Angel Bait (Angel Assassins #1)

by Tricia Skinner

  He clenched his teeth. “No one escapes from Jarrid.”

  • • •

  Rusty cars and rat infested trash bins decorated the alley behind Sha’Nae’s Beauty & Nails. Jarrid kept his gaze roaming over their entry point. Kas knelt beside him on the pavement, scanning for minds. The pack of vamps they followed was close, but the brothers wouldn’t attack until certain no innocents called the derelict alley home.

  Kas shook his head, confirming the alley clear.

  Only vamps. Jarrid unholstered his guns and surveyed the alley. The bloodsuckers ran when he and Kas caught them setting fire to a Land Rover. Itching for action, they had jumped at the opportunity to levy some payback.

  Kas groaned through the Act of Contrition. If Jarrid could spare his brother Heaven’s vindictive curse, he would. Instead, he kept watch until his brother’s suffering ended.

  The frigid temperature didn’t chill Jarrid’s determination to find one vamp in particular. Saul wasn’t among the four fangs in the alley, but vamps used a power structure. This group could know where he’d find the walking dead man.

  “Plan?” Kas asked, his guns drawn and ready.

  “One alive, others toast.”

  “On it.”

  Kas ran down a left pathway, leaving him the center trail. The heavy weight of his boots gripped the frost covered pavement. He slowed his approach, listening. He caught the scurry of rats off to his right and followed.

  The dual click of hammers snapping against steel registered a second before the booming discharge of guns exploded the quiet.

  Jarrid leapt to the side, crashing shoulder first into a trash bin. Bullets scored the ground where he’d been standing. A volley of bullets bit into the steel protecting him. Sparks lit the air like fireworks set too close to the ground. He sneered at the shitty aim.

  “Who taught you assholes to shoot?” Jarrid thumbed the hammers of his guns. “Here’s a lesson. Free of charge.”

  He pushed off his back, aimed around the riddled bin, and unloaded his birds. The thundering release of the Desert Eagles echoed in the alleyway, followed by loud cries. Satisfied but far from finished, Jarrid knelt behind his cover and peeked around.

  Two vamps writhed on the ground. One clutched his chest, groaning in pain. The other spasmed a few times before he lay still.

  “Gonna suck you dry, half-breed!” More bullets followed the challenge.

  “No foreplay?” Kas said.

  Jarrid peeked across the alley. His brother’s wide smile greeted him. He grinned back. Assassins lived for this shit. Kas held up his hand, signaling five vamps.

  Awesome. The vamps had backup. Jarrid signaled a reply in the complicated mix of finger gestures that served as their silent language. When Kas nodded, he gripped his guns.

  “Which of you pricks want to live longer than the rest?” Jarrid asked. “Four of you are going to die.”

  “Fuck you!”

  He glanced at Kas. The other assassin shrugged. Jarrid launched forward, surprising the vampires with unearthly speed. A gust of wind flared his coat like a cape. His fingers pressed triggers. Several rounds blasted two more stunned vamps point blank. Brain matter, bone, and blood exploded in all directions upon impact.

  Kas moved next, death in leather. His hands retracted, and then released a succession of silver daggers at two bloodsuckers the moment they raised their weapons. One vampire crumpled forward, slamming his head into the stinking muck of the pavement.

  The other stood like a breathing pincushion, four daggers cratered in his chest. Red eyes stared in disbelief at the glittering points. Jarrid spun around and planted a fifth blade in the man’s neck. The vamp’s shock faded, like the dim light in his eyes.

  “We have a winner,” Jarrid said. He leveled a glare at the remaining firebug.

  The bloodsucker paled. Cornered, his friends slaughtered around him, the man’s lips trembled. He raised his hands, pleading, and backed into a wall.

  “What the fuck do you want?” he asked.

  The brothers approached.

  Kas bent over to pull a dagger from a body. “Saul. Know him?”

  Sweat rolled into the vampire’s wide eyes. “Who the hell are you?”

  “We want Saul,” Jarrid said. He moved his arm like a cobra strike and gripped the man’s throat. Then he slid the bloodsucker up the wall. “Talk or I start ripping the skin from your bones.”

  The vamp sputtered and twisted in his iron grip. When the guy kicked out, landing a solid blow to his thigh, Jarrid brushed it off. His Grace ramped inside him, the tug of power aching for release. He allowed it to flow behind his eyes.

  “Sweet Jesus, what are you?”

  Kas spoke first. “He’s the embodiment of pain. I’m suffering.”

  Jarrid squeezed until the vampire’s eyes bulged. The vamp’s face reddened and his flailing body slowed its movements. He eased his grip to give the doomed bloodsucker air.

  “Saul.” Jarrid knew the single word wouldn’t be ignored.

  “Yeah, yeah. I know him. He paid us to light up the city.”

  “Why?” Kas asked.

  “The angel ordered it. Saul’s his top guy. I just follow orders.”

  Kas leaned closer to the vamp, his eyes blazing white from his Grace. “What’s the angel’s name?”

  The vampire shook his head, or tried, given the limited freedom Jarrid’s palm allowed. “He’s psycho. He’ll kill me if I say shit.”

  Jarrid placed one of his daggers to the vampire’s abdomen. “He’s not here. I am.”

  “Fuck. He’ll kill me, or worse. He can burn you with a glance.”

  “Name.” Kas said, misting the frigid air with his hot breath.

  “Shit! Beleth, all right. The angel’s name is Beleth.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Saul sat in his car across from a duplex nestled in a neat neighborhood. The green lawn defied the ongoing winter, remaining manicured since the long summer. Ionie Gifford’s house reflected the care of a place well loved.

  He cast a bored glance at a car passing the tranquil street. His custom-tinted windows made it impossible for the strolling neighbors to see the interior.

  Saul picked at a fingernail. He had stationed an armed crew near the Eternal Order’s home base. At last check, three of the half-breed’s had left, but not Ionie. His men couldn’t confirm if she was inside. Now he stewed on a goddamned stakeout, like some loser cop.

  He clawed his hands though his hair. The campaign to terrorize Motown went well, if the grumbling news media could be believed. Others and humans pointed fingers at each other. The vamps he didn’t run with started targeting rivals as the violence ignited turf wars long dormant.

  Saul didn’t give a rat’s ass about any of it. He needed one human woman in a city of thousands.

  A white Excursion slowed to a stop in front of the duplex, blocking the house from view. The driver’s door opened and a woman with short blond hair stepped out, her lean muscles outlined in her dark jeans. She skimmed around the truck to the mailbox, the jeans hugging her ass in an enticing way.

  My sweet Ionie. You have hot friends.

  The blond paused at the mailbox, a manila envelope in her hand. She must have changed her mind because she turned to the house, flipping through keys.

  A wicked idea popped into Saul’s head. He left his car, paused until he heard the house door open, and stepped around the truck. A curious scent made him stop. He inhaled again, drawing the aroma deep into his lungs. Lycanthrope!

  He spat on the ground. His ancient hatred of werewolves bubbled to the surface of his mind, shaking him. The beasts had caused him bitter losses during his long lifetime. Saul wasn’t a forgiving man. His fangs lengthened and he patted the knife at his side.

  Then he knocked on the
door.

  The instant it opened, he put the knife into action. He slashed a jagged line across the surprised woman’s throat, ending her chance of squealing for help. He shoved her backwards, slammed the door, and stabbed at her vulnerable stomach.

  The move didn’t connect.

  The bitch struck out with clawed hands, tearing a gash down Saul’s face, neck, and chest. He cried out, her momentum toppling him to the floor. The woman released her ravaged throat to pummel her fists into his head. One savage blow connected, followed by another. The Lycan used her muscled thighs to pin him down.

  He deflected several punches, but the enraged werewolf gripped his skull, trying to crush the bone with her bare hands. She snarled at him. Saul snarled back and swung his fist into her torn throat. The Lycan’s gold eyes flared.

  “One of you dogs taught me that about three hundred years ago,” Saul said.

  His victim weakened. He flipped her to the side, never relinquishing his death grip. Dark-red blood spurted from her throat, but for the first time in days, he had no desire to swallow a drop. Lycan blood tasted like decayed fur.

  Saul managed to trap the woman’s arms beneath his knees. He glared down at her, a surge of triumph filling his body.

  “I’d planned to fuck you,” he said, “as a calling card to your friend. Painting her house with your entrails will deliver the same effect.”

  He increased the pressure in his hands. Blood bubbled out of the woman’s mouth and she coughed. Then her struggles ceased. Saul kept squeezing, refusing to chance the bitch regaining consciousness. Long minutes passed before he removed his hands.

  The werewolf was dead.

  Saul reached down and found the woman’s ID case in her pocket.

  Janie-Paulette Young. Reporter. The Detroit News.

  He glanced at the dead woman. “I love irony.”

  Saul chuckled and pulled out a second identification card. The Michigan Drivers License showed a smiling female with golden eyes. He dropped it on her chest. “I’d hate for anyone to label you a Jane Doe.”

  He stared at the final laminated card, his hand shaking. His satisfied grin vanished as his stomach plummeted.

  Lieutenant Janie-Paulette Young. Detroit Police Department. Retired.

  • • •

  The Leshii touched Ionie’s slack face. Tanis and Cain stood nearby, braced for the shape shifter to tell them she was doomed. The shifter brushed hair from her forehead, clucking his teeth.

  “Damn, Lois. I warned you about bloodsuckers.”

  The angel and the nephilim shared a puzzled look.

  “Where’d you say you dug him up?” Tanis asked.

  Cain shrugged his shoulders. “We’ve worked with him in the past. Cab drivers are a good source of intel. I found him parked outside The Church. I thought it was divine luck.”

  Tanis didn’t believe in luck. The shifter behaved like he knew Ionie. “Can you help her?”

  The man turned his green-skinned head. Wisdom burned behind his steady eyes. “Your man said a vamp attacked her, but her condition isn’t due to a feeding gone wrong.”

  No. That would be due to sex with a nephilim. If Ionie didn’t pull through, Tanis would have a grief-stricken assassin to deal with. His wings flexed behind him. None of the team would escape her loss. “She contains Grace. We didn’t know until — ”

  The Leshii’s fuzzy eyebrows connected in a stiff line. “Her Grace touched another.”

  He gave a jerky nod of assent. No need to fill in the details. The shifter didn’t push.

  “The name’s Mason.” The Leshii stood, his arms crossed over his chest. “If I’m gonna help her I need to know what’s going on.”

  Cain cleared his throat, prepared to explain. Tanis held up a hand, silencing him. He shifted closer to the bed and the cracked cartilage along his wings trembled. He needed to rest the damn things, but they could wait. He stared down at the beautiful woman. Who was she really?

  Ionie was more than human, but he didn’t understand what she meant to Beleth. All he knew was she had a connection to the Renegade. He planned to follow the trail until he gripped his former commander by the throat.

  He glanced at Mason. The Leshii studied him, waiting. Resigned, he told the shifter everything. When he finished, he lowered himself on a chair, his battered wings fanned around him like a sunken shroud.

  “The two souls are natural enemies — one fire, one ice,” Mason said. “Jarrid and Ionie’s joining gave the souls an easy battlefield.”

  “Tell us something we don’t know,” he said.

  “The fire burns because its creator is close. It feels the pull of that angel’s Grace, and it wants to join it.”

  Well, shit. Tanis sprang from the chair, toppling it in his haste. “We can track the Renegade through Grace, but we’ve come up empty.”

  The Leshii’s eyes gleamed. “You tried before the lovebirds came together.”

  Cain moved, a blur of speed, and slammed Mason against the wall. “Stop talking shit and tell us.”

  “Ease off, Cain.” Tanis shoved his son away. The man’s chest heaved, frustration marring his tanned features. Tanis turned his head and glared at the shifter. “As you can see, we’re way past patience, Mason. Speak.”

  The Leshii’s deep chuckle surprised him. “Ionie’s power was dormant until Jarrid’s fueled it. Right now, her soul is changing. Her Grace will act as a beacon for the Renegade to follow. She’ll also be pulled to him.”

  Tanis gasped.

  God of All, could our prayers be answered? We can track Beleth if he comes for Ionie, or tries to run?

  “How? She’s flat on her back,” Cain said.

  “You don’t have to worry, half-breed,” Mason said. “She’ll wake when the power inside her finishes its transformation.”

  Tanis smoothed his hand down his face. That shit didn’t sound good. “What kind of transformation?”

  • • •

  Kasdeja and Cain paced the study in a silent arc. The scowls on their faces relayed the same disapproval Jarrid read on Nestaron’s where the other nephilim leaned against a bookshelf. They were in agreement on this bullshit.

  Jarrid curled his hands into fists, then relaxed them. Once he’d heard Cain had found a shifter to care for Ionie, he had abandoned his hunt for Saul, eager to return to the Stronghold. He glanced at the Leshii. Mason slouched in Kas’ usual spot, the high-back chair doing little to keep his posture straight. Something about the guy sparked Jarrid’s warning bells.

  Spark one. How does he know so much about angel powers?

  Spark two. Why was he lounging outside The Church when Cain arrived?

  Spark three. What did he want?

  Jarrid shot him a dark glare.

  “Don’t narrow those shiny peepers at me,” Mason said. “I’m older than you, better looking, and I’m the one with the answers. Show some respect.”

  Heat rose along Jarrid’s neck. “I’m just trying to figure out how a cabbie knows so much about Grace.”

  “Guess you missed the part where I said I was older than you.”

  “So you say.” That was Kas’ stony voice. “You may have a century or two under those wrinkles, Pops, but that ain’t enough to earn shit with us.”

  Jarrid eased his hand to the dagger hilt against his thigh. Mason raised a curious eyebrow. The shifter flowed from the chair, smooth as a Cobra before a strike, and blocked Kas’ path.

  “Leshii walked the Earth before the first company of angels swarmed across it like a scourge,” Mason said, his tone icy. “We saw your mothers bedded and we watched your fathers slaughtered.”

  Silence shrouded the room.

  “We spoke the rights over the fallen and welcomed them to their graves. So you see, boy, I have earned more than you could
hope to accumulate in a thousand more lifetimes.”

  Jarrid unhooked his fingers from the hilt and gaped at the shape shifter. If Mason told the truth, the cabbie was older than Tanis. Kas, he noticed, hadn’t backed down from the info dump, but his brother visibly trembled. Jarrid sympathized. The Leshii witnessed the beginning of the nephilim. God of All. The realization anything existed before their creation gave shifters serious creds.

  “If anyone asks for a ruler, I’m getting the fuck out,” Cain said, interjecting a groan into the tension-filled air.

  “Mason, we mean no disrespect,” Tanis said. “We appreciate any information you give us to help our friend.”

  Jarrid’s heart stuttered.

  The mysterious transformation. He’d learned about it when he’d returned. The wizened shifter had admitted he didn’t understand what physical or mental changes to expect in Ionie. Jarrid ground his teeth until his jawbones throbbed. Guilt ate his organs raw. This was his fault.

  Ionie was better bait than they could have hoped, a living heat-seeking missile to the Renegade. Jarrid wanted to hit something. Beleth could also locate her without his vampire squad’s help.

  He slammed a fist onto the chair arm. He had to focus. He shoved his conflicted emotions to the far corner of his mind, relying instead on his assassin training to guide him. “How do we use her to find our target?”

  The blazing eyes of his brothers stared at him like he’d grown breasts. They had a mark to find. There wasn’t time for confusing the job with bullshit feelings. Beleth. He was all that mattered. Yet Jarrid smelled the crap he was brewing. So did the team.

  Mason offered a warm smile. “Don’t worry, Superman. When she opens her eyes, she’ll be able to draw you a road map straight to his hideout.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Softness cocooned Ionie’s body and she rolled onto her side. She pictured herself sleeping in Gram’s old four-post bed, the wood croaking when she snuggled deeper into the warm sheets. Was it Saturday? She had weekends off for the rest of the month, a reward from Patrick for her exclusive story on angels.