Angel Fire: Angel Fire, Book 1

by Johnston, Marie

  Still, Sandeen was determined to find out what a little Haddock blood could do. Looking up, he spotted the perfect scenario.

  Ah, so sweet.

  A tourist, an overweight middle-aged balding man, who had come to participate in the kinds of activities that would stay in Vegas, had unwittingly opened himself to an archmaster. The master was careening down the Strip, looking for a good time while he had the power to hold the man’s body at will.

  The demon was terribly oblivious to the warrior trailing him, diligent in his pursuit. Sandeen didn’t recognize the warrior, but he recognized the type. Gritty, determined, willing to go to any lengths to succeed. Sandeen would bet—and did often—that the warrior would be daring enough to grab the demon out of the human’s body in a dark corner, parking garage, or bathroom. Places that were usually too public and too risky.

  It’d be a great setup for Sandeen’s experiment.

  The warrior was intent on his prey, unaware of the good-looking thirtyish-year-old man with a solid build that Sandeen was inhabiting. After Sandeen had secured his weapons and a place to reside while he carried out his earthly duties, he had gone to a local gym. He needed a new body, a younger one.

  There were a lot of defeated souls in a gym. Men and women who realized they couldn’t beat time. They clung to their youth, regretting the damage they had done to their bodies back when they thought they knew all the answers. Men and women bombarded by media and the image of a perfect body since their young, nubile minds could watch TV or read a magazine. Those individuals were almost panicked in their efforts, their inner dialogue rough and harsh toward themselves.

  Then there were the vain spirits that swaggered around like they owned the place. They defined today’s image of perfection. Those people thought others must be running, stepping, yoga-ing their way to look just like them. It was an environment rich with youth, desperation, nasty thoughts, and, more importantly for Sandeen, beautiful people that got laid.

  He had taken over a human’s body after the man had lured a fortyish married woman into the sauna. Sandeen waited patiently in the Gloom until the man was distracted, then he thrust the soul aside and captured the body to finish the ride. Then he walked away from the woman and found his new body’s locker. He grabbed a shower, threw on the man’s jeans and shirt, and pocketed the wallet to go hit the Strip.

  The paunchy, possessed male the warrior was following dived into an obnoxiously loud casino. The dude would be better off finding whatever he was looking for out on the street—drugs, private strip shows, fetish clubs. But after they entered, the guy made a beeline for the bathroom.

  Fucking perfect.

  The warrior was going to make his move. Probably follow the guy into a stall and slam him out of the human into the Mist. Sandeen had to catch up to them before that happened.

  The warrior disappeared into the bathroom, Sandeen trotted to catch up. The warrior’s snarl of “get the fuck out” carried through the door as a couple of frightened men rushed out. Sandeen burst through the door in time to see the warrior catching the stall door before it shut behind the possessed guy. The warrior glanced back to see who had entered, then looked away. Just as quickly he was spinning around again, sensing Sandeen’s presence in the host.

  Sandeen rushed him, grateful the bathroom stalls were empty and no one was at the urinals. The possessed human shoved his stall door closed, bumping the unsuspecting warrior, who was intent on Sandeen.

  An anonymous slaying would be better, but this would have to do. With a grim smile, Sandeen palmed his blade and struck. The warrior jumped back, hissing at the sting of the blade on his upper arm and drawing his own weapon. He lunged forward, his lips moving as he was saying the incantation to remove a demon from a host and toss his ass into the Mist.

  Oh shit.

  If Sandeen was thrown into the Mist, he’d lose his body, and he didn’t know if he could get back. He had no doubt he would win in a fight. But the complications it would create were undesirable.

  Unfortunately, the archmaster peeked out to check what was going on. Seeing Sandeen had taken the focus off him, he ran out, shoving Sandeen into the warrior. The angel blade tumbled from Sandeen’s hand.

  Fuck me. Sandeen was jerked out of his host. Stumbling into the coolness of the Mist, he quickly righted himself. He was in his own body, so he flared his deadly black wings and faced the warrior.

  The warrior’s lip curled and he spit on the ground. Sandeen didn’t care to kill angels, a feeling in itself that could destroy him in Daemon. It was just that he usually had other things he wanted to do than the stark murdering of creatures. But this angel was different. Sandeen would almost wager there were a few deeds under the angel’s wings that perhaps his superiors would find interesting. Thinking of Jameson and his contact in Numen, Sandeen amended his previous thought. Perhaps the angel’s superiors were taking advantage of it.

  Baring his fangs in a hiss, Sandeen wished he still had the blade tucked in his palm. He dove at the warrior the same time the warrior lunged for him. They met in a clash of wings. Sandeen sliced the face of the warrior with his claws, earning him a satisfying grunt of pain.

  They grappled, punching and kneeing, and in Sandeen’s case, biting, each other. In the mess of limbs and protecting his organs, Sandeen knocked the long knives out the warrior’s hands, but not before losing some hunks of flesh from his forearms and feathers from his wings. Sandeen cracked the male on the side of the head with a wing. The warrior staggered to the side. Sandeen grabbed his wings, yanking him around in a stronghold to twist and break as many bones as he could.

  A cry of anguish ripped from the warrior and he fell to his knees. Sandeen expected him to ascend. Was the pain too debilitating?

  Sandeen kicked him in the kidneys, making him face-plant into the ground. The warrior scrambled for one of his blades that lay nearby and rolled, wincing as he crushed his damaged wings. Sandeen landed on top of the male to wrestle the weapon away. Playing dirty, he used his weight to put more pressure on the warrior’s wings, knowing it was excruciating.

  “I—” The warrior gasped, confusion rippling over his features. “Can’t. Ascend.”

  Noted.

  They played a grim tug of war over the knife. The warrior’s strength was dwindling while Sandeen still had plenty left in the tank.

  Thank you, Dad, for all the practice, he thought wryly.

  Getting the blade free, he drew it swiftly across the warrior’s throat. He grabbed the vial of angel fire out of the male’s waistband, and jumped up. That fact that warriors carried the fire on them was a testament to their skill. Pouring the contents out and risking getting a drop on their skin could mean it spreading and taking off a hand. Yet they used it on every demon they vanquished. Repeatedly exposing themselves to its devastation.

  Popping the top and tipping it over on the warrior, he stepped back to watch the effects. Instant disintegration. At least neither race suffered under its full effects. Partial effects, now that was a different story. Numen and Daemon alike couldn’t heal from angel fire wounds.

  With the warrior vanquished, Sandeen thought back to the fight. Why didn’t the warrior ascend, even if he moved only a few feet away? The nuances of Numen travel weren’t well known by his own kind, but this male was a warrior. They were masters of ascension, using the skill in fights and not just traveling realm to realm.

  But the warrior made it sound like he couldn’t at all. From his wounds? No, it couldn’t have been. Sandeen had damaged enough Numen wings to know they could still transcend, even all busted up. The only difference? The angel had been scored with fallen blood.

  Hmmm.

  Sandeen had no wish to spend any more time in the Mist, so he wandered to the edge. He was still by the bathroom his disoriented former host was in, though it was harder to see than if he’d been in the Gloom. But Sandeen could make out his host standing at the sink, water dripping from his face as he peered into the mirror. No doubt trying to figure ou
t how the hell he ended up in a casino bathroom. The human had found the knife but left it laying on the side of the sink.

  Sandeen smirked. Confused and disbelieving and previously inhabited.

  Perfect.

  The fight with the warrior had been brutal, but not enough to drain Sandeen. If he had a body to possess right away, he was a powerful enough archmaster to leave the Mist without piggybacking on an angel.

  He picked up the other weapon the angel had dropped during their battle and compared them. Two dirks, identical, except one was coated in the angel’s cooling blood and the other was stained with Sandeen’s blood, an obsidian feather still stuck to the hilt.

  Stepping forward, he prepared to invade the human’s body again. A curious thing happened instead. Instead of dematerializing and shoving his host’s soul aside, he stepped right out of the Mist.

  The human’s pupils constricted at the dark, horned form standing behind him. Sandeen thought it was an illusion, but even he could see himself in the mirror. Blood ran from his mouth and dripped down his black, battered wings.

  Fuuuuck.

  Just. Fuck.

  The man opened his mouth, sucking in a gusty breath to scream. Sandeen punched his hand out and nailed him behind the head. The human fell forward over the sink and slid to the floor, unconscious.

  Sandeen looked around. The bathroom was still empty, but voices carried through the door. Glancing down, the hand he punched the man with no longer held a blade. The metal had gotten left in the Mist. In his other hand hung the blade with angel’s blood coating it.

  His kind had been fighting angels in the Mist for centuries. They’d been coated in each other’s blood and stolen the weapons. Why was this different?

  Because he had a fallen’s blood. The Mist wanted him out and far away from Numen. And the blood had circumvented his need for a host to do it.

  A slow smile spread across his face, baring his fangs. He snatched up the curved blade the human had set on the counter and secured both weapons in his waistband. Hefting the unconscious man, Sandeen carried him into the handicapped stall.

  He barely got them both into the stall before someone came into the bathroom. He kept his wings tucked in as he bent low so they couldn’t be seen above the stall. Humans seeing a demon walking around would bring more than a little attention—even in Vegas. He didn’t need questions from any race regarding how the hell that could happen. After securing the door, he lifted his host onto the toilet.

  Snickers filtered in from outside the door. “Hey, guys, I know a good club you can do that in instead of the shitter.”

  Sandeen realized how it must look. Sounds of muffled exertion, one set of designer shoes pointing one way, a set of shitkickers pointing back.

  “Thanks. I know the place you’re talking about.” Sandeen even sounded like himself. Not like a host, because he was in his own body. On Earth. Whoa.

  He couldn’t roam with horns and a set of wings. Or fangs. Not yet. Shit, how did angels do that morphing thing? Would it work on horns? He also needed to get back to his hidey hole and stash his weapons.

  With a resigned sigh, he took out his weapons and tucked them into the human’s clothing. He made sure the guy was steady, slumped back against the flushing tower, his head leaning against the wall. It wouldn’t do to get into the body only to slide to the floor. Some do-gooder might try to help him and find the guy strapped down with knives. Already without the angel blood-coated weapon on his body, the Gloom was calling, his hold on this realm growing tenuous. He allowed it, closing his eyes and concentrating on his host.

  When next he opened them, he was in his host, sitting on the toilet, staring at the stall walls. Despite a pounding headache, he grinned.

  He had a hell of a trade for Jameson’s blood.

  Chapter 24

  “There are possessed everywhere,” Harlowe reported.

  The rest of Bryant’s team, minus Sierra and Jagger, were at the same meeting spot as the last time they infiltrated Fall from Grace. It was far enough from the club to keep from being detected, but close enough to spy on.

  After his talk with Jagger, they hadn’t wasted any time. As soon as the eight fallen were accounted for, Bryant called them here. It was evening in Las Vegas, but he and Odessa had been awake for over twenty-four hours. They were still in the same clothing, but this needed to be done.

  Bronx nodded next to Harlowe. “We must’ve made Haddock sweat. Sylphs are ghosting all over. Symaster victims are littering the street and loitering in front of the club, wondering how they got on this side of town.”

  Damn. Bryant should’ve expected as much.

  They needed to confirm that Jameson Haddock was a fallen angel and Jagger’s father. Those were the two most burning questions. A few others were how the hell a fallen had killed a watcher, in the Mist no less? Then got her body out of the veil to feed to gargoyles. Another biggie…how the fuck could a fallen detect Numen or Daemon?

  They couldn’t get close to the club. Jameson knew what Harlowe and Odessa looked like, possibly even Bronx. With sylphs surrounding the club, it’d be impossible to be on the same block and remain undetected.

  “What about if we materialize at the alley door?” Odessa ventured.

  Bryant’s first response was no. Hell no. “After your encounter with the archmaster, I’m sure it’s being monitored.” And Odessa wasn’t going near that building.

  “But there’s a roof,” Harlowe said. “We could climb up to the neighboring building’s roof and jump over.”

  “We won’t know what we’d encounter up there.” Bryant didn’t want Harlowe’s idea to work, but it was looking like their only option. This club was where Jameson lived and worked.

  “Two of us can go. Trouble starts and we can reach the roof or jump out of a window. There’s only possessed humans and sylphs around. We won’t have to hide to shuttle out of there.”

  Bronx rubbed the back of his neck and spoke to Bryant. “So you and Harlowe go in? Me, Urban, and Dionna standing by. You get into trouble, we’ll charge in?”

  No. “Dionna, stay by Odessa.”

  “I should go with,” Odessa said. Bryant was shaking his head when she continued. “Like before, I might have different insight into anything we find, or—or where to find it. Watchers observe a lot of things, like where humans hide stuff.”

  They weren’t finding just anything. They were determined to find the fallen himself. Bryant wanted to coddle Odessa. Bringing her to find a man that might be a fallen capable of murdering angels went against all of his protective instincts.

  Yet…having Odessa’s insight to the conversation would be invaluable. He and Harlowe could do just fine, but as his mate had proven over and over, her analytical mind could see layers that weren’t obvious to others.

  And maybe he didn’t want to leave her in a sylph-infested neighborhood without him by her side.

  “We need to arm Odessa better before we go in.” Bryant and Odessa hadn’t had any more time to work on her self-defense skills. He couldn’t send her in relying on only them to help her if they came to blows.

  Urban and Dionna gave up their smaller, easier-to-handle blades to his mate. Now was one of the times Bryant wished they could use guns. Odessa wouldn’t need to get close to anyone to hurt them. Angels worked their own metal and it ascended easy enough, but gunpowder had proved too volatile to carry through the realms. It was difficult to remain inconspicuous among humans when a gun was fired, not to mention the increase in collateral damage. Didn’t mean demons couldn’t use hosts to get guns and fire at warriors. Many weren’t skilled in their use and preferred to use more devious, underhanded methods, but violence and death prevailed.

  “I think we’re as ready as we’ll ever be,” Odessa announced. She finished arranging her clothing so the hilts weren’t easily visible above the waistband of her jeans.

  Bryant knew they were there. He could almost feel the soft skin the metal was resting against; so warm, so smooth
. Before he could think too much harder about it and create a hell of a distraction for himself, he took Odessa’s hand and nodded at Harlowe.

  The trip was brief, but for Bryant, it was too quick. He wanted it over with, but bringing Odessa closer to danger instead of farther away gnawed at his conscience. They crept to the edge of the roof.

  “We can shuttle over easier than jumping,” Harlowe whispered.

  The distance was ten feet, but the scuffle of their footwear on the rooftop might draw attention. He nodded and pointed to an exhaust stack they could materialize next to.

  The roof was empty. Jameson was only worried about the club being infiltrated, not the other levels of the building.

  Harlowe pried open the door to the stairwell. The creaks the hinges made were as loud as a fog horn, but no creatures heard. They filtered into the dank space and crept down the stairs.

  “The space the window overlooks takes up part of the second level,” Odessa murmured. They trailed down the stairs, their eyes growing accustomed to the dark, and came upon a locked door.

  Harlowe squatted, digging in a kit on her shoulder holster. Bryant shone his phone light on the doorknob as she picked it open.

  “Any electronic security?” he asked. The club itself had minimal cameras, as though Jameson preferred his eyes and ears to mill among his customers. But then, if he was James Hancock and fell because he exposed their kind to humans, he probably shunned video evidence of his supernatural activities.

  “No. Jameson is surprisingly old school.”

  Inching the door open, Harlowe peeked inside.

  Muted music of the nightclub vibrated in the walls. The place was dark. They filed out, sticking close to the walls. He kept a grip on Odessa’s hand.