monsters of all kinds were coming out of hiding. The world was reverting to what it had been thousands of years ago, and the human race was as unsuspecting and ignorant as ever.

  These creatures were on the offensive, and controlling them would most likely call for everything the archangels could throw at them. Dragons were not normally dangerous on their own; they were not inherently evil, just as Nightmares were not. However, dragons that worked for fallen angels were another matter. And rogue Nightmares bent on seducing their way across an army of innocent women were no small problem either. Michael and his brothers had their work cut out for them.

  And then there was Samael to consider. The Fallen One’s deal with Azrael had taken Michael’s power—a power that Michael had yet to regain. Michael knew that this wasn’t normal. He knew that were it not for Samael’s infernal, blood-signed contract, his healing ability would have returned to him days ago. Samael was keeping it from him somehow; it was yet another magical ability belonging to the Fallen One that Michael and his brothers could not comprehend. Sam was just too powerful.

  And enigmatic. For instance, what in the world had Samael meant when he’d told Azrael to convey to Michael that if he wanted to find the rapist in New York, he should “take a walk in the park”?

  Michael could only sigh heavily and shake his head. He had no idea. But he imagined he would soon find out.

  However, for now . . . At this very moment . . . The sun was coming up over San Francisco Bay. Across the vast expanse of blue, the first rays of the massive star began to creep over the water. The priest at the prow of the boat glanced over his shoulder, caught the glint of light on the waves, and turned back to face the bride and groom. The father was smiling; he was another of Azrael’s vampire creations. He hadn’t acted as a priest for a hundred years, but what he had once been was good enough for Az and Sophie, who smiled back at him now.

  The ceremony began.

  As the newlyweds exchanged rings and vows and then leaned in for their kiss, Uro pulled a guitar out of a case behind him and began to strum. To the sound of “Hallelujah,” Michael and the rest of the wedding party—the priest, Gabriel, Uriel, Max, Eleanore, Juliette, Devran, Mikhail, and Rurik—disembarked, leaving only Uro, Azrael, and Sophie on the boat.

  Sophie and Az continued to kiss. Uro continued to play. On the pier, Gabriel unknotted the ropes that moored the Angel, and the sails unfurled on their own. The wind caught them, stretched them taut, and those still on the docks waved, though the new husband and wife aboard the boat were unaware, as they were still kissing.

  The ship sailed slowly from the dock, heading straight for the rising sun.

  Beside Michael on the pier, Randall McFarlan took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. Michael watched as the retired cop took off his sunglasses, closed his eyes, and turned his face up to the sun. Monte patted him on the shoulder in solidarity, the same knowing smile on his own face.

  “Beautiful day,” said Uriel beside Michael.

  Michael turned to regard his brother.

  Uriel’s green eyes were vivid in the morning light.

  “Indeed it is,” agreed Michael. “Indeed it is.”

  Epilogue

  Central Park was New York’s most obvious park, of course. Sam could have technically been referring to any park in the world, but because Michael lived in New York and because the rapes he had been investigating had occurred here, Michael had a feeling the enigmatic man had meant this one.

  It was the first day of May and gardeners were working around the clock to trim hedges, prune trees, and fertilize flowers and grass throughout the park. At this time of the day, late afternoon, there were people everywhere, from families with Frisbees to drunks and drug addicts who were sleeping in the shade and hopefully not dead.

  Michael stood on the walkway beside a park bench and slowly scanned the area. A few yards away, a hot-dog stand filled the air with the smell of cooking quasi-meat and mustard. Pigeons pecked at leftover pieces that had been swept off of the main path, and the occasional dog on a leash attempted to chase the birds.

  Everything looked normal.

  But if the last two thousand years had taught the Warrior Archangel anything, it was that nothing was ever as normal as it looked. And time would always tell.

  So it was with well-learned patience and senses on high alert that the Warrior Archangel and NYPD plainclothes detective sat down on the park bench, reclined against its backrest, and crossed his legs at the ankles.

  An hour passed. And another.

  A man sat down beside him on the bench and propositioned him. Michael politely declined. A few women smiled at him as they passed by. A group of teenage girls in the green expanse before him tried to get his attention by acting ridiculous. But for the most part, people kept their distance. He gave off a certain vibe—intense, perhaps a bit frightening. Maybe they could tell he was a cop.

  Maybe they could sense he was something more.

  When night fell on the park, the buzzing overhead lamps popped on one after another, shedding a weak aura onto the walkways beneath them. Bugs swarmed around the bulbs, thickening in numbers as the hours passed. People began clearing out, and the park’s “clientele” changed. Families were nowhere to be seen. Lovers dared to walk closer to each other and some tucked themselves away beneath trees or between bushes.

  Bottles of alcohol made their brown-bagged appearances. Lighters flickered in the darkness here and there, and Michael was well aware that not all of them were lighting cigarettes.

  The cop in him might have cared—might have—but for the fact that walking for generations among humans had given him a very clear understanding of their pain and their need to escape that anguish. It was an intrinsic right of all life to strive to live that life with as little suffering as possible. It was only when the choices that one made brought harm to another that his blood heated and he came forward.

  Michael frowned as he considered that. It had been countless ages since he’d flown at the head of an angelic army, but the sword he’d once carried had left an imprint in his palm. It was invisible, but it was there, deep and grooved, and it dictated most of the actions he took as a police officer, and as a man. He was a defender—a warrior—that much was true.

  But he was also a heale
r. And at the moment, Azrael was in possession of Michael’s magical ability to mend wounds. It hadn’t reverted to Michael yet, no doubt as per Samael’s underhanded and mysterious machinations. Who knew what the Fallen One was up to? Michael was only painfully aware that a part of him was missing, and he could only pray that he wouldn’t need it anytime soon.

  Michael took a deep breath, let it out silently, and stood. The path stretched in either direction, more or less the same. He chose a direction and walked, his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, his eyes and ears open to the world around him.

  The night grew darker, the shadows deeper, and the surrounding foliage quieter. Michael’s boots beat out a harsh and lonely rhythm in the growing silence. A cool breeze prickled at the back of his neck, and he absentmindedly turned up his collar.

  Something beckoned behind him. It was a pull in the air, a shift in sound, and Michael was spinning. But the path was dark and empty. The night breeze gently rocked a branch of an overhanging willow. Nothing else moved.

  There was a brief flash of something blue to his right, and again Michael was turning, but once more, nothing out of the ordinary presented itself. The green expanse of lawn that led to a small pond beyond was still. The shadows were stationary and the moon cast a diaphanous glow on a static field.

  But something was wrong.

  Michael’s skin pricked at the rather abrupt change in the night. It was as if it had been waiting to breathe but now inhaled, filling its lungs with the murky electric miasma of magic. He could feel eyes on him. He could almost hear the hiss of released air through sharp teeth. His blood felt as though it bubbled in his veins, reminding him of his battle with the blue dragon two weeks ago.

  The wind picked up around him, and out of what had been a clear sky only moments ago, thunder rumbled. Michael looked up to witness the swirling eddies of building clouds, coalescing at their center like a massive cumulus whirlpool. The trees answered the growing wind, bowing in its presence, their leaves quaking and dancing with fervor. A flock of birds erupted from a copse not far away, their black bodies forming a swarm as they left the park and headed for calmer territory.