Messenger's Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels

by Heather Killough-Walden

  It was easy for them to make the next logical leap and take it for granted that one of the archangels had come across Hamon and done him in. The Adarian soldiers now wanted archangel blood more than ever.

  Everything was going splendidly and according to Kevin’s plans.

  However, in the aftermath of the ordeal, Kevin had been hit with the reality of what he’d done. He’d killed a man loyal to him. A man he had often called a friend.

  He’d then had to call his three chosen men to a meeting and declare his edict. It had been incredibly painful to look into their faces and know he had destroyed one of their own.

  It had been necessary. The Adarians and the archangels were the only two beings he knew of who possessed powers above and beyond the mortal realm of understanding. It would have been perfect if one of the four favorites had been residing in the Adarian prison instead. Uriel would have been so much fun to drain, Kevin thought darkly. If Uriel were dead, he would never be able to touch—to kiss—Eleanore Granger again.

  And as to Eleanore, absorbing the power he wanted from the archesses would be much more pleasant. If Eleanore’s loveliness was any indication, each archess would be a beauty to behold. Taking their blood would be easy and pleasurable. In Ellie’s case . . . well, if he decided to keep her around for a bit and enjoy other aspects of her being, it was his prerogative.

  Kevin’s lips curled into a smile at this thought. And then he turned toward the window and the fading light outlined by the slats that covered it.

  There was still Xathaniel to deal with. He was out there somewhere, apparently far from the compound, as if he’d known exactly what had been about to go down inside its walls.

  Kevin’s gaze narrowed as he considered this. Could he have known? The skill he brought to the Adarian table had always been his invisibility. But the Adarians were incredibly powerful beings and Kevin had always felt a very strong aura around Daniel. It didn’t quite seem to match his singular power, truth be told. It had always felt uneven—skewed.

  The realization hit Kevin in that moment, and he felt as Dorian Gray must have felt when he’d looked upon his own image that final and fateful time. He was holding out on me, he thought grimly. All this time, he was hiding his true gift. Daniel had another power. And that power had saved him from his slaughter.

  Kevin lowered his head to his chest and felt his hands curl into fists at his sides. If he’d wanted Daniel found before, it was nothing compared with how badly he wanted him now. None of the Adarians had the ability to scry on happenings elsewhere in the world. In fact, the existence of such an ability had been no more than unsubstantiated, legendary hearsay until his men had discovered that one of the archangels did indeed possess that incredible talent. Lord Azrael, as he had been called eons ago, the former Angel of Death, purportedly had the ability to find anyone he wanted anywhere on the planet as long as he knew enough about them to do the search.

  The ability to scry a person’s whereabouts in such a manner would have served the General very well at that moment. Unfortunately, scrying wasn’t an Adarian gift.

  Morael, or “Mitchell,” as they called him, possessed the power of telepathy, among other abilities. Mitchell was able to read any mortal’s mind, and every Adarian’s mind except for Kevin’s. The General assumed this had something to do with the fact that Kevin was the first archangel to have been created. His mind was decidedly different from all the others to come after his.

  Mitchell’s telepathy and Luke’s dream-invasive abilities were as close as any of them could come to something like scrying. If they could be combined . . . Kevin frowned and pondered the possibilities. What might happen should the two powers be joined together—and focused? He had learned more about Adarian powers in the last week than he’d learned for the last several thousand years. What he had only dreamed could be possible was becoming a reality for him. So, there could be no harm in trying this one extra little experiment. After all, no one’s death was necessary for this one.

  Kevin took the radio off his desk and used it to call two of his men to his office. He looked up again when he heard Mitchell and Laoth on the other side of his door.

  Before the men could knock, Kevin bade them to enter.

  Mitchell was what a human woman would most likely refer to as tall, dark, and exceedingly handsome. He had a quintessential Italian feel to him, from his black hair to his black, star-speckled eyes and his penchant for sleek, fast cars. Laoth, or Luke, was a finely sculpted man with blond curls who had once modeled for Michelangelo, so very many years ago.

  Kevin gave the two men their instructions. Like the loyal Adarian soldiers they had always been, they took their orders, nodded their consent, and left his office once more.

  Kevin watched them go. And then he turned and studied the single window in his room with a mixture of curiosity and strange, cold trepidation. The sun would set any minute, but where it rested on the horizon just then, it shone bright and orange and the rays forced a bright glow to the edges of the window’s blinds.

  He felt threatened by it.

  It was a disturbing realization. Elyon had been right. The sun was indeed bothering him of late. And that wasn’t all.

  As his tongue gingerly prodded the slightly longer, noticeably sharper shape of his incisors, Kevin realized there was a pulse to his thoughts now. It beat like a drum, both feeding him and starving him at once. As he had since he’d discovered her healing power, he longed for little Ellie. From the moment he’d beheld the woman that she had blossomed into at the ripe age of fifteen, that longing had taken a more personal bent.

  She’d looked at him through the slats of her window blinds with those blue, blue eyes—and now he wanted her to do so again. He longed to feel her body beneath him on his bed. That was as it had been for years.

  But now, underneath the hunger he felt for her flesh, for her submission, and for her power, lay something entirely new. Beyond his yearning for her body was the foreboding and very real hunger he felt for the taste of her blood.

  * * *

  Juliette was dreaming again. This time, she was walking down a hall both rich with rugs and tapestries and hollow with wind and crumbling walls. Again, one image overlaid itself upon another, a transparent echo of what it once was that draped the cold, stone reality of what it had become.

  Voices carried through the yawning doorways, snippets of conversation in a lilting accent she could almost place. Formless, incorporeal figures moved above her, as if there had once been a ceiling and a floor where now there were only the muted grays of fog and sea mist in the open castle ruin.

  She caught the scent of baking bread and cooking meat. It wafted by and was gone, replaced at once with the salt and brine scent of the North Sea. Wind whispered through her hair and caressed her neck as she rounded a set of winding stairs, and stepped through an archway into a massive chamber.

  A fire crackled in the grate, blazing bright and high, but its image was transparent over the hollow hearth and black stone that had once offered warmth to the lord of the castle. This was his bedroom.

  Juliette paused in the arched entry, her gaze skirting over the ghostly impressions of the master’s furnishings. A writing desk, a wardrobe, a chest—a bed. Its four posters rose like spires to the cloudy sky, the faintest misting of draperies cascading from their tips to blow in the lingering breeze. The furs looked warm and soft, the wool thick and finely woven, and the blankets mussed as if the bed’s owner couldn’t be bothered.

  She moved toward it, caught in a pull she could not understand, and heard music. It was muffled, barely audible, and yet it tore at her heartstrings. She closed her eyes as footfalls joined the tune, echoing in the chamber’s outer halls, drawing nearer.

  He was behind her then, and she knew he was there. His presence was the only real and solid thing in this haunted dreamscape. His touch was warm as he laid his hands upon her shoulders and drew her against his chest. She pressed into him, needing his strength, and moaned when
his hand slid from her shoulder to her neck to encircle it gently, tenderly.

  Anticipation thrummed through her, a drug in her bloodstream, awakening a desire she’d only ever known once before. He took her chin in his hand and turned her head, slowly, softly. She held her breath as he bent over her and whispered words across her lips. The language was old; she had understood it once, but had forgotten.

  His teeth nibbled her lower lip, clasping it as he drew her nearer, tighter, and then he was claiming her with his kiss, and she couldn’t have breathed if she’d wanted to.

  The blankets were over her head. They were smothering her. Juliette gasped for air, rolled over, and fought with the covers until they slid in a heavy, twisted heap, off the bed. Then she sat there on the mattress, breathing heavily, as her hair acted like a curtain around her face, long and tangled beyond help.

  She huffed at it and slapped it away, clearing her vision. Where the hell am I? she wondered, feeling disoriented and unsure. The room was dark and quiet and wind howled at a windowpane. She closed her eyes and swallowed, feeling a touch sick. She racked her brain, trying hard to recall. . . . Australia? No. She’d flown home. Pittsburgh? No. She had a night-light in her room there.

  Scotland.

  She opened her eyes and blinked. This was her bedroom in the cottage she was renting in Harris. A few more seconds and she recalled everything. The pub in Lewis, the dark-haired, silver-eyed Gabriel Black, and the deadly stranger who had attacked her in the hotel room.

  Inspector Angus Dougal had issued a house arrest for her only minutes before he’d received a phone call from one of his men at the station house. The officer on the other end of the line suggested that new evidence had been found in the room where Juliette was attacked, and Gabriel Black had been released. Dougal’s entire demeanor had gone stony, but he’d played the good cop well enough, and he even drove Juliette down to her cottage in Luskentyre and saw her inside. He also apologized for all her suffering that night and left her his cell number in case of any further emergencies.

  Juliette couldn’t help but wonder what the “evidence” was that the officers had apparently found. Was it chloroform? Something else? What did this mean for her? And for Gabriel Black?

  If he’d been released, where was he now?

  Juliette suddenly found herself imagining Black in his bed. It would be a big bed. With four posters and a canopy? Her mind trailed off. Would he sleep in the nude?

  She swallowed hard, found her throat had gone dry, and then violently shook her head. Her heart felt racy and strange. Beads of sweat had broken out along her brow. Sleep would be a long time coming.

  With a heavy sigh, she pushed herself off the bed and put out her arms like a blind person so that she wouldn’t bump into anything. She found the light switch, flicked it—backward, as all the switches ran backward in Scotland—and light flooded the room. In a few moments, she’d donned some leggings, sheepskin boots, and a huge pullover sweatshirt.

  Then she grabbed her laptop from the bedside table and made her way into the cottage’s living room. The connection here was a dial-up, which meant that when she could hop on, it would be slow as Christmas, and that she would have to compete for computer time with anyone else staying in the cottages or the main house. But it was the middle of the night, it was better than nothing, and she’d been dying to reconnect and touch base with people.

  Juliette plugged in her laptop, turned it on, and waited for it to boot up. While she waited, she raided the kitchen for crumpets and black currant jam and Scottish cheese and oatcakes with hazelnut spread and lots of tea. She would lose sleep, but she’d make up for it by eating twice as much.

  Once the connection was up and running, Juliette opened her e-mail and gave a small gasp when she found that she had 172 messages, 31 of them from her adviser.

  Juliette’s blood pressure shot through the roof. Fearing the worst, she opened the latest e-mail from Dr. Larowe first and braced herself.

  Juliette, where in God’s name are you?? Lambent’s already on his way over there; I got a call from his assistant this morning!! I just wanted to give you a heads-up. He’s decided he wants to meet with you himself, so be ready! And be NICE!! Please, please let me know you’ve gotten these messages. Just a quick pong to my pings! Love you, kiddo.

  —Tony

  Juliette stared at the screen, utterly confused. “Lambent is coming here?” she whispered out loud. Where, here? she thought. Is he coming to Harris?

  With a sinking feeling in her gut, Juliette glanced at the date stamp of the e-mail. It had been sent the day before yesterday. She groaned, ran a frustrated hand through her knotted hair, and sat back on the couch with another dramatic sigh. In the tumult of recent events, she’d all but forgotten about her contract with Samuel Lambent. She was required to meet with one of his representatives once a week. And it looked as though she’d missed her last meeting without even realizing it. Now Lambent was most likely worried.

  This wasn’t good. Juliette was going to have to call her adviser. Or she’d have to call Lambent’s office and find out where he was staying.

  It looked like she’d be drinking her tea cold.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was easier than she’d thought it was going to be to get a train ticket from Ullapool to Inverness. It was a tribute to Scotland that its people were almost universally friendly and helpful; travelers in the station had directed her through the entire process from beginning to end. And now she sat in her own booth with her own table, and her carry-on was perched safely in the stowaway bin above her. Once she reached Inverness, she would switch trains and take another into Glasgow, where Samuel Lambent was planning to meet with her.

  It was early Sunday morning and not a high-travel time; her car was empty but for her. She felt like Harry Potter when the trolley came by with teas and soups and biscuits for sale. There were no Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans, but with a little effort it was easy to imagine that when she turned around and looked out the window, she would see the towering spires of Hogwarts rising over the hills in the distance. It was enough to take her mind off the attack she’d suffered and her burgeoning powers and what the hell they could possibly mean. At least for a little while.

  But the sense of bereavement and haunted remembrance she experienced while traveling across Scotland was stronger on the train than it had been in the car. Perhaps it was because she had nothing to do but stare out the window at the passing countryside and its crumbling castle walls. Whatever the reason, though, Juliette remained nearly motionless as the world passed her by, and memories she knew she couldn’t have had assaulted her mind.

  A flash of an ancient church, and a chill ran down her spine. A shadow across a painted red door, and Juliette felt sad. A path beckoned into the darkness through a tall wood, and Juliette had the sudden urge to jump off the train and run down the trail. It was almost frustrating the way the land made her want to remember.

  “I see you feel a kinship with our bonnie Caledonia,” came a deep brogue from behind her.

  Juliette jumped just a little, and turned in her seat to find herself staring up at the man who had kissed her in the pub. The man who had saved her from the stranger. The man who had, until only a few hours ago, been in police custody.

  Gabriel Black. True to his name, he was dressed in head-to-toe pitch, his wavy, raven locks blending in with the leather collar of his jacket. His silver eyes sparkled with secrets as they locked on to hers.

  Juliette’s jaw grew slack, and her tongue found itself knotted, useless and mute. She caught a whiff of him, a scent like sandalwood and cedar and hearth-fire smoke, and images of her dream flashed before her mind’s eye. Her fingers went limp on the tabletop; her legs pressed themselves together self-consciously, and her bottom lip began to tremble.

  “B-Black,” she whispered.

  Gabriel smiled and then, without being asked, he lowered himself into the empty space on the seat beside her.

  His solid n
earness washed over her like a blanket of intoxicating sexuality, and Juliette hurriedly scooted back a bit on the seat. She could go no farther when her left arm pressed against the cold metal beneath the coach window.

  Gabriel watched her retreat, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “We need to talk, lass,” he said, his accent so much more broguish than that of most of the people on the Western Isles. By and large, Hebrideans sounded Irish and Gaelic. Black, however, sounded as if he’d come from all over Scotland; it was the timbre and lilt of his tone that bespoke the land.

  “A-about what?” Juliette asked. The kiss? The man in my room? The fact that you were arrested?

  Gabriel’s smile broadened, his silver gaze flicking to her lips and back again. Casually, he turned toward her, caging her with the hard mass of his body as he reached across the table and picked up her cup of tea. It was still steaming. Without taking his eyes off her, he placed it to his lips and took a sip. “You’ve go’ good taste,” he said as he put the cup back down. “Bu’ then, you’re a Scottish lass by blood, so I’m no’ surprised.”

  “Look,” she said, feeling a little dizzy. “I’m grateful to you for saving me from whoever it was that came into my room last night, but . . .” She lost track of what she was going to say when he reached over and nonchalantly took a lock of her long, thick hair in his hands and began rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. “But . . .” She licked her lips, utterly distracted by the scent and sound and feel of him so close. The air around her felt too thick, too charged.

  Somewhere in the distance thunder rolled, barely audible over the rhythmic sound of the train on the tracks. But Black’s eyes cut from the hair in his hand to Juliette’s eyes once more, and he cocked his head to one side. He said nothing, as if waiting for her to continue.