The man was like coiled steel beneath her hands. An invitation she couldn’t resist. She stroked him across his broad chest and bunched his shirt for good measure. He hauled her closer—he probably thought she was going to fall. His fault entirely, she decided, for being so damn hot and tempting. Every firm inch of his rock-hard body was aligned against hers, and she darn near melted.
He shifted and her lungs seized at the hardness pressing against her stomach.
Uh oh! Her eyes flew to his.
“Are you hurt?” Concern crossed his face. But he didn’t seem in the least bit bothered by his body’s reaction to her. Or the fact she was aware of it.
“I’m fine.” It surprised her that she was still capable of speech. The molten intensity in his silver-flecked eyes disturbed her. Need twisted her insides, but reality smacked her upside the head. How could she be this stupid? Men followed her for one reason only.
Stupid, cursed pheromones.
She pushed away from him. His hard-on was just a reaction to her pheromones. Disappointment slid into her tummy like a lead ball. She’d drunk the foul-tasting suppressant potion Gran made for her without fail—so why the hell couldn’t she ever get an honest response from a man?
“Look, I don’t know who you are. Just be glad there’s one less of those things in the world.”
The heat in his gaze flickered out. Something dark and lethal slid into those gray depths. “What things?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Demoniis, all right? Now give me back my blade.”
His expression changed to one full of menace. It made her wary. “You are not to hunt them.”
“Fine.” Whatever. She held out her hand for her weapon.
At her easy capitulation, he continued to stare at her, making no move to return her blade. Okay, so she’d lied. She simply didn’t care to get into an argument over a decision she made years ago. She’d find the fiend who killed her friend and no one would stop her. No matter how good-looking he was.
“How did you kill the demonii? They’re not easy to take down.”
“What are you?” she asked instead, searching his face as if she could find her answers there.
“Goth cop.”
“Ha, ha.” Damn man thought he was so funny. Mr. Invincible had to be a demonii hunter. They certainly were an arrogant lot. It was the only thing that made sense, considering his interest in how she killed the fiends.
“How did you kill the demonii?” he repeated.
She smirked. “What can I say? I’m that good.”
***
Gods, but she had a mouth on her. One, he desperately wanted to taste.
Aethan shoved his hands in his pockets and felt her blade. He had to get his head back on track and do his job. Hauling himself out of his lust-filled haze, he opened his mind to hers—what he should have done straight off from the get go. He waited a heartbeat. There. He picked up the slight vibrations of her psychic powers—then an odd sensation hummed through him. A light, sparkling touch of her essence brushed up against his. Stunned, he slammed his shields shut. His heart pounding hard against his ribs, he tried to forget the intimate, iridescent caress of her energy.
She wasn’t the female they searched for. Definitely no pyre and rime in her. An unexpected rush of relief filled him. “You’re psychic—though not a strong one.”
Her lush mouth dropped open at his words. But her surprise fast turned to sarcasm. “Jeez, thanks for the newsflash.”
She picked up her backpack and tried to walk around him.
“I’m not done.” He stepped in her path. “You need to start explaining.”
“And you can bite me,” she shot back with all the sweetness of acid.
A hell of a provocation that set him off. He yanked her forward, ignoring her gasp of outrage and bit her. Coherent thoughts flew out of his head the moment his mouth clamped down on her neck. Her enticing warmth, the fragrant taste of her skin coated his tongue and scattered his senses.
For a moment, she remained utterly still. Probably from the shock, he decided, before she started struggling. He tightened his grip on her waist and a delicious friction built between them. Her heart pounded against his chest like a drum-roll. He licked her slowly over the bruised skin—
She shoved at him, color streaking her cheekbones. “Are you crazy?”
Probably. “No. Just gave you what you asked for. Prepared to talk, or do we go for round two? I’m game. Are you?” He dropped his hands to her hips, keeping their lower bodies connected.
“All right.” She scowled. “I see them.”
He let her go, stepped back, and shoved his hands into his coat pockets—away from the temptation of her. As ideas went, this was a really bad one because he was so damn hard, his leathers chafed against his aroused groin.
“I can see auras. Demons are red—a pulsing red for the soul-eating fiends!” Then she snatched her fallen backpack and sped off for the cathedral entrance as if the hounds of hell were after her.
Aethan watched her go. Had he completely lost his fucking mind? Indulgence in a fantasy wasn’t something he could afford, especially not with a human. Gritting down on whatever the hell had gotten hold of him, he crushed the compelling need to go after her. He took off for the far side of the cathedral and dematerialized.
***
Echo stepped inside the cathedral for the first time since she’d lived in foster care. She leaned against the stone wall in the dim entrance, a hand pressed to the side of her neck. She could still feel the glide of his lips, the sharp sting of his teeth, and the lick of his tongue on her skin. Desire flared awake, as if his mouth on her neck had a direct link to everything that made her a woman.
This should’ve been a run-of-the-mill kill. Instead, she’d gotten entangled with a man unlike any she’d ever met.
Exhaling roughly, she slipped her hand into her jacket pocket, pulled out his obsidian dagger, and allowed satisfaction to spill through her. He’d soon find out that what he’d stolen from her, she’d now replaced. Taking his dagger had been too easy. When she fell against him, distracted as she’d been by his hot body, she’d made sure to nip his dagger off him. A quick sleight of her hand and she slipped it into her jacket pocket.
The smooth black metal of the hilt fitted her palm as if made for her. The etching on the guard formed a swirling pattern. She traced a finger over the design and the obsidian blade began to glow, a deep amber taking over the black. Warmth invaded her palm before the light faded.
How odd.
She examined the blade up close. No light. Nothing. Just the dull glint of cool obsidian. The sound of light footsteps hitting the tiled surface had her raising her head. Slipping the blade into her backpack, Echo smiled at the tall, curvy redhead hurrying toward her.
Kira Smith was one of the few people Echo called a friend. They’d been an unlikely pair ever since they met over ten years ago, Kira, Gran’s vivacious granddaughter, and Echo, a withdrawn street kid. But their relationship worked and had strengthened over the years.
“Echo? You came inside?” Kira’s shock gave way to a relieved grin, displaying two perfect dimples in her latte colored face. “I don’t care what made you change your mind, I’m just glad you did.” She gave Echo a quick hug.
“I thought about what you said, about letting go. Tamsyn’s gone.” The excuse came off the top of her head as she pushed aside her strange encounter with the sexy Goth.
“You’re gonna come to church now?”
Echo exhaled in resignation as guilt flooded her. The only reason she’d even entered a church again was because she ran from a man. Now, she was trapped by her friend’s happy expression in a place she’d avoided for over a decade. “Yeah, okay. But not to service, Ki. Only when you do the candle thing on Sundays.”
“Guess it’s better than nothing.” Kira’s smile turned sad. “Echo, Tamsyn was my friend, too, and I miss her as well.”
“She shouldn’t have died. I should never have left her
alone in that alley.” Pain filled her at the memory.
“Then you would have died, too,” Kira said quietly. “You couldn’t predict those demoniis stalking you both. It’s fate, Echo.”
“Fate? If you believe in that crap, it’ll mess with your head. We pave our own path in life. We fight for what we want, and that’s not fate.”
“You’re far too melancholy.” Kira sighed. “Come on, let’s get out of here. What shall we watch tonight, an LOTR marathon?”
“Oh, God no!” Echo choked back a wry laugh, thinking of the demonii she killed earlier. “Please, something else. I’m quoting lines now.”
CHAPTER 3
Twilight crept over the Guardian’s island estate off Manhasset Bay on Long Island Sound. The wet scent of brine and green woodland caressed Aethan’s skin as he scanned the area around him. Sweat dripped down his face, the chilly air doing little to cool him. Mist floated around the tall dark trees and drifted into the clearing.
He studied the swirling miasma, tracking the shadowy movement within. The figure drew closer. Aethan knew better than to lose eye contact with the crafty warrior. Blaéz was another of the fallen gods, but unlike Týr, he was from the Celtic pantheon. His glowing eyes fixed on Aethan like a rabid wolf, his short, black hair plastered to his skull. He made no move to get back in the game but persisted to skirt around him.
Aethan clenched his fingers, his knuckles bruised to the bone. Weapon-free combat was a pain in the ass, but it eased some of his edginess. Good thing Blaéz preferred hands-on fighting. Like him, Blaéz wore a pair of loose black Gi pants and T-shirt.
Through the haze he saw the shimmer on the warrior’s thick biceps. Fuck! Blaéz had to go and do that. Use the one weapon none of the Guardians would summon without a reason. The sword of Gaia always remained in the form of a tattoo, unless they were on the hunt for demoniis.
With little choice, Aethan summoned his own. No way would he let the bastard crow over this.
Instead of the usual smooth gliding off his flesh to shimmer and take form in his hand, the weapon tore out of his skin. The pain just about brought him to his knees. The taunting smile on the warrior’s face made him growl.
Damn Celt! He thrived on pain.
Blaéz came flying through the air, attacking with the deadly mystical sword.
Aethan leaped back and blocked. The power of the blow reverberating up his arm, he swung around and struck. Blaéz easily countered the strike. The sound of the clanging swords echoed in the forest as they dueled...
***
Aethan wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. Dammit, he needed a break. His muscles, straining in protest, started to knot in retaliation. He’d worked up a thirst, too, could drink the freakin’ Nile dry, if only the clueless bastard would call it quits.
They’d been training for four solid hours. Blaéz didn’t know the meaning of the word rest. He could go on for days, if Aethan’d let him. The hardhead couldn’t feel tired—or any emotion for that matter. Never had. Except for pain—the reason why he summoned the sword.
But Aethan had had enough. The Celt could go fight the damn trees for all he cared. He willed his sword back onto his biceps and dematerialized, taking form inside the huge, underground gymnasium in a shimmer of bright sparks. Here, away from humans, he didn’t bother to tone down his true color.
The enormous facility was bare of equipment and protected with arcane magic against their powers. Concealed lights were embedded in the high ceiling. White walls flowed around him and light gray tiles ran the length of the floor. On the far end, an array of swords was displayed in a stand next to a fridge. Aethan headed over when Blaéz flashed in front of him.
“Hell, Blaéz—time out, man.”
“Scared?”
Aethan grabbed his katana from the reserves. No fucking way was he summoning his sword again. He came in hard and fast, his sudden thrust sent Blaéz tripping and sliding on his ass some distance away. His tattered tee hung by its seams, and blood welled from the new wound on his chest, dripping down his abs. The Celt’s eyes narrowed into slits as he sprang up. Grabbing the neckline of his shirt, he ripped it apart and threw it aside. “That was my favorite.”
Aethan shrugged. “It’s black, like everything else you—”
A shift in the air caught his attention. Power of unparalleled force surrounded the castle. The brief distraction cost Aethan. His sword, snatched from his hand, went sailing through the air. Blaéz caught the katana and attacked.
Aethan evaded a swing guaranteed to detach his head from his body.
Gods-damn it! Didn’t the crazy bastard ever give up?
“What do you know—he can get excited,” Týr drawled as he strolled into the gymnasium. “Empyrean, think it’s you who got the Celt hot under the collar?”
Aethan stilled. It was time Blaéz found a new target. And the Norse’s irritating yapping made the choice so easy. He changed direction and charged at Týr catching the katana Blaéz tossed back at him.
Týr snatched a sword from the backups, deflected their powered strikes. Grinning, he disappeared out of the gym and into the weight room. They followed.
“Now, now,” Týr chastised. “You both have to stop chasing after me. I don’t bat for your team—”
Aethan struck from the front. Blaéz came in from the side. The meeting of steel reverberated off the walls.
Týr grunted, skidding back as his sword fell. Didn’t seem to care that two deadly blades were pressed against his throat. “Cheating now, Celt? Well then.” A flame burst out of his palm. He rolled the fire in his hand as one would a tennis ball. “You look like the ghost of Christmas Past. I think you need a tan.”
His chest heaving, Blaéz didn’t respond. His winter-blue eyes were placid ice lakes and all the more dangerous.
Aethan stepped away, his objective completed. He headed for the fridge and snagged a bottle of water.
“My lords?” A low voice rumbled through the gym.
Aethan turned and saw the butler, standing in the doorway, frowning.
“Yes, Hedori?” Aethan asked the male who’d followed him from Empyrea eons ago.
The butler straightened all six feet of his wiry build. Steel-colored hair woven into a single braid lay down his back. His expression slid back into its usual impassive lines.
“The Archangel is here.”
The flame Týr had been rolling in his palm snapped back into his body at the news. “Guess that shift in the air wasn’t Armageddon happening or something equally delightful. Shit’s flying. We’re screwed man. Time to haul out the heavy duty shovels.”
Týr was right. It was never a good thing when Michael showed up. Just meant more crappy jobs were about to be heaped on them.
Aethan twisted the cap and took a deep swallow of his water.
The sharp scent of glacial ocean with a hint of woody amber flooded the room. Cursing, Aethan clamped down his shield against the draw. Couldn’t Michael just tone down the angelic allure?
“Thanks, Hedori, for announcing my arrival. Hearing delightful words of welcome makes my day,” Michael drawled as he strode into the weight room.
Hedori bowed and left the room at a quick trot.
Taller than most immortals, with thick muscular arms, Michael let his black hair hang wild and free around massive shoulders. Dark shades covered his eyes, his tanned face set in foreboding lines. At six-foot-nine-inches, the Archangel was a helluva sight, even without wings.
“Cut it out, Arc. The humans get a whiff of that stuff—unless you want the chaos?”
Instantly, the fragrance disappeared, and Aethan snorted.
Michael glanced around the place. “It’s been a while. Good to see all’s in one piece and the castle still stands.”
Týr smirked at the Archangel. “So, what’s doing, my man?”
His shaded gaze rested on them. “There’s been a spike of activity on the psychic planes, which is of concern to the Celestial Realm. It correlates to an
other smaller one that occurred several years ago.”
And there it was: the reason for Michael’s sudden arrival. The last contact, several weeks ago, with orders to find the psychic female, had been through a phone call. And it meant this one couldn’t be ignored. Restlessness started to creep back into Aethan, despite the punishing training hours earlier. Now, he itched to head out and find a real fight. But that wasn’t happening until this meeting was over.
Setting the water bottle aside, Aethan took a soft cloth from the supplies stored near the lockers, sat astride an exercise bench, and began to wipe his sword. As long as the psychic spike didn’t concern this realm, he cared less about them happenings in others.
“Why would this be of concern to us?” Týr asked. He opened his locker and pulled out a change of clothes.
“It means a prophecy has come to pass.” Michael’s expression was grimmer than usual. “A mortal of Zarias’s bloodline has awakened and is the reason for the increase in demonii activity.”
Aethan paused in the cleaning of his blade. “Demoniis look for the same female we search for—the psychic one?”
“Yes. Did you find any with even a spark of pyre and rime?”
“Nothing,” Týr said. Stripping off his jeans and shirt, he yanked on sweats and a tee.
“Same,” Blaéz added.
The image of honey-kissed skin, annoyed brown eyes, and a lush mouth, compressed in irritation, flashed through Aethan’s mind, haunting him. Shit. He slammed off the vision and met the Archangel’s stare. Shrugged. “No.”
He wasn’t about to confess crap to anyone about how a mortal affected him. The taste of her was like a drug to his senses. He shifted on the bench, rattled at how easily that damn part of him he had no control over hardened with mere thoughts of her. Setting the sword aside, he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees to hide the tenting of his Gi’s.
“Not what I was hoping to hear,” Michael said, his tone grim. “We have to find her fast. The demons may not have the actual prophecy but they are aware of its existence. They will use anyone, do anything to get to her.”
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