Messenger's Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels
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Praise for
Avenger’s Angel
“With the launch of her new Los Angeles series, Killough-Walden offers readers a sizzling novel populated with highly intriguing characters, not the least of [whom] is the ‘villain.’ Good story pacing, believable characters, and sizzling sex add up to an author and a series to watch!” —Romantic Times (top pick, 4½ stars)
“Avenger’s Angel is an enjoyable read that creates a world where archangels develop human sympathies and the lines between good and evil are blurred.” —Book Savvy Babe
“Avenger’s Angel is a fantstic addition to the paranormal romance genre, with sexy archangels and a strong, beautiful heroine. The world is intriguing and the action fast-paced. I for one can’t wait to read future installments. Fans of paranormal romance will lap this up—a great start to a new paranormal series.” —Book Chick City
“A breathtaking look into the world of the archangels, Avenger’s Angel is an amazing start to a new series, and one that I will be putting on my auto-buy list!” —The Book Queen’s Palace
Also Available from Signet Eclipse
Avenger’s Angel
Always Angel
(A Penguin eSpecial)
MESSENGER’S ANGEL
* * *
A NOVEL OF THE LOST ANGELS
* * *
HEATHER KILLOUGH-WALDEN
SIGNET ECLIPSE
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, June 2012
Copyright © Heather Killough-Walden, 2012
All rights reserved
SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
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This book is dedicated to everyone who is waiting—for a letter, for a phone call, for a message.
Here’s to the words that bring us hope.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book is a tapestry. It is a work of art hewn of the colors of a land so steeped in the richest history, no amount of time can unravel the threads of its creation. This book is the voice of ghosts caught between the now and then of the Callanish Stones and Edinburgh Castle. It is the breath of a North Sea wind across a pale cheek, and the rolling approach of fog across the lonely Moors.
But this tapestry would never have been woven if not for the help of those precious, special few who live within the land and among the stories, both ancient and new, of our bonnie Caledonia—of Scotland. And so, I thank you.
I thank you, Susan Stewart, author in your own right, for your Scottish beauty, unrivaled kindness, and limitless patience as you took me to the corners of your Gaelic world and allowed me to touch upon the ancient history of the Outer Hebrides Islands. Thank you for letting me run between the Stones. Thank you for guiding me up the narrow stairwells of St. Clemens Rodel. Thank you for your continued friendship and the experience of a Scottish girl’s lifetime.
I thank you, Bruce Officer, teller of humorous tales, for the history lessons you shared as I stood still at the threshold of Slains Castle and gazed out over the endless blue of a bottomless sea. Thank you for allowing me to walk the very same ground upon which my archangel and archess take their everlasting vows. Thank you for caring, for your gentle nature, and of course for your friendship.
I have been blessed with footholds in time and culture around the world: my friends. Without you, I simply would not be the author that I am.
Contents
Cover
Praise for Avenger’s Angel
Also Available from Signet Eclipse
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
Special Excerpt
INTRODUCTION
Long ago, the Old Man gathered together his four favored archangels, Michael, Gabriel, Uriel, and Azrael. He pointed to four stars in the sky that shone brighter than the others. He told the archangels that he wished to reward them for their loyalty and had created for them soul mates. Four perfect female beings—archesses.
However, before the archangels could claim their mates, the fo
ur archesses were lost to them and scattered to the wind, beyond their realm and reach. The archangels made the choice to leave their world, journey to Earth, and seek out their mates.
For thousands of years, the archangels have searched. But they have not searched alone. For they are not the only entities to leave their realm and come to Earth to hunt for the archesses. They were followed by another. . . .
CHAPTER ONE
Juliette sidled back on the massive four-poster bed, a remotely hesitant part of her still wanting to get away. But the angel smiled a rakish smile and moved over her like a massive cat, graceful and deadly, and she didn’t get far. He skillfully caught her wrists in firm grips and had her pinned before she could blink.
Juliette lay there, her breathing quick and sharp, and stared up at the taut muscles of his arms, chest, and torso. Her gaze boldly trailed across the tanned expanse of toned flesh . . . to where the rest of his body was hidden beyond the unbuttoned waistband of his blue jeans.
Her mouth felt both wet and dry; her heart hammered; her hands flexed beneath the viselike grips he had on her delicate wrists. The castle around them loomed in her periphery, empty yet protective. It felt both ancient and brand-new; its walls were crumbling, enshrouded by the echoes of the tapestries and torch sconces they once held.
The master’s chamber was warmed by the crackling of the flames in the giant stone hearth. And it was chilled by the North Sea wind that ripped through the timeworn windows and raced through the empty, ruined room.
The castle was a skeleton and a ghost, broken down to its barest bones and draped in the memory of what it once was.
The angel, though—he was warm. He was not a ghost. His body was hard and insistent and very, very real above her. He lowered his head to slide his gaze down the length of her slim body, and as he shifted, she once more caught sight of the massive black and silver wings at his back. Their feathers shimmered, iridescent in the shafts of moonlight that speared the empty windows and lit the stage of their clandestine play.
So beautiful, she thought absently.
He looked up and met her gaze, and she found herself at once lost in the strange glowing silver of his eyes.
They’re glowing, she thought in awe.
He pinned her to the bed beneath him with that look; it claimed her, possessed her, and she was certain that no man in the world had ever looked at her—not really—until the angel had.
Juliette knew she was blushing. Her cheeks were hot, and her chest was flushed. Her breasts felt warm and heavy, even as her nipples hardened to painful nubs that scraped the inside of her shirt. Breathing was hard. She wanted to arch beneath him, close the gap he held above her. She wanted to touch him as she’d never wanted anything before.
He stared down at her forever, watching her, taking her in. He was eating her with his eyes, and her chest felt tight. She couldn’t take it. His control over her body was absolute. It was as if he willed it and wetness gathered between her legs. As if he knew it was there, he chuckled. The sound rushed over her skin like a caress, deep and deliciously wicked. She shuddered and closed her eyes, fighting the urge to writhe beneath him. She almost broke then. She almost begged him to take her.
What’s wrong with me? she thought. This wasn’t like her. She never gave in easily. She was stubborn to the core. What was happening? How had she let this angel get her into bed? Hadn’t she just met him?
I don’t even know his name. . . .
Her eyes flew open when she felt the butterfly softness of his lips brushing against hers. Teasingly, he pulled back and once more locked her in his inhuman gaze. He said not a word, but smiled that faintly cruel smile of his, flashing teeth both straight and white. In the frame of his too-handsome face, it was nothing short of predatory. And then he put both of her slender wrists in one of his strong hands and used the other to grab the front of her button-up shirt.
The material pulled taut in his grip, scraping her tender nipples and ripping a gasp from her lips. Slowly, almost menacingly, he popped the buttons on the shirt, one after another. And then he let the material slide across her rib cage, opening her body to his stark, hungry gaze.
Now she did moan. The wind rushed across her exposed skin, licking at it hungrily, tightening her nipples beneath him to a painful degree.
He’s going to devour me, she thought. And she didn’t care.
His wings lowered gracefully over the edges of the bed, their silver and raven feathers blocking her from the wind. Then he lowered his head and she felt his hot breath, in stark contrast to the cold, across the hypersensitive flesh of her right breast. She tensed in his grasp, pulling hard against the hold he had on her arms. He held her easily, though, and his tongue flicked out to brush across the tip of her nipple. She jumped in his grasp, crying out at the sensation, but again he held her tight, and again his chuckle rumbled across her skin like silken thunder.
“Please,” she gasped. She didn’t even know what she was begging for. This was just too much. Too strange and perfect. Too much. Angels weren’t supposed to torture people, were they?
With that, the angel lowered himself closer. She felt the tips of her erect nipples brush the hardness of his chest and nearly jumped again. But he distracted her when he used his free hand to shove her tiered miniskirt up her slender thigh. She groaned once more in longing as his hand then roamed across the taut cheeks of her bottom. No underwear . . .
She felt his breath at her ear, cascading goose bumps over her skin. “My pleasure,” he whispered. His hand sank lower.
“. . . tray tables stowed and seat backs in an upright position . . .”
Juliette jolted awake in her seat as the pilot made the announcement that they were coming in for a landing.
The man seated beside her gave her a knowing sideways glance. Juliette blushed, swallowing a groan of embarrassment, and turned to steadfastly stare out the window. Her reflection stared back at her: long, rich brown waves, big hazel eyes that were mostly green at the moment, and flushed cheeks and lips—remnants of her dream.
It wasn’t the first time she’d dreamed of crumbling castles and ghostlike figures. Some nights, she was walking through a Scottish kirkyard, ancient, worn, and collapsing, yet filled with fresh graves and newly chiseled headstones. Other nights she made her way through castles, as she had in this dream. They were ruins and yet they weren’t—she saw the images of what they had once been draped over them like the cloying memories of glory days.
She’d always had dreams like this. Dreams of the past and the present, intermingling and poignant. It was one of the reasons she’d decided to become an anthropologist. The past and its stories intrigued her. It was more than that, even. . . . They called to her.
But this was the first time her dream had included a man. Or an angel.
Her reflection blinked, long lashes brushing against the tops of her cheeks.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this is your pilot speaking.” The intercom sliced through the air, back to life once more, the static cutting through the dialogue and musical scores of every movie playing in the plane. Juliette glanced around and watched as people’s heads jerked under the volume before they quickly yanked the headsets off their ears. “We’re about six hours and thirty-eight minutes into our flying time now and twenty-three minutes outside of Edinburgh. It’s a brisk March day, forty-one degrees Fahrenheit or four degrees Celsius; wind coming out of the northwest at fifteen miles per hour. . . .”
Juliette let the pilot’s voice drift to the back of her consciousness and continued to gaze out the window at the green and black landscape below. She’d been traveling a lot lately. In the last year, she’d studied in Australia through an overseas program, visited New Zealand, and flown to both coasts of the US, and now she was about to land in Scotland and would be there for several weeks. She was a PhD student in anthropology and was working on her thesis; the travel was mostly for research, and it was her fellowship at Carnegie Mellon that paid for it all.
But Scotland was different for two reasons. For one thing, Juliette had wanted to visit Scotland since she was a little girl. Her parents were Scottish; her mother was a MacDonald and her father was an Anderson. It was in her blood.
The other reason Scotland was different was due to a fairly new development. Juliette had planned on going anyway in order to do ethnological research on the Outer Hebrides islands, where her father’s side of the family originated. And then Juliette’s adviser had contacted her with news: Samuel Lambent, the wealthy and prominent media mogul, had offered Juliette a deal. He would pay her a hefty royalty and foot the bill for the remainder of her research if he could use the information she gleaned for a television miniseries about the legend and lore of Scotland’s more remote areas.
Juliette was so mind-blown by the offer, she hadn’t even thought to ask why Lambent had chosen her, specifically, when there were other students in the world who either were currently studying Scotland or were already well versed in its history. She, of course, jumped on the opportunity.
Obviously there were stipulations. She had to make certain to thoroughly research the kinds of material that would “sell” to a television audience. She also had to meet with one of Lambent’s representatives in person once a week to assure him that enough progress was being made.
Part of Juliette felt like this was a dream. It was too good to be true. She’d never had much money. Though both of her parents were professors, as she would be one day, their fields fell on the poorer side of the financial spectrum of academia. Plus Juliette had what an accountant would no doubt call a “nasty habit” of giving away most of her money. She was just too sensitive. She hated to see people suffer, and whenever she could possibly give something to someone that could alleviate even a little bit of that suffering, she did so.