by ML Guida
Heavy footsteps rushed toward them. A gray-haired cop that weighed about two hundred pounds knelt next to Heather. “What happened?”
“He jumped in front of me, and the bastard stabbed him.” Her voice cracked and tears swept down her face. “Help him. Please.”
A thirty-something female black cop jogged over to them, her cap smashing her dreadlocks. She held up her palms. “Okay, ma’am. Don’t get hysterical. I already radioed for an ambulance.”
Heather grasped his hand. “Hang on, Scythe. Don’t leave me.”
He tried to listen to her voice to stay alive to block the endless torture, but the pain was unbearable. He closed his eyes. Zeus, how did other angels withstand this?
“Can you hear me?”
The same thick male voice asked, but it sounded so far away.
“Yes.”
Scythe moved his lips, but he didn’t know if he actually spoke.
“He’s dying,” Heather sobbed.
The cop rested his head on Scythe’s chest. “No, he’s still alive. What’s his name?”
“Scythe Angel,” Heather sniffed. “He works for me.”
Pushing the torture to the back of his mind, he forced his eyes to open. “So, I got the job?”
She laughed and hiccupped. “Yeah, you do. He’s so pale. What’s taking the ambulance so long?”
The lady cop looked at her watch. “ETA is less than two minutes.”
More sirens screamed.
“Hang on, Scythe.” Heather pressed his hand against her cheek. “The paramedics are here.”
After they worked on him, they put him in an ambulance and slammed the doors. Heather never left him and rode in the back next to the gurney. Pain ate through him like maggots.
Please, Raphael, hear me.
Raphael didn’t answer him. The ambulance halted and the back doors flung open. Heather ran alongside him. The stench of anesthetic and antiseptic assailed him. He detested that smell.
A nurse grabbed her. “You have to stay here, miss. You can’t go in the ER. Wait out here.”
“I’ll wait for you.” Heather released his hand and coldness nestled where warmth had been. Sweat broke out of his every pore. He wanted to scream at her to stay with him, but his throat closed.
Orderlies wheeled him into the emergency room. A woman leaned over him wearing a green smocks and she’d had a stethoscope around her neck. “I’m Dr. Stenson. I will take good care of you. Let’s see what we have.”
She peeled back the gauze on his wound. “This isn’t good. The knife punctured his liver. We need to get him into surgery now. Prep him.”
Since angels’ physiology was the same as humans’—same organs, the same blood—Scythe didn’t worry about being operated on. But he wouldn’t respond to their medieval methods, no matter how advanced they thought they were. Why he wouldn’t heal would be a mystery to the good doctor.
The orderlies groaned as they lifted him off the gurney and onto a table. Angels weighed more than humans because of their power. His shirt and jacket were removed, then orderlies wheeled him into another room.
“Scythe? Can you hear me?”
He opened his eyes. Dr. Stenson’s smiling face blurred. She was saying something, but he couldn’t hear her.
Pain blinded him. Dizziness swept over him and the brilliant overhead light spun. He closed his eyes to keep from losing his last meal.
Please let me pass out.
“He’s going into hypovolaemic shock,” Dr. Stenson said. “I need intravenous fluids now.”
A nurse dabbed cold liquid onto his arm, then a needle stuck into his vein. They were too late. He was dying. Their primitive techniques would never save him. He needed Raphael.
Raphael, why have you forsaken me?
“Heart beat’s dropping,” a female said. It sounded like the same nurse who wouldn’t let Heather into the room.
Stenson put the stethoscope on his chest. “We’re losing him.”
His mind drifted and the last thing he remembered before he passed out was Heather’s angelic face.
Scythe woke to pure agony. His whole body rigid. The misery squeezed his lungs, and he couldn’t breathe. Zeus, he wanted to pass out again. Where the hell was he? Red lights beeped and blinked. He had a needle stuck in his arm and a tube stuck up his nose. The sound of muffled voices and soft footsteps drifted into the room. He knew where he was. He’d been here many times—the ICU—as an Angel of Death to escort the dead, but the first time, he’d been here as a patient.
Someone had draped a light blanket over him. His teeth chattered, and he shivered. The scratchy blanket did nothing to block the cold. He pulled himself into a tight a ball. Shit, how did humans do this? It was as if someone had dumped a bucket of water on his ass. What was Stenson, trying to do—freeze him to death?
His lungs burned. Each time he took a breath, it hurt like hell. It felt like a sledgehammer banging against his heart. Heaviness weighed upon his body, pinning him to his bed. Dying sucked.
Outside his dirty window, starlight shimmered and dark clouds hid a glowing moon. Soft light chased away the shadows. The moon seemed to drift down toward his window, growing brighter and brighter. He squinted his eyes. Had Stenson given him something to have hallucinations?
His door creaked shut by itself. The voices and footsteps stilled as if someone had shut off all the activity outside his room.
Illuminating light passed through the windowpane and drifted across the white tile floor. He arched his back and gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. He’d no idea what it was, but it would be deadly toward humans.
“You can open your eyes, my son,” a low voice said.
He was right. The light was deadly. It was the Archangel Raphael.
Scythe forced himself to relax and open his eyes. Standing at the foot of his bed was Raphael, the Angel of Healing. Scythe wanted to say something smart, but Raphael didn’t like the smart-asses. The last Dark Angel who pissed him off ended up in the belly of a whale for a year.
Raphael’s long blond hair curled at the ends, something he always detested, but no matter how short or how long he wore his hair, the bottom always curled. He stared at Scythe like he was a goldfish swimming in a round glass bowl with nowhere to hide. With his wide crystal blue eyes, Raphael was a kid fresh out of high school, but the Archangel was millions of years old—one of the first beings God ever made. He cocked his eyebrow. “Blade?”
“How d’you guess?” Scythe grumbled.
Raphael walked around his bedside. “Because as long as I have known you, no demon has ever pricked or let alone stabbed you with a hellish blade.”
Scythe couldn’t help but notice the angel had on a tee shirt of his favorite rock band and a pair of jeans. Had he been at a concert? Another wave of agony gripped him and he dug his fingers into the blanket. “Well, you...took your...sweet time getting...here.”
His voice was barely above a whisper.
“I’ve other matters to attend to besides saving your smart ass.” Raphael moved his hand across Scythe and the blanket peeled back on its own. He placed his hand over Scythe’s bandage that was wrapped around his midsection. Warmth spread over Scythe, dowsing the chills, as if the sun caressed his clammy skin. His teeth ceased chattering. The tension bound in his muscles slowly unwound and his lungs contracted and exhaled without pain. His heart returned to its angelic rhythm.
Raphael smiled and lowered his hand. “Feeling better?”
Scythe nodded. “Yeah, that was close. Damn close.”
“You’re strong. It would have taken twenty-four hours to kill you, but you’d have been in agony.”
Scythe glared. “Don’t sound so concerned.”
He shrugged. “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be here.” He strolled to the window and sat on the sill, blocking the starlight. “We have a problem.”
“We?” Whenever an Archangel said we, it meant Scythe had a problem. “What problem?”
“Michael. His p
atience has run out.”
“And?”
Raphael faced him. “He doesn’t believe you can save Blade. Before he kills again, he wants him destroyed.”
Scythe tensed. Not the words he wanted to hear. “But I found him.”
“Yeah, and that went well.”
His sarcasm sent anger rushing through his veins.
“I surprised him. That’s all. You have to buy me more time. He’s my brother. I know I can save him.”
Raphael rubbed his chin. “I’ll try, but the clock is running out.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense.” Scythe clenched his fists. “How long?”
“You’ve got until the half quarter moon—less than a week to find your brother.”
Scythe leaned his head against the wall. “And if I don’t?”
“You know the drill, son. He’s good as dead.”
He lifted his head. “You have talked to Michael?”
“Yeah.” Raphael walked to the cart next to Scythe’s bed and picked up the pitcher. He poured water into a plastic cup, then handed it to him. “Drink this.”
Scythe took the cup and drank. The stale water changed into heaven’s pure, sparkling Living Water. It tasted cool and refreshing, sending tingles rushing through him, reinvigorating Scythe’s tired limbs. His strength returned. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Raphael took the cup back and placed it on the tray. His long fingers moved the tissue, cup and pitcher around. He frowned. “What’s this?”
He rolled a lipstick tube between his long fingers. He half smiled. “Yours?”
“No.” Scythe smiled. He recognized the red shade. It was Heather’s. She’d kept her promise and hadn’t left him.
Raphael frowned. “She’s a distraction.”
Scythe put on his most innocent face. “What? Who?”
“Don’t play cloy. You know very well who—Heather Bowen.”
Scythe turned his gaze to the window. He hated that Raphael was right, but that didn’t stop the growing feelings inside him. He wanted her like he’d wanted no other human or angel. Why this slip of a human intrigued himself so much, he’d no idea. He’d never let a female human or angel interfere with his mission before. Why now?
“Scythe, I’m afraid you will have to choose between your brother’s life or hers.”
He jerked his head around and faced this Herculean sixteen-year-old boy. “Why?”
Raphael stared at him, his blue eyes blazing. “When the Heavens pour, Hell spits out fire.”
“Excuse me?”
Raphael’s eyes glittered with merriment.
Scythe wanted to shake the truth out of him, but before he’d touch him, he’d be dead.
Raphael strolled to the window. “Not an easy choice, but if you dally with this woman, you will condemn your brother to hell. Less than a week, Angel. No more.”
White light illuminated his slender frame, burning brighter and brighter until only a brilliant ball remained. The glowing sphere lifted and floated through the pane glass, hurling toward the shimmering stars.
“Show off,” Scythe mumbled.
The door creaked open. A young nurse approached the bed. “Is everything all right? Do you need any pain medication?”
Scythe shook his head. “No, I’m fine,” he grinned, “but I could use a beer.”
“Sorry, out of beer.” Confusion flickered in her large eyes. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else? For hours, you’ve been in agony.”
“No, I’m fine.” Unless you can give me a map to find my angel-turning-demon brother.
“Well, if you change your mind, buzz me, and I’ll come running.” She gave him a bright smile, turned and exited the room, her soft shoes squeaking on the tile floor.
He stared at a sparkling star. He clenched his jaw. Riddles were the Archangel’s favorite game. One thing was for sure—Archangels didn’t like to lose.
Chapter 7
Heather tossed and turned on her bed. She bit her lip. Why had she let the doctor talk her into leaving? She couldn’t sleep. All she could think about was what happened in the alley and how Scythe risked his life for her. She couldn’t lay here. What if he woke, and she wasn’t there? She’d promised she wouldn’t leave.
She called the nurses’ station at Lutheran Hospital.
“Recovery, fourth floor, this is Sally.”
“Um, yes, this is Heather Bowen. I’m Scythe Angel’s sister. Has he woken yet?”
“Yes, he woke about an hour ago and ate a little food. We gave him another sedative for the pain, and he fell back to sleep.”
“Can I see him?” Dumb question.
“Visiting hours open tomorrow at seven am.”
She tightened her grip. “Will you please call me if there’s any change?”
“Yes. What is your number?”
She recited her cell number to the woman.
“Okay, we’ll call you if anything changes.”
“Thanks.”
Heather hung up. She sat in the darkness and leaned her head against the mattress. Who was Blade and why did she dream about him? She had never met him before, but the cops acted like she knew him. They hinted she knew him intimately.
Scythe knew him. She could have sworn he’d said brother. Blade didn’t seem to be human, so if he wasn’t human, what was Scythe?
She rubbed the back of her stiff neck. “Might as well get up.”
She glanced at the clock—a little after midnight. She stretched her arms over her head and arched her back. “I need a drink.”
In her living room, she sat at her computer desk and sipped a glass of Chianti. The smell of cherry and wood permeated her nose. She swallowed the smooth, dry, and fruity liquid and sighed. A glass of wine always helped her relax.
Blade Angel, who was he? She put her goblet on the oak desk, then typed in Blade Angel. Great, an anime heroine called Blade Angel popped up. Nothing on a deranged Native American running around, turning recovering addicts into killers. How could Scythe be his brother?
She should have known by their striking resemblance, but she must have blocked that thought out of her mind until she saw them together. There was no mistake.
What had driven Blade to want to kill his brother? She and Rosemary had their rows, but not in her wildest dreams had they ever tried to kill each other.
Heaviness weighed on her chest. She felt tears skim down her cheeks. God, she missed Rosemary. “I love you, sis.” She downed the rest of her wine and wiped the wetness off her face.
Okay, now it was time to check out Scythe Angel. She rolled her eyes—wonderful, more anime. This time, a scanty clad blond angel holding a scythe, but no pictures of the man who turned her insides to mush. Wait, a minute. Scythe had a resume. It said he was a licensed social worker. She went to the Department of Regulatory Agency, but there was no one named Scythe Angel listed as a social worker or counselor. Something should come up. Who was he? Had he provided her with fake references? She’d call, but she’d look like a shit.
Ah, yes, I’m calling about Scythe Angel. He’s recovering from a stab wound after saving me, but I want to know if he worked for you.
Her eyes grew heavy and sleep beckoned. She dragged herself up the stairs. Plopping onto her bed, she tried to relax, but her muscles tensed again. Maybe she should get up again. She was too damn tired. She gripped the pillow tighter.
Forget about it.
Tomorrow, she’d go to the hospital and ask Scythe some hard questions. She’d be a jerk, but she needed to find out what was going on. Who knows who Blade would murder next? If Scythe refused, as much as she hated to, she’d have no choice but to call the dynamic duo. She had to protect her clients no matter how much she wanted Scythe to kiss her.
Seconds later, rock-and-roll music rang in her ears and she startled, then groaned. Her damn alarm.
The alarm clock light dimmed her room. Pat Benatar sang “Hit Me with Your Best Shot.” Heather smiled. Yeah, she’d give it her best shot in
prying answers out of Mr. Hottie.
The drums and guitar got her blood pumping. She kicked off the comforter and stumbled to the shower. By the time she finished drying her hair, Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” played. Between the two songs, she wanted answers, and this time, Scythe wouldn’t be able to pussyfoot around her questions.
She quickly yanked on a pair of jeans and slipped into a short sleeve purple button-top. She thought about wearing her red suit that made her aura shift to a deep red wielding a strong will, but Scythe wouldn’t respond well to force.
Within minutes, she arrived at the hospital. She promised herself she’d ignore Scythe’s muscular body, mysterious silver eyes, and masculine smell. She would not think about him kissing her. Besides, hadn’t his brother taught her that evil comes in pretty packages?
She stopped at a coffee cart to get ammunition. Nonfat coffee latte would help her prepare for the battlefield. But as she headed to Scythe’s room, she dragged her feet. Could she really question the man who had saved her life? Hewitt and Mason could do it, but then again, they were pricks.
Get a hold of yourself.
She took a deep breath, held her head high and walked to room 424, ignoring her racing heart. Without hesitation, she stepped into the room. Her mouth dropped. Scythe stood in the middle of the room shirtless with his jeans hugging his body and the top button undone. His long silky hair flared over his massive shoulders. He was the epitome of sin.
To the right of his belly button, a thin, angry red line with stitches marred his beautiful sculpted abs. Her cheeks heated. How could she think of kissing every inch of his hot skin knowing he’d just recovered from surgery? His long black hair flared over his massive shoulders. He cocked his eyebrow.
All the questions she wanted to ask him jumped out the window. Her words stuck in her throat. He swaggered toward her. Her hands turned clammy. She edged backward and darted to the left, but her foot caught on a metal chair leg. The paper coffee cup flew out of her hand and spilled onto the floor. She jerked her foot, spun around, lost her balance and fell flat on her ass.