Angel Bait (Angel Assassins #1)

by Tricia Skinner

The cabbie harrumphed. “Looked like he was eyeing you for his next meal.”

  “I wouldn’t make a good liquid diet. Too spicy,” she quipped.

  “I’ve met a lot of humans, but I can’t figure you out.”

  She pressed her back into the soft seat. “What are you trying to figure out?”

  Their eyes locked in the mirror. “You deal with vamps. You didn’t blink twice at me. I’m curious why you seem — ”

  “Comfortable around Others?” At Mason’s nod, she smiled. “My grandma. She’s big on the ‘we’re all God’s creatures’ mantra. Raised me to judge people on their individual actions, not by what an entire race has done. Humans can be good or bad, Mason. So can Leshii, vamps, and everything in between.”

  His deep laughter surprised her.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t know I had a religious nut for a fare.”

  “Hey!” Her laughter filled the cab.

  The city was awake now, with traffic the first sign its inhabitants would soon be caught up in their daily grind. She stared out the window.

  God, I love it here.

  Too soon, Mason pulled the cab into the curved drive outside of Detroit’s Central Precinct, her home away from home. While it idled, she reached for her wallet and grabbed the few loose bills she found.

  He waved off the fare. “This one’s on me.”

  “What? My money not good enough for you?”

  “Save it for all the poor vampires you have to feed.”

  “Oh, you’re a riot.” She stared at Mason, waiting to see if he’d change his mind. When he raised a fuzzy brow she figured she’d lose in a battle of wills with the cabbie.

  “Fine. I’ll overdose on coffee. My sleepless nights will be on your head.”

  He rewarded her with a magnanimous smile. The radiance of it chased away the lingering unease with Oren. She stepped out of the cab, her mind already calculating the numerous hiding places for an angel.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ascension.

  Jarrid left Tanis’ study in a mind fog and passed by his brethren unseen. Their shouts and laughter from the game room below followed him down the hall. He needed solitude. Only one place inside the Stronghold to go.

  He reached the Think Tank, his personal sanctuary, and slid open the heavy metal door. His feet sank into the plush rug, and he crossed to his favorite chair. He settled onto the worn suede, the old wood creaking in protest.

  All around him, Detroit came to life. His vantage point was the Think Tank’s enormous glass windows, thick as a baby’s arm and frosted on the outside to keep curious eyes out. Not that anyone could get close enough to the Stronghold to see within. The Directorate had purchased Belle Isle from the City’s founders in 1701, only months after Antoine Cadillac settled the place. The Order had made some improvements to security.

  His gaze glided over the walls covered to the rafters with books. He loved the tomes and was a voracious reader. There was little about this world and its inhabitants he couldn’t find in those pages.

  He stared out at the city again. Many races lived there in relative peace. The humans seemed to thrive, though they were by far the weakest residents.

  Humans.

  Jarrid held scant love for his genetic siblings. He’d spent his life ignoring the half-human part of himself, wishing the DNA would fade into an abyss. Memories of the daily abuse of his youth flooded his mind. He could hear the words as if they were newly spoken.

  “You are abominations.”

  Jarrid tilted his head to glare at the new angel trainer looming over him in the training quarters. Same as yesterday and the day before. Always with the relentless training!

  “Brought into the world in sin, suckled at the breast of a monkey, your existence speaks of the weakness of your fetid blood.” The angel’s voice dripped disgust. “Your sires, lost souls all, will one day be made to repent for their darkness.”

  Blah, blah, blah. Way more blah than Jarrid wanted to hear. His hands itched, his emotions broiled. If he had wings, he would have flown from this nightmare ages ago. He forced himself to calm down, just like Tanis had taught them.

  He considered the terrifying, yet beautiful, angel ordering him around. The powerful wings at the trainer’s back were covered in a cascade of brilliant white feathers. Pure. He couldn’t shake his malevolent awe. Angels are perfect beings. One day, Jarrid promised himself, he’d prove he was more like them. Maybe then he’d grow wings.

  “Day dreaming, bro?” Cain asked. He strode into the library, stopped, and stared out a window.

  Too late to be a social call.

  Jarrid clasped his hands behind his head and waited until his unexpected guest turned away from the window. “Tell me what’s on your mind. I hate it when you drag shit out.”

  “I don’t drag shit out. I’m thinking.”

  If Cain’s thinking didn’t spell disaster, nothing would. His brother always tried to get him to loosen up, get in touch with his feelings.

  Not going to happen.

  “This hunt may involve a human,” Cain said.

  “Yeah?”

  “An innocent, Jarrid.”

  “Yeah?”

  “If you find the woman, she won’t understand much, if anything, about angels and nephilim. Imagine her reaction to seeing a six-foot-five body builder with silver eyes at her door. You’ll scare the shit out of her.”

  Jarrid sat up. What did he care about a mortal woman’s reactions? Nothing mattered except catching the Renegade and gaining freedom for his adopted family. “You make no sense. I find the woman. I question her. If she knows the outlaw, I make her tell me. If she’s an innocent, as you claim, I’ll protect her.”

  “Are you so cut off from humanity you think this is a viable plan?” Cain rubbed his forehead, a sure sign a lecture brewed in his mind. “First, she may be too overwhelmed by the sight of you to utter anything but nonsense.”

  Jarrid forced his face to remain neutral.

  Yep, a full-blown psychoanalytical lecture. Why does this shit always happen to me?

  “Second, she’s not a mark,” Cain said. “You can’t ‘make’ her do anything. There are laws we follow. The primary one is we don’t harm civilians.”

  Jarrid clenched his hands into fists. “Come on, man. I’ve never harmed a civilian.”

  The Order held to a code. They followed orders, took out targets, and left no witnesses. They also protected those weaker than themselves, and their protection extended to the human race by proxy. Order business was dark, but there were lines that weren’t crossed.

  Cain approached him like he was cornering a dangerous animal. “You’re not exactly a teddy bear and your presence may scare her.”

  “If she’s afraid, she’ll spill her guts to get rid of me.”

  Cain issued a defeated sigh. The tone grated Jarrid’s already raw nerves. “You should have spent more time over the centuries trying to understand women.”

  His face felt hot. “Watch it, bro. My patience has limits, even for you. Spit it out.”

  “Don’t muscle in and expect the woman to tell you her credit card number.” Cain paced in front of Jarrid’s chair. He stopped, snapping his fingers as if he’d found the perfect answer. “Give her something she wants. It’ll make it easier to get her to talk.”

  “Give her what? I don’t know who I’m looking for!”

  A mischievous glint twinkled in Cain’s eyes. “When it comes to women, I’ve found if you listen long enough, they tell you all you need to know.”

  • • •

  Detroit’s Central Precinct was a hub of activity every day of the week. Ionie hitched her empty bag onto her shoulder and pushed through the glass entrance door. She took a second to take stock of the interior. Central honored D
etroit’s Beaux-Arts Classical architectural style on a grand scale. The main area of the former railway station was awash in marble up to its vaulted ceiling. Doric columns separated the hall into manageable sections. Home to Detroit’s finest, the Michigan State Police, and the United States Homeland Security operations, Central oozed Red, White, and Blue.

  A desk sergeant gave Ionie a quick glance, then returned to his paperwork. She side stepped a pair of officers struggling to drag an inebriated Lycan to the public toilet. She punched the elevator button.

  “I got hairy palms,” Ionie overheard the drunken werewolf tell one of the officers. She smothered a giggle until the elevator doors closed.

  On the fourth floor she waved to several cops on the way to the News’ crime desk. She tossed her bag onto a newspaper she’d left a few hours earlier and threw away the empty coffee cups littering her file cabinet. Satisfied, she sighed, closed her eyes, and sank into a chair across from crime reporter Janie-Paulette Young.

  “You look like shit, kid.”

  Ionie didn’t open her eyes. “Come on, JP. Nice way to greet your apprentice.”

  “Okay. You look like shit, young apprentice. Didn’t I send you home?”

  One eye peeked at the blond veteran reporter. Her mentor’s oval face, bowed lips, and stunning yellow eyes should have caught a husband years ago. “I went home.”

  JP pushed aside a stack of files, clearing enough room to sit on the edge of the steel desk. “When you went home, did you forget to get some shut eye?”

  “No, I dreamed of sugar plum fairies attacking the Easter Bunny.”

  “Next time, you’ll do what I tell you. I don’t need you half dead on your feet.”

  “Here I thought my Grandma lived in Hamtramck.”

  JP’s throaty laugh filled the room. Her friend was the parent she’d never expected when she’d turned up at The Detroit News a year ago, a rookie reporter trying to read the bookings report. The veteran was an ace shooter, a devil-smooth pool shark, and the smartest Lycanthrope reporter Ionie knew.

  “I met with Oren,” Ionie said.

  “Alone?” An unmistakable growl rumbled on the word.

  Ionie cringed. “He’s not that bad, JP.”

  “I’ve been at this a long time, and the guy creeps me out.”

  “What? You don’t like watery eyes and two sets of fangs in a pallid, haunted face drooling at you?”

  JP pulled a ‘you-gotta-be-kidding-me’ face. “We can talk about Prince Charming another time. Patrick wants you to head downtown ASAP. He sounded off. Watch your ass.”

  Ionie’s exhaled. She hadn’t checked Oren’s lead yet, but it was too late. She’d received a summons from the city editor.

  “Did you bring the keys?” she asked, latching on to a happier thought.

  JP tossed a jingling ball on the desk. “It’s parked in Luther’s old spot. Gassed up and ready to roll.”

  Ionie stared at the keys before reaching a trembling hand to grab them. When she’d told JP her own car had died a painful death earlier in the week, she never imagined her friend would get her another set of wheels.

  “I’ll repay you,” she said, choking back the heavy emotion clogging in her throat. “It may take a while on my salary, but I’ll do it. I promise.”

  “Then you’ll insult me,” JP said, locking yellow eyes on her. “You and me? We’re pack. We’re family. All there is to it.”

  Ionie managed a nod. She knew werewolves roamed in packs, but she’d never seen another Lycan from JP’s extended family. Since her friend never brought it up, she’d forced her curiosity away. If JP wanted to talk about her family, she’d do it.

  Still, buying a car for someone was a big damn deal. Ionie stared at the keys in her hand. The Ford emblem was etched into the black plastic, but not the model of the car. She shrugged and stood up. She had wheels again.

  “I’ll go see what Patrick wants.”

  “Did Oren give you a lead worth following?”

  Ionie scratched her head. “Maybe. I won’t know until I poke around a little.”

  “Be careful, small fry. Oren’s not a friend. He supplies information to anyone with a pulse,” JP called out.

  Ionie walked slowly to the elevator.

  • • •

  She needed more time. Oren’s hint tickled a corner of her brain, but meeting with Patrick without any substantial facts would stir up more questions than answers. The paper was losing money, a consequence of operating in a world where news went viral in a blink, everything a click away. Old-school outlets were hard-put to remain above water.

  Reporters like her? A dying breed.

  She stepped out of the used Ford Escort JP had bought her and smiled. One day, she’d repay the softhearted werewolf. She shoved open the brass entrance doors, and crossed the empty News lobby. She couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or nervous, but she spotted her destination and her head began to throb — a building headache did the migraine mambo behind her temples.

  Cuts to the staff made sense in this economy, but Ionie chaffed at the idea of unemployment. She loved journalism and The News was a great first job for a college graduate. She’d worked her way from accepting obits over the phone to landing assignments for the Metro section. Her byline — sometimes — in print made her feel accomplished. Could Patrick really be ready to scrap her? She wiggled her fingers at her sides.

  Over my dead body. She reached the city editor’s office, fuming. She was a good reporter. She’d worked too damn hard, and she loved writing, damn it. Plus, her credentials gave her access to places most people couldn’t bribe their way into. No way she’d give up.

  Ionie rapped twice on the frosted glass before she entered the dim room. She plastered what she hoped was a non-threatening smile on her lips and schooled her features the way JP taught her.

  Think gentle. Think feminine.

  This wasn’t a game of Texas Hold ’Em, but the stakes were high. She was ready to bluff her ass off.

  “You wanted to see me, Patrick?” Her voice sounded firm and unstressed to her. She could do this.

  Patrick McCollum nodded, gesturing her inside from his plush chair. “Hey, Ionie.”

  Her gaze swept over his stocky body. Patrick’s desk was difficult to make out in the low light. Piles of manila folders, assorted books, and discarded coffee containers covered the wood surface. The man lived for his job, but an air of loneliness pervaded the space. No family pictures decorated the shelves behind him. Only trophies, plaques, and certificates detailing a life spent pursuing the First Amendment.

  “We were talking about you.”

  We? Movement in a dark corner drew her attention. She turned to greet Patrick’s guest. A hulking man stepped into view. She refused to believe her eyes.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said, her voice low enough she was sure only a dog could hear it.

  “Hardly.”

  Words, thoughts, and comprehension fled. Her mouth gaped open and her heart skipped several beats.

  Thick, brown-black hair flowed behind the stranger and disappeared behind generous shoulders. An expansive chest stretched the smoke-gray T-shirt he wore to its limits.

  She skimmed her way to his face with herculean effort. Up, up, up. He had to be almost seven-feet tall. Vibrant sterling eyes narrowed, pinning her with a predatory gaze. Her lungs seemed to stop working.

  “This is Jarrid of the Eternal Order,” Patrick said. His light tone broke the awkward silence.

  Ionie dropped her gaze to the black denim encasing Jarrid’s toned legs. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Eternal Order? You’re an angel?” She cringed at the multilayered awe in her voice.

  “Some parts of me are.”

  Ho-ly crap! His rough voice sounded like boulders rolling over coarse sand. The
deep timbre made her wonder if Jarrid spoke much. She interacted with non-humans in her daily life, but she’d never met an angel or nephilim. Jarrid was … extraordinary.

  On cue, her mind conjured up lists of questions she wanted to ask. You’re staring, girl. She remembered a fraction too late Others hated being ogled. Her eyes wavered. Jarrid’s stayed fixed on her. “What did you want to talk to me about, boss?”

  “A story.”

  A knot in her stomach tightened. “Which one?”

  Patrick’s shrewd look narrowed at his guest. “Jarrid’s approached me with an interesting offer.”

  Ionie glanced away from her editor. The nephilim was probably some pumped up messenger from Heaven who didn’t care one fig about being a news story. Angels had made it clear for years they didn’t mix in low circles. Low, of course, meaning anyone outside the Pearly Gates. At least from what her sources inside the Council had to say. Heaven kept to itself.

  She couldn’t help her curiosity. “What offer?”

  “Did you write this story?” Jarrid placed a crumpled Metro Section on the Patrick’s desk.

  Ionie skimmed it. “Why?”

  “It’s a simple question, Ionie Gifford.”

  She pressed her lips in a hard line and leaned against one of Patrick’s award displays. She glanced at The Associated Press plaque for Feature Writing, the editor’s name emblazoned across the brass nameplate.

  “What’s my work have to do with your visit?”

  The nephilim pinned her with a silver stare. “Merely curious.”

  “Jarrid told me you’re working a story that intersects with something he is pursuing,” Patrick said.

  Was she dreaming? She was tempted to pinch her arm, but resisted the urge. Barely. “What are you working on?”

  Jarrid’s smile seemed cautious. “It’s classified.”

  Suspicion stirred low in her chest. “Then why come to a newspaper?”

  “Reporters interact with many races,” he said.

  “So do cops.”

  Patrick’s expression pruned. “Jarrid wants to ask you some questions about a couple of your sources.” She opened her mouth to protest.