Ashes of Angels

by Michele Hauf

  The beat changed, relaxing, and the dance floor sighed as couples paired up, while lone figures swayed to their own design.

  Not ready for a break, Cassandra danced closer to the edge of the floor where the lighted tiles flashed. It was cooler here, and she knew she’d worked up a good sheen of perspiration, because she could smell her spearmint body lotion.

  Smiling, because she smelled like a stick of spearmint gum, Cassandra realized this particular let-loose night had been a long time coming. It felt amazing forgetting…everything.

  There was so much to forget. Dark things. Evil things. Impossible things. But only for the night. After a decade of training, she’d never completely let down her guard.

  Casting her gaze about the shadows lining the dance floor, she stopped herself from surveillance with a mental slap to her wrist. Just dance. Enjoy some mindless fun! But her vision landed on a man who stared at her.

  The hungry look wasn’t new. She caught men staring at her all the time across the stacks or a research table in the library. So the Stevens sisters were hot—as she’d often heard men comment—so what? What she looked like on the outside was vastly different from her insides because, Glory Hallelujah, no one wanted to deal with her baggage.

  Still, she’d never refuse interest. And tech guy would understand. Hell, Marcus was still nursing that vodka. And was that a bespectacled redhead with whom he was conversing animatedly?

  “Ditched so soon?” It was difficult summoning irritation. They looked like a great couple. “Go for it, bloke.”

  Moving along the dance floor, she noted her observer continued his intense task. The man gave new meaning to chiseled features. Every part of his face—square chin, straight long nose, smooth forehead, pale yet strong mouth—called for notice, and then combined to form an overall captivating result.

  Sexual allure spilled from his pores like pheromones she could actually see. The melting look in his eyes oozed over Cassandra’s skin. All he was doing was standing there! Had to be a celebrity. The club was famous for them, though normally the celebs did not turn her head. She wasn’t into paparazzi or the materialistic lifestyle.

  A crisp white dress shirt strained across the man’s chest like tight sheets on a bed. Cassandra imagined running her fingers across the white fabric and putting a few wrinkles in it for good measure. Wrinkled sheets sounded inviting tonight. Because seriously, she’d known she and Marcus wouldn’t mesh the moment he’d suggested the opera as his first choice for the evening.

  Crooking her finger, she invited her mysterious observer to join her. He navigated the crowded dance floor with an ease that belonged to fictional characters, like the brooding vampire in a Gothic novel, and matched her slow, sensual dance moves as if trying to mirror her. A little awkward with the hips, but he was at least on the beat.

  Obviously not a dancer, but she didn’t care. His focused attention shimmied over her skin, feeling like warm rain. And he was all hers. No one else in the room stood in their air.

  Mercy, but she’d been too deeply enmeshed in her own projects and worries lately. The world was putting out men who resembled Hollywood warrior gods? She’d been missing out.

  But not any longer.

  Turning and swaying before him, she invited his hand to her hip and held it there with hers. He leaned in to smell her hair. Vanilla shampoo, combined with her spearmint body lotion, mixed a sensual combination. He stroked her hair and drew out his hand, trailing a red ribbon along his forefinger. A tilt of his head and a sweet smile displayed his wonder over the decoration.

  Cassandra shrugged and winked. She wanted to nuzzle her nose against his neck, divine his scent and whisper an invitation, but she wasn’t pushy, and she wasn’t a tease.

  All right, so maybe a bit of a tease. But she’d come here with another man; she would not ditch him. That was just plain rude.

  Unless Marcus and the redhead developed plans of their own.

  Suddenly itchy, Cassandra rubbed the heel of her palm over her wrist. This new dress was some kind of wool blend, though very thin. It exposed her back to midspine. The short skirt dropped mid-thigh, and her thigh-high boots were tied up the backs with red ribbons to match those in her hair.

  She touched her sexy dancer’s forearm, clasping it. Too intimate, Cassandra. But she didn’t heed her intuition. The dancer’s arm was cool, and the difference in their temperatures increased his allure.

  The music switched to a fast rocker beat, one of her favorite songs about dangerous beauty, snarled out by a sultry female singer. The guitar riff in this one was insane. Bouncing before him, she performed a sexy shimmy and hip shift while he observed. He’d catch the beat. He seemed to learn quickly.

  “What’s your name?” she asked over the blast of music.

  “Samandiriel.”

  She hadn’t caught the last name—Darrel?—but the first had sounded like Sam. She loved that name. Had dreamed about it…

  Shimmying close to him, she spread a palm up the front of his crisp shirt and leaned up on tiptoe so he could hear, “You in town for the convention across the street or sightseeing on the Spree?”

  Please don’t be a mortician. There was a convention at the Radisson Blu across the street. She’d already talked to two body pokers since arriving at the Schwarz.

  “I’m here for you, Cassandra.”

  Her? Well. That was some kind of all right. It wasn’t every day a chick found her own personal—

  Wait. She hadn’t given him her name.

  “Rather a nice distraction,” he said over the din. “Hadn’t expected to meet you so quickly.”

  Cassandra stopped dancing. She also stopped midscratch. She tugged up the dress sleeve, dreading what she would see. The sigil on her wrist, which was normally a reddish-brown color and shaped like a spiral, glowed blue.

  It had never done that before—yet that didn’t mean she didn’t know exactly what it meant.

  “Oh, hell, no.”

  The sensual heat flushing Cassandra’s face chilled faster than it would’ve stepping outside into the freezing winter weather.

  Shaking her head, she moved away but was rudely bumped by a dancer. The man’s eyes—Samandiriel, now she remembered his name from a dream—were bright and designed from many colors.

  “Kaleidoscope,” she whispered, choking on her breath.

  Years of preparation, of knowing what her destiny would bring, sent her into action.

  The time had come. Here stood danger.

  Fisting her hands, she assumed a defensive stance. “Come on, buddy, I am so ready for you.”

  The man’s dark eyebrow quirked and his perfectly sculpted lips compressed.

  Amidst the ruckus of dancers and ear-thrumming music, Cassandra realized she didn’t want this to go down in such a public place. Probably he didn’t care, and would use the crowd to his advantage.

  Protect the innocents, Granny Stevens had always warned. At all costs.

  Darting off the dance floor like a banshee called to the grave, she pushed through the crowd of dancers, lovers and chatterers. A swing of her elbow spilled a drink, and someone swore at her in hearty German. She couldn’t bother to apologize.

  Without looking to see if the stranger would follow she headed down the dark hallway toward the back exit door. Pinpricks of light spattered the walls like a constellation, but did not serve illumination for any more than a careful stroll to find the restrooms.

  She shoved a man out of the way. He called back, wondering if she was okay.

  She’d worn her thigh-high boots today. The heels were only two inches, but slippery as hell on the tiled floor, which was wet from people entering with snow on their shoes. Grabbing the door, she swung it open and glanced back. The man followed. It was him. Samandiriel. Her dream man. Her destiny.

  Her danger.

  Her wrist would not itch were it any other man in the universe. And the sigil glowed! Granny Stevens had said it would. She’d always wondered how that would work.


  There was only one reason a muse’s sigil glowed: it was near another sigil that matched it. Playing angel-to-muse sigil matchy-matchy was not a game Cassandra had signed up for, but certainly, she was prepared.

  “Right,” she muttered to herself. “You went all kick-ass on him for two idiot seconds!”

  Wishing she’d had the time to swing by the bar where her now ex-date sat to put on her leather coat, Cassandra cursed the wicked cold air as she plunged into a wall of prickly snowflakes. A burgeoning storm swirled relentlessly. A drift consumed the bottom step and swallowed her boots ankle deep.

  She kept another coat in the boot of her car, along with gloves, hat and other necessary items. No one drove around Berlin in December without the essentials.

  The club door smashed outward, cracking the outer brick wall. The stranger marched down the steps, his pace determined. He wore no coat, and appeared unaffected as the bitter wind buffeted his chest and face.

  Cassandra’s teeth had already begun to chatter. Slipping her hand inside her boot, she claimed her car keys from the inner pocket. She’d parked five rows back and in the corner.

  Slipping on the icy surface, she slapped a palm on the closest car to steady herself. A hand grasped her by the shoulder and swung her against the hood of a vintage BMW.

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry, Cassandra? I was having a fine time dancing with you. Were my moves not correct? I thought to follow your direction.”

  Seriously? She kicked his knee, landing her toe hard, but he didn’t register pain with a wince. In fact, he instead winked at her.

  “Let go of me! I’ll scream.”

  He slapped a palm over her mouth. His square jaw pulsed and his eyes flashed a mad array of colors at her. “You are—” he trailed his gaze over her face and down her body “—mine.” The words came out in a wondrous gasp.

  Oh, bloody hell in a handbasket.

  She kicked and managed a boot toe behind his knee. “Let me go!”

  “Calm, Cassandra, I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Oh, yeah? You call having sex with me against my will not hurting me?”

  “I—no, I won’t do that. I admire you. You’re like nothing I have ever imagined beauty can be. Your voice is the color of happiness. It is gorgeous.”

  The guy was actually trying to flirt with her?

  Chill wind whipped across her face and cut off another scream. Cassandra kicked and shoved, but he was too strong. “I’m ready for you, buddy. I know what you want, and no matter how you phrase it, it’s not going to happen.”

  “Please listen to me, Cassandra—”

  This time a kick to his inner thigh, so close to the family jewels, managed to present her with freedom.

  Dashing for her car, Cassandra said thanks for the Walther semiautomatic pistol she kept stashed in the car’s boot. It was over-the-top, but it had been easiest to obtain, and was as easy to use. It wouldn’t stop the guy, but it should slow him down long enough for her to escape.

  The man who chased her was a Fallen angel. Yes, a real bloody angel. She didn’t need an ID card or divine beam of light to convince her. And she, being a muse, wore a sigil that matched only one Fallen. And his idea of admiration was not in alliance with hers.

  Everything Cassandra had been taught about angels and their muses was falling into dreadful place.

  She’d been born a muse, a female mortal who would ultimately attract a Fallen angel. Said angel would one day come for her, impregnate her, and she would give birth to a vicious, giant nephilim. Or so, that is how Granny Stevens had related it to her.

  Slamming her palms to the boot of her car, she skidded and hit her knees against the chrome bumper. Struggling with the key, her icy fingers inserted it into the lock and the boot popped open. She grabbed the pistol and turned as the angel slid up to her. His chest met the barrel.

  “Back off,” she commanded firmly. Holding the weapon gave her a confidence she’d never expected to need. This adrenaline junkie knew how to use nervous energy, yet her dreams of angels had always been merely dreams. “Or I blow you back to the Ninth Void.”

  He raised his hands in surrender but did not relent by stepping back. Wind blew his dark hair across his face, underlining his eyes. “You’ve not the power to do so. And please, that place was miserable. I’ve only been out a day. Won’t you allow me a holiday?”

  He was trying to charm her? Did he not feel the menacing semiautomatic she held against his chest? One squeeze of the trigger would—well, it would damage him, but not kill him. Only an angel could kill an angel. Unless the nonangel was armed with a divine weapon.

  Coco should have mailed the halo to her. What she wouldn’t give to have that in hand right now!

  “You step back,” she directed in a surprisingly calm tone.

  “Nein. We need to talk.”

  She chambered a round with a metallic click.

  “Try it, beautiful one. But you’ll only piss me off. And splatter your pretty dress with my blue blood.”

  So it really was blue? Bloody hell, it was all true. In a moment of utter bewilderment, Cassandra looked aside, her mind fighting to grasp her new reality.

  The Fallen grasped the pistol and turned it on her. “Get in the car. Through the driver’s side.”

  Teeth chattering, she was shoved inside the midsize coupe. Probably her brain was already half frozen, which was why she’d been overtaken so easily. She wasn’t able to remain on the driver’s seat because he slid in right after her.

  “Don’t hurt me, you…you monster.” Oh, nice, Cassandra. As if begging will help.

  He grabbed the keys from her numb fingers and shoved them in the ignition. “You’re calling me a monster?”

  No, he was some kind of male model with gorgeous eyes and a sexy smile. Cassandra blinked. Idiot!

  When she tried to open the passenger door he pressed the automatic door lock on the steering wheel. The lock tab fit flush into the door so she couldn’t pry it up.

  “Yes, a monster! You’re a freakin’ Fallen angel who wants to rape me.”

  The car swung out of the parking spot, swerving on the ice. “Don’t use that word. It is an awful mortal word for a cruel act. I would never profane a woman. You are sacred to me, Cassandra. I want to protect you.”

  He smiled at her. Actually smiled as he navigated the lot with starts and stops and some wild swerves. Did the guy even know how to drive? He said he’d been on earth only a day.

  A shake of his head flicked off the heavy snowflakes from his thick, dark hair and shoulders.

  Sacred? Is that what he labeled the woman he wanted to get down and dirty with, and without asking first? And protect her?

  Had she gotten a damaged one? This Fallen must have hit his head upon release from the Ninth Void and landing on earth. Everything he said to her was the complete opposite of what she’d been taught.

  Twisting on the seat, she wondered if the backseats would pull down to open into the trunk. She’d never tried it before. The angel had tossed the semiautomatic in the snow back in the parking lot, but she had another pistol in the boot.

  The car spun onto the main street, swerving, but he quickly got it under control. He drove right through a stop signal, riding the brake but not slowing. Passing cars honked at them.

  “You’re very pretty, Cassandra. And the ribbons in your hair. So interesting.”

  “Is that your idea of foreplay? A few awkwardly random compliments? Buddy, I’m not interested.”

  “You were interested on the dance floor. Your eyes took me in, sized me up and decided to like me. You touched me.” He stroked his forearm where she had placed her hand. “I’ve never been touched by a mortal woman.”

  “Yeah?” She had touched him, had even imagined wrinkling the sheets with him. Oh, Cassandra, get smart. Right now! “The only touch you’ll get from me is a punch or another kick. Want one right now?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Man, but his eyes were inc
redible. When she thought they were blue, she noticed the violet, and then, brilliant gold. Wow— “Pay attention to the road. The light is red!”

  He drove through the intersection without causing an accident. Cassandra clutched the seat and tensely put her heels to the floor. “You don’t know how to drive, do you?”

  “No, but I’m learning,” he said proudly.

  She itched the sigil, which still glowed blue. “Hell.”

  “Matches mine.” He tugged up his shirt and leaned forward to reveal the sigil on the back of his hip. The spiraling dark brown line resembled a tattoo.

  The sigil was not a tattoo, but an indelible mark. Cassandra had been born with hers. It was the reddish-brown color of henna, but it never faded, as henna did. “Yours isn’t glowing,” she remarked.

  “Only when I’m in half form.”

  Cassandra’s heart dropped to her gut. The only way a Fallen could get his mortal muse pregnant was in half form. They assumed the wings of an angel on top, yet remained human in every way, including all the essential sexual organs. Samandiriel.

  She had known his name since Granny had found it in the book of names and sigils. Neither had spoken it out loud to the other. Yet after everyone had gone to sleep, and Cassandra lay in her bed staring at the sky through the oak tree near her window, she’d whisper it. Because that’s what teenage girls did.

  The name had become a sort of mantra, and at the same time a death toll. Samandiriel, the one angel who existed to find her. Samandiriel, the angel she had sculpted in silver. Samandiriel, her death.

  A dizzy wave washed through Cassandra’s brain. She had to remain alert. Stay strong. As soon as he stopped, she’d open the door and run, never mind her lack of coat and gloves. They were only blocks away from a busy restaurant area; she could find help before she froze to death.

  “So you’re taking me somewhere, and then you’re going to shift shapes?”

  “No. Cassandra, I would not assume you’d be so enamored with me you would allow such an intimate act so quickly.”