Angel Bait (Angel Assassins #1)

by Tricia Skinner

  A forgotten relic of Detroit’s automotive past, the Stronghold was a circa 1915 assembly complex of three interconnecting buildings. Six hundred and fifty thousand square feet of privacy for the Eternal Order to handle its business. The core of the structure housed living quarters that would make loft lovers envious. From a floor-to-ceiling movie screen with a custom sound system to top-of-the-line gaming computers.

  Jarrid paused at the entertainment room and loosened his coat.

  “You want a drink?” Cain headed toward the bar.

  He waved him off. “Nah, I’m good. Time to debrief.”

  Jarrid and Cain moved up the staircase, entered the study, and found Tanis working on his computer.

  Better not be new assignments.

  Tanis didn’t look up. “The Directorate sent two assignments — a standard reconnaissance mission down in Hamtramck and a link to a story in The Detroit News.”

  Jarrid groaned and peered at the screen. The browser opened and he read the headline.

  Body Found In River Rouge.

  “I’ve read the latest crime story twice already,” Tanis said. “A church group setting up their annual picnic discovered the body. Nothing like a little decomposed flesh to bring out the Lord.”

  The cursor paused over one sentence.

  “The unidentified woman is the third victim to suffer severe burns, but the coroner has declined to speculate to the cause.”

  Jarrid frowned. “Three dead women with burns?” Before he received a reply, the door opened and in walked the rest of the team.

  Nestaron slipped in first, his rust-colored hair pulled back. He sat in an armchair and hooked his long arms over the low back, and then offered a nod and waited.

  In contrast, Kasdeja waltzed in like he expected applause. His inky-black hair settled around his face. He gave a cocky wink, which Jarrid ignored. Kas smoothed his hand down his tie-dyed shirt, the latest in a blinding collection of “old school” fashion he believed would make a comeback.

  Tanis rolled his eyes and mumbled, “God of All, don’t let the 60’s return.”

  Cain leaned against a bookcase, his blond mane framing his tanned face.

  “What did you find out?” Tanis asked.

  Jarrid crossed his arms. “A Renegade is in the city.”

  No one moved, but he sensed the tense wave pulsing through the room.

  “No name given,” he continued. “He’s searching for someone and he’s hired vamps for the job.”

  A hiss rose from the team, but Jarrid didn’t join in. He scrutinized Tanis. Any outlaw was a priority, but one among the old Watchers held a special place with his mentor. The one man he wanted to take down the hardest: Beleth, a former general in Heaven’s army.

  “You got a hunch, bro?” Kas asked. Tanis looked up, straight into Jarrid’s face.

  “My target didn’t give up much. He overheard a conversation between some recently employed blood drinkers. The only unusual part is about a woman.”

  Nestaron leaned forward in his chair. “Race?”

  “No description, but the vamps dropped something about the paper.” Jarrid rubbed his lower jaw. “If we take that literally, we’re looking at a clue they’ve planted or one they expect will lead to the woman.”

  Tanis glanced at his laptop. “The stories were compiled by staff and wire reports. The reporter isn’t named.”

  “I’ll start at the newspaper and find out who was assigned to this column,” Jarrid said.

  Tanis nodded. “If it’s a woman, bring her in. This is a stab in the dark, but we don’t have much to go on. You’ll need a solid cover story. The reporter could own a bullshit detector.”

  “I’ll start with the boss, work my way in that way,” Jarrid replied. “Boss tells reporter to help me. Bingo. If not, I always have a Plan B.”

  “Do whatever it takes. Cain, Nesty, and Kas will split the magazines. For now, tag any woman who might catch a Renegade’s eye.”

  Meeting over, his brothers left the study, but Jarrid stayed behind. Tanis stood stiffly and walked to the front of the desk. His twisted, burnt wings hung useless at his back.

  “I’ll update the Directorate,” Tanis said.

  “Leave out the lead.” Jarrid looked fixedly at him. “Let me confirm the intel first, and then we’ll discuss what additional info to pass along.”

  “Why?”

  “We haven’t landed a Renegade job in two hundred years,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “And the dicks upstairs will assign this one to some ass-kissing angel soldier like they did all the other leads we’ve sent in the past. If this outlaw is in Detroit, I want him.”

  Tanis folded his arms. “The Order wasn’t created for your personal vendettas.”

  “Look who’s talking.” Jarrid snorted. “Man, you have it bad for these dudes, and that’s gospel. We get it. All I want is a clear shot at this one, for all of us.”

  “Why does it matter if you get the shot?”

  “I’m the best tracker on the team. I’ll find the woman and then use her to find the Renegade. When I take the asshole down, our superiors will be forced to recognize the entire Order.” Jarrid leaned in close and lowered his voice. “For all the shit we’ve endured. All the sacrifices we’ve made because we’re half-breeds … I want them to acknowledge what you’ve known for centuries. We are worthy of Heaven.”

  Tanis inhaled sharply.

  Jarrid watched his mentor’s surprised expression as the words sank in.

  “Ascension,” Jarrid said. “I want them to remove the hold on our Grace.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ionie scowled at the wall clock, convinced it had ripped her off. Four in the freakin’ morning.

  Her shift at the paper had ended five short hours ago. Still her eyes ached and her body felt as heavy as a sack of rocks. She buried her face in the couch cushion and groaned.

  Maybe she should reschedule her meeting with Oren?

  Damn, I can’t. The skittish vamp would bolt, and she’d be stuck with the four bags of O-positive she’d agreed to pay him. She couldn’t afford to waste money.

  Twenty-eight minutes later, she stood outside her duplex. The newsstand where she’d arranged to meet Oren was a short cab ride away. Thanks to her piece of shit Passat dying on her, the cab was the quickest option. Yet another dent to her sorry ass bank account. She nibbled her lip.

  Should she call Grams to ask for a small loan?

  Beg my grandma for part of her Social Security check? God, I’m not that hard up, am I?

  “Eight Mile and Woodward,” she told the cabbie.

  His green skin caught her attention. She studied his picture on the city permit tacked to the cabin’s safety glass. “When did Leshii start driving cabs?”

  “Ever since you humans left the fields for concrete jungles.” The driver peered at her in his rearview.

  “Guess everyone has to make a living somehow, huh?”

  The shapeshifter shrugged. “I’d prefer being worshipped like a forest god, but betters can’t be choosers.”

  “I think you mean beggars.”

  “Nah, I had it right.” The cabbie winked.

  Ionie’s lips twitched. Her resistance failed and a chuckle slipped out.

  “What you doing out so late?” His casual tone soothed her frazzled nerves. Not a bad trait for a cabbie.

  She scanned the permit again and found his name. “This is early, Mason Acker. To answer your question, I have a hot date with a vamp I don’t want to miss.”

  Mason gave an exaggerated shudder and glanced at her reflection. “Bloodsuckers are bad news, lady. You sure you wanna be dating one?”

  She flipped her leather identification case open and pressed it against the Plexiglas. Mason stared from the rearview mirror. �
��Well, shit on me. You a TV reporter?”

  “No, general assignment slave at The News.” She slid the badge into her pocket. “I eat vamps for dinner.”

  “Better than the other way around,” Mason said, shaking his head. He waved a hand at the street ahead. “This it?”

  Too bad the pleasant ride was over. Mason was chatty, which couldn’t be said for the rest of his forest-god brethren.

  “Thanks.” Ionie glanced at the fare and paid with a meager tip.

  “Hey, Lois Lane, you want me to hang around? In case blood boy gets any ideas?” Mason turned in his seat to retrieve her money from the change holder. With short-cropped gray hair, he looked around fifty.

  Ionie offered him a serene smile. His race wasn’t all about hugging trees and chanting for rain. Leshii had been known to drain the life force out of a few misinformed people. She hunched next to the window. “He won’t even eye me funny, unless he wants to suck on a Taser.”

  • • •

  The newsstand was visible from the busy intersection. Oren wouldn’t pull anything stupid, but then again vampires leaned toward the unpredictable.

  She shivered in the damp morning air. A clunker rumbled down the street, its exhaust spewing smoke. She buttoned her jacket up to her neck, and tucked her nose into the collar to avoid the pollutants.

  She checked her watch. Oren was late. He had twenty minutes before she’d have to bail. A sudden image of her reading the Jobs section of the paper brought a shiver.

  Unemployed at twenty-five.

  Ionie scolded herself. Put on your Wonder Woman Underoos and deal with it.

  He’d show. He’d have a lead. She’d land a story worthy of the front page. A nearby celebrity tabloid offered a much needed distraction. She flicked through the pages, eyes scanning the headlines.

  Fae Actor Dances with Werewolves in New Film.

  Fangs But No Fangs for Vamp Hottie Band Forsaken.

  Remake of Casablanca Stars Demon Heartthrob.

  “It was a Monster Mash,” she muttered.

  “What’s that you say?”

  Ionie looked up to find the newsstand attendant studying her, his unibrow hitched high.

  “Nothing.” She replaced the magazine and walked to the curb.

  “You showed. I’m impressed.”

  She recognized the raspy voice and spun around. Oren had to be the thinnest vampire in existence, all gangly arms and legs, and the loudest wheezing breath she’d ever heard. No wonder he dealt information for blood. His victims would hear him coming from two states over.

  The vamp looked like an animated corpse, the kind she’d expect in a Halloween fun house. His red eyes darted around in their sunken sockets. She could tell he was strung tighter than a Baby Grand.

  “You said you had some info to trade.” She patted her bag with the tip of her finger.

  “Not here.”

  “I’m heading to Central next. If you want to chat at the station, I’ll hail us a cab.”

  Oren’s watery eyes twitched. A walk into the police precinct would mark him for the snitch everyone around town knew him to be. Still, there was a code among lowlifes. They upheld stealth above everything else.

  “We’ll talk here.” He glanced past her to the attendant sitting on a stool.

  She took several steps away from the attendant. “What do you have for me?”

  Ionie waited while Oren gave his surroundings another cautious check. He turned his pasty face to look at her. She suppressed a shudder as his tongue slid across his bottom lip. “Human women are so intriguing.”

  She willed herself not to cover her body with her hands, focusing instead on why she was here. She needed a story. A big story. Oren made her skin crawl, but the guy was plugged into Detroit’s underbelly. He’d have some juicy piece of news in his bony head.

  “You hear anything interesting, or not?”

  He grinned, or maybe it was more of a sneer. She stared at his mouthful of needle-sharp teeth, transfixed.

  “This is a big city. People get chatty. What’s your fancy? Werewolves taking over the unions? Vampires opening a medical clinic for the homeless? Angels looking for a good time?”

  Her breath lodged in her throat. “What about angels?”

  Oren shrugged, but the bastard didn’t elaborate. She fisted her hands, resisting the urge to punch him. After a beat she tugged on the flap of her bag. She reached inside, never taking her eyes off the snitch. The vampire watched with hungry anticipation, more interested in what she carried than the information he was supposed to be sharing. Ionie grabbed one of the plastic bags and pulled the top to the opening.

  “Come on,” she urged, “I need more than vague comments before I slake your thirst.”

  She kneaded the plastic. The vampire’s gaze latched onto her fingers. He stepped forward, focused on his next meal. She dropped the blood bag and closed the flap, breaking his focus.

  “Don’t mess with me, Oren.”

  “You toying with me?”

  A cool breeze swirled under the collar of her hoodie, a cold reminder of the creature she was dealing with. The short hairs on her neck stood up and her body tensed.

  Ionie ignored the shivers vibrating up her spine. “What about the angels?”

  Oren appeared to shrink into himself, closing off his hunger. She exhaled when he stepped away.

  I need to stop dealing with vamps.

  His beady gaze darted back to the bag. “I may have seen one of the halo brigade poking around the city.”

  Her heartbeat jackknifed. Word on the street was angels didn’t mix with other races. The journalist in her ached to ask the winged wonders why, plus a gazillion other questions. The most intriguing question for them had sprouted on the night of her mom’s death. Grams had held her tight, rocking her and wiping away their shared tears.

  “Don’t worry, baby girl. Folks say an angel stood over her ‘til the end.” Gram’s voice had been layered in comfort.

  An angel.

  Had one tried to save her mom after she’d been caught in the drive-by shooting? The notion had always been irresistible to her news-hound curiosity, and when — not if — she cornered one, she’d not only end up with the story of her young career, but she may learn about her mother’s final moments.

  But first, she needed to find an angel.

  Ionie focused on Oren’s face. She flipped open her bag and removed the contents.

  “If I find out you’re lying, this will be the last snack pack you get.” She planned to give the vamp a scalding look of disapproval. Instead, she tracked a thick bulb of saliva sliding from Oren’s mouth and down his chin. “Man, when did you last eat?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you care?”

  “I don’t.” She held out the bags. “Vamps need a steady diet, Oren. You go too long without feeding and bad juju happens.”

  “It’s against the law to hunt like we should.” He grabbed at the bags with bony fingers.

  Ionie clutched the bags to her chest. “No, it’s against the law to murder people to feed your blood lust. There are legal venues for vamps to take care of themselves. I did a Sunday spread on them three months ago.”

  A strangled cry ripped from the vampire’s throat. “Those venues serve animal blood, Scribe. I’d rather starve to death.”

  Scribe. She bristled at the word some non-humans used to describe reporters. Not in a warm, fuzzy sort of way, either. Filthy news whores was a more apt translation.

  “Listen, I don’t care if you have to drink cow or rat.” She leaned into Oren’s personal space. “You know the city’s at risk whenever a vamp’s stomach grumbles. If I catch you this hungry again, so help me, I’ll put in a call to the oversight council.”

  Yeah, right. She knew she wouldn’t co
ntact the council, not if she wanted to live and work in Detroit. Oren was too minor a player for the species relations organization to worry about; a total waste of the council’s time.

  Oren sneered again. A second row of pointy teeth tore through his gums and slid into the thin grooves between the first set. She looked on as his wiry body shook. Shit, he can smell my bluff like he can sense a paper cut.

  His body took on new dimensions, elongating with his growing agitation. She told herself to hold her ground. His red irises scanned her face. The Taser C2 pressed reassuringly against her hip and she resisted the urge to grip it. Even in Oren’s emaciated form she knew he was much stronger than her. She doubted the newsstand attendant would swoop in to stop him from ripping a hole in her throat.

  Screw this!

  Her Grams didn’t raise a fool. She thrust the blood bags at him, shoving the packages with just enough force to shake the informant from his transformation.

  “Bon appétit.” She strode past him. He tore open the bags, slurping the contents in noisy draws. There was no way in hell she’d stick around to watch Oren glut.

  She reached the sidewalk and raised her arm to signal a cab. To her surprise, one already moved in her direction. She recognized the driver and a smile spread across her lips.

  “Were you waiting for me, Mason?”

  From the front seat, the shapeshifter kept a steady gaze on Oren. “You tip well.”

  Ionie slid into the back seat and huffed. “I wish. Central, please.”

  The car pulled into the early morning traffic and her informant faded into the distance. Her fear eased. Oren wasn’t normally dangerous — at least not when he’d worked with her before — but dealing in blood was risky.

  Mason peered at her in the rearview. “How’d your date go?”

  “He missed breakfast, which meant time to split.”