Angel Slayer

by Michele Hauf

Among the evil though, yet walked goodness and integrity. Ashur was no creature of prayer, but a wish for world sanity came to his lips before he could question the unnatural concern.

  He’d also gained the ability to form emotion. It wasn’t necessarily a boon to his mission, but it was unavoidable as he imbued his being with the human experience.

  Ashur now saw some things in color instead of the bland grays he’d been experiencing. Not all of it, mostly the food (which he devoured) and the women’s clothing (which he desired; the women, not the clothing) and the material objects that fascinated him, such as sports cars and yachts and those fancy little iPods.

  Music! How it had changed over the centuries. It was now a literal world compacted into each song. He enjoyed it all but especially the orchestral pieces and the stuff called heavy metal. Though how the little device worked puzzled him. He hadn’t the time to take one apart, but soon.

  He’d acquired a pair of worn black jeans from a street seller in Paris because he liked the snug, comfortable fit. A woven long-sleeved shirt appealed to his burgeoning need for touch and to experience all the sensations of texture, weight and temperature against his skin. He retained the biker boots and black leather jacket.

  Back at Six’s building, he approached her door and slid his palm over the carved wood surface. He recognized the artistic style of the carvings now: Art Nouveau. It had flourished at the end of the nineteenth century, as had absinthe, can-can and opium. Six’s entire apartment was decorated in the style. He admired craftsmanship.

  Prepared to knock, he noticed the door was open a crack. He had learned mortals in the twenty-first century did not leave their doors open or unlocked. Something must be wrong.

  He pushed the door inside and entered stealthily, pressing a shoulder to the wall as he scanned down the hallway. He didn’t sense Six, but something inside had a pulse.

  Could Zaqiel be here? Angels and demons had no pulse, but Ashur could sense the Fallen’s presence in the vibrations that shuddered his rib cage when close to an angel, yes, even one fallen from His grace.

  “Let him be here,” he muttered lowly. “Attempting his muse.”

  Reaching behind his hip, he unclasped the leather sheath and drew out Dethnyht.

  Chapter 5

  Slinking along the hallway wall, Ashur quickened his pace toward the bedroom.

  Dethnyht was the only dagger capable of piercing an angel’s impermeable flesh. He would never brandish it against a mortal—too cataclysmic. The mere strength he wielded with his bare hands could overwhelm any human.

  Kicking the bedroom door open, Ashur sprang inside, Dethnyht raised to strike.

  A woman screamed and dropped a stack of bed linens from her arms. She pleaded with him in Spanish not to hurt her. She had a family. Dogs. Three children under the age of ten.

  Quickly assessing her attire, Ashur decided she was the chambermaid.

  He sheathed Dethnyht. “Is Six home? Er, the lady of the house?” She didn’t understand English, so he switched to Spanish, a language he had assimilated only hours earlier.

  The maid clapped a palm over her rapidly rising and falling chest and nodded, explaining her mistress was at Starbucks.

  “Starbucks?” He searched his newly gained knowledge. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, she will return soon,” she said. Then her tone changed remarkably, shedding the fear and taking on a curious edge. “You are her lover?”

  “Does she have many?” he asked before he realized curiosity was not his mien. And yet, he waited for the answer with something he associated with anticipation.

  The maid shrugged. “Not my business. You are the biggest, though.” Admiration beamed in her brown eyes. “Scared me. You must work out. You go out to the kitchen to wait. I need to finish this room.”

  “Yes, the kitchen.” He was hungry again.

  He closed the door behind him. No angel on the premises. Damn. He’d been itching to kill something.

  Just as well. He’d not seen Six yet. And why all of a sudden did that matter? Did he want to spend time with her before slaughtering the Fallen and then dashing off to the next kill?

  Ashur scuffed a palm over his short hair, which hadn’t seen a comb, and hallelujah for that. Drawing his fingers down his face, he shook his head. Gotta get his act together, as they said nowadays. Learning the world had put so many new things into his brain. He had to set his priorities straight.

  Priority one: Lure Zaqiel to the muse.

  Priority two: Kill the Fallen.

  Priority three… There was no need for further tasks. As soon as Zaqiel was dispatched, Ashur would await further command.

  Six stepped inside the front door and Ashur bounded up to meet her. He gripped her wrist and slammed her against the wall.

  “Whoa, dude! I have hot coffee in my other hand.”

  “I did not give you permission to leave.”

  “I don’t need permission. I’m a big girl. Let me go.”

  He followed her into the kitchen and pressed his palms onto the granite countertop. The cool stone beneath his flesh managed to chill his annoyance. And so did the white gadget near the sink, which he picked up to study.

  She took out two paper cups from the bag. “You purchased coffee for me?” he asked her. “Why would you do that?”

  “I knew you’d be back this morning, and it is the nice thing to do, isn’t it? Sharing.”

  “Taking is much easier.”

  She flashed him a death stare. “You’re not big on simple kindnesses are you, Mr. Slam-Them-Around?”

  “I have little concern for niceties.” One twist and the gadget broke in two pieces.

  “No kidding,” she said, taking the pieces from him with a curt tug. “I never could figure why Rosalie needed two garlic presses. But this one was her favorite.” She handed him the coffee but he refused.

  “I don’t favor those commercially manufactured brews.”

  “Seriously? You’re gone one night and all of a sudden you’ve become a connoisseur?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “I see.” She sipped the hot brew, and Ashur decided he did not like the smell of it. He preferred the freshly ground coffee beans from Peru he’d experienced while walking the world. “You look different. More…modern. Did you get a haircut?”

  “No, but I did get it wet in the Peruvian rain forest, then the deserts of Egypt dried it out.”

  “I like it. Spiky and tousled. Nice shades, too.”

  He took the Ray-Bans from the top of his head and set them on the counter. “I acquired fine things while I was out.”

  “Goody for you.”

  “Do you not appreciate them? You are rich. Are not fine things your mien?”

  She smirked, but no mirth traced the curves of her lips. “Material things are stupid. They mean nothing. That’s why I can toss a three-hundred-dollar garlic press without a blink. But if it makes you feel good…” She sighed. “I have some things to do this morning. I want to prepare another piece for the gallery this afternoon. I’m doing a show over in Chelsea. It’s my debut.”

  “You are an artist?”

  “Yep, been at it for over ten years. But Todd set me up with this killer computer system a few years ago, and my whole style changed. Oh man, I have to show you. Then you’ll understand why I was so excited about seeing the angel last night.”

  The phone rang. Six put up her palm to signal him to wait. “Hi, Emily.”

  Ashur studied the small screw mechanism on the sunglasses frames as he folded it back and forth, back and forth. So small, it fascinated him.

  “What?” Six said into the phone. “All of them? You’re not— Seriously? That is so freaking cool. Yes, give me the phone number, I’ll be happy to call him.” She scribbled a few numbers and a name on a yellow Post-it note.

  The sunglass arm broke off in Ashur’s grip. He glanced at Six and when she turned to see what he was doing, he shoved the broken glasses aside next to the garlic press.


  “Thanks, Emily. I don’t have any replacements. You can do that? Take orders? Cool. I’ll see if I can print up some examples and have them delivered later this afternoon.”

  She hung up, her face aglow. “That was the gallery owner. Someone bought all my paintings after I left the gallery last night.” She tucked the phone number in her purse.

  “You must be very talented.”

  “And you must be very curious.” She tapped the broken glasses.

  He shrugged. “I like to see how things work.”

  “Yes, well, just leave all major appliances alone, will you? And don’t lay a hand on my computer, if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Computers are remarkable.”

  “Oh, I was going to show you. Come on. I will now reveal the deep, dark secrets of my insane little mind to you. I’ve been waiting so long for someone who understands.”

  Attracted to her infectious enthusiasm, Ashur followed Six down a hallway. The silk pants she wore clung to her hips and flared out at the feet to reveal pointed-toe shoes with super-high heels. They made her legs look long enough to wrap around him twice. The feel of the fabric might push him over some precipice on which he was beginning to balance. He’d remembered lust last night, yet hadn’t time to indulge it, thinking it wise to hold off until the task of slaying Zaqiel was completed. But how could he when the muse wore a clingy top, and the faint line of her brassiere strap teased him to slip it down her arm?

  “Ashur?”

  “Huh?”

  “I asked if you liked art. Are you okay? You seem distracted.” She stopped at a door and paused to sip her coffee. “Were you looking at my ass just now?”

  “No,” he said, too quickly. “Yes.”

  Her smile was wicked.

  Ashur fixated on her mouth, those thick lips softened with some sort of clear polish. Her teeth were so white as to sparkle. And straight. He’d never seen that before. Nowadays, he knew, it was all an illusion. Mortals spent millions on altering their appearances in an attempt to look more attractive.

  Thing is, one man’s attractive may be another man’s ugly. Everything about Six fell into the attractive category.

  “Are you all natural?” he asked.

  She quirked a gracefully arched brow. “You mean organic? I recycle along with the rest of them, but I will never give up my Starbucks habit.”

  “No, I mean, you, your body and face. You have not altered your appearance?”

  “You mean like cosmetic surgery?”

  “Yes, I learned about that last night.”

  “Do you think I’ve altered myself?”

  He sensed an underlying challenge—which he would never refuse. “Perhaps. Your teeth are too white.”

  “I’ve had them whitened.”

  “And your lips are so lush.”

  “They’re all mine. Everything on this body is as is, the way God intended, except my teeth.”

  “Yes, you’re like an earth mother meets sex kitten, all curves and lushness.”

  She bowed her head and glanced aside. He’d made her blush, which only increased her sensual appeal.

  “What about you, big boy? If you’re not human, is that the way you usually look? Like a human man? A man with incredible muscles and a killer smile?”

  “These muscles are lesser than my normal appearance. And yes, this is a costume.”

  “Did you steal it from some real mortal man?”

  “No. For all that I enjoy the sins of the flesh, and the world, I do not harm mortals. This costume is as I would appear should I have been created mortal. You do not like it?”

  “Like it? I love it. Bet it’s hard as steel and…well…” She sighed. “You said you enjoy sin?”

  “Devour it. Need it, actually.”

  “Oh?”

  “It is what makes me tick, as they say.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “Your opinion means little to me.”

  “I realize that. Yet my appearance interests you to no end.”

  “I could look all day. What about there? Are they real?” Ashur pointed to her chest and she looked down and stroked between her breasts where he imagined it would be soft.

  “My breasts are real,” she said.

  “Nice. And soft?”

  A lift of her brow tweaked Ashur’s smile. “My God, you don’t have much of a moral compass, do you?”

  “It isn’t necessary to my survival.”

  She tilted her head. Soft dark curls as tight as a spring bounced over her shoulders and down to her elbows. He wanted to crush them between his fingers. “Soft? You want to touch and see?”

  She was right on about his lacking moral compass.

  Tracing his finger down from the base of her throat, Ashur closed his eyes as the softness of female skin tendered at his expectations. All things in his life were hard, impermeable, adamant. Yet beneath his skin glided something like fine silk. He remembered silk, slipping beneath his touch, waving in the breeze, gliding over his mouth…

  “I think that’s enough.”

  Six’s voice brought him up from the dive into lust. Ashur retracted from the one place he should not go until Zaqiel was dispatched. “Very soft.”

  “Thanks. I didn’t expect you’d be so…well, forward.”

  “You did invite the touch.”

  “Yes, I did. Something about you… Anyway!”

  Dismissing the intimate interlude, Six opened the door and strode into a vast room done in white marble. Floor-to-ceiling windows faced the far side of the blindingly white room.

  “This is my workroom,” she explained, setting the coffee on a clear Lucite desk and pushing a button on the Macintosh computer.

  “It’s different from the rest of the place,” he said. “It’s as if another person’s living in here.”

  “Kind of. My artistic self is opposite from my chumming-around-with-friends self. I don’t want any distractions when I’m painting so I made it as neutral in here as possible. No music, either.”

  He tilted his head, wondering.

  “It’s an artist thing. Sort of like you explained the angels hearing in colors is an angel thing.”

  “So what is all this stuff? I don’t see any canvas or paints.”

  “CG painting is my method of choice to create. I use a spatial operating environment.”

  He only understood half of what she’d said. But he wasn’t about to let on to that fact. He touched the smooth white exterior of the computer.

  “Don’t touch,” she admonished sweetly. “No taking apart my computer, big boy.”

  Ashur offered her a surrendering shrug, then strolled about the room, thumbs shoved in his front pockets, taking it all in.

  A huge plasma screen flickered awake on one wall and he approached it, waiting to see what would appear.

  Behind him, Six sat before the desk clicking away at the keyboard. Twisting at the waist, his eyes lingered where he had touched her between the curves of her breasts. Softness bound up and waiting release, or a dash of his tongue. If only the angelkiss had been placed there, and he would have had to lick it to grant her temporary relief.

  Nice. Thinking about the carnal pleasures was almost as good as doing them. And when his erection tightened against his pants, he grinned. The old demon still had it. Some things were never forgotten, no matter how much torture.

  Six typed rapidly. The sleeve bulged on her forearm. “Did you bandage the angelkiss?” he asked.

  “I put some aloe on it again this morning, and tied a scarf around it. Seems to do the trick. You ever hear of CG art?”

  “Sure.”

  “You like it?”

  He spread out his arms and swaggered toward her. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  She sighed. “You have no idea what it is.”

  He approached the desk and caught his palms on the edge. “Very well, what is CG?”

  “You didn’t assimilate that last night?”

  “I feel it somewhere in my k
nowledge, but it’s difficult to understand. It is to do with technology and much as I hate to admit it, that is beyond my comprehension.”

  “It’s beyond every normal person’s comprehension, believe me.”

  Yes, but he wasn’t normal. And how easy would it be to take this computer apart? It appeared to have a removable back—

  “CG is computer-generated art,” she said. “I paint with pixels. The screen is my canvas. I’ll show you my latest. Look.”

  Ashur turned around. The screen, which was as high as he and three feet wide, filled with grays and silver and shades of black and blue. Spreading his hands over it, he marveled at the screen’s give. It wasn’t glass but some soft surface that gave with his touch. Marvelous.

  “Put your hands down,” Six said. “I’m turning on the spatial controls.”

  He stepped back to take in the image that appeared on the screen. It startled him. He hissed lowly.

  “My friend Todd had the same reaction when he built it,” Six said as she joined his side. She raised her hand and tapped her fingers in the air before her. The screen zoomed out to display the whole painting. “Spatial operation,” she said. “It’s all done by recognizing my hand movements. Pretty cool, huh? The technology is so new it’s still in beta form for home use.”

  The technology did not concern him; it was the image she had constructed on the screen.

  “It’s my latest angel. I only paint angels. I call this one my indigo savior.”

  The figure on the screen was forged of blue metal and gears that glistened with white. Bulging steel muscles rippled down its arms and thighs. At its back a spread of wings stretched straight out five times as long as the body, and the wing tips curled, thanks to moving gears on each of the mercurylike appendages.

  “How do you have this knowledge?” Ashur asked fiercely. “How can you know?”

  “Zaqiel said the same thing to me in the same accusing tone. Of course, you’ve seen angels. And me? I have, too.” She tapped her head. “In my dreams.”

  Coaxing his breathing to a steady pace, Ashur exhaled. “In your dreams? Are you a seer?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I once thought I might be an angel because of this.” She tapped the sigil on her forearm. “But it never quite matched any of the sigils I’ve seen in books on angels. I’ve had dreams about angels since after my mother died. I’ve tried to tell people about them, but they always think I’m a nut. My father threatened to put me in a psych ward when I was eighteen.”