Angel Bait (Angel Assassins #1) (14 page)

“What did you find?”

“A whole bag of zip.”

“Change of plans. Meet at the factory in thirty. And have someone bring my car.”

There was a pause then the other vamp hung up.

Smart man. No questions.

Saul continued up Woodward Avenue in no mood to answer questions. Besides, he didn’t give a damn what some lackey thought. Enough crap rumbled through mind, such as how to tell his ally the woman he craved slipped through Saul’s fingers. He’d be turned into an extra-crispy vampire fritter before he could blink.
Unless
…

A new idea bubbled into clarity. He knew the woman’s name. Before the night was over, his men would know everything about her. Where she lived, what she did, who she fucked.

He peered across the intersection. A man was pulling corded bundles from a truck bed, huffing through his labor, working up a sweat. Saliva flooded Saul’s mouth. His face felt like he’d kissed a moving bus. A painful, throbbing reminder of the first problem he needed to fix.

He crossed the street.

If the woman had survived, he’d have to contend with the deadly nephilim. Myth or not, those muscled bastards were huge. Saul shrugged off the image. He owned enough military-grade hardware to level a village. Who cared if the assassins were in play? The rules of this game could be rewritten.

Saul narrowed his gaze on the back of his meal-on-legs. ‘Russ’ was embroidered in swirling gold lettering on the man’s heavy overcoat.

“Hello, Russ.” He paused to listen to the rapid thump of the newsstand operator’s heart. He offered a fang-filled smile. “I’m Saul.”

• • •

Fingers danced across the laptop keyboard, inputting commands to the visual search program. The street cameras were shit. All the video appeared in gray blobs showered in grainy rain. Tanis rubbed his weary eyes. The data would take hours to sift through.

He flexed his hands and stretched his back, grimacing when the muscles along his wings vibrated.

Always tense, always aching.
Despite the discomfort, he forced the appendages out behind him, cringing with every movement. Yeah, he was fucked up bad. No amount of Sun Salutations could fix his useless nerve endings and twisted bones. His wings were a hideous reminder of his failures.

He steered clear of his memories, and focused on the monitor projecting a high-definition image inside Ionie’s room. Well, Jarrid’s room. Tanis steepled his fingers and rested his chin on the tip. What the hell would The Order do with a female inside the Stronghold?

He tapped a few more keys and waited for the camera to zoom in. She appeared so fragile, a small doll in the center of an oversized bed. While she slept, Tanis wondered how strange the brotherhood’s world must seem. In Ionie’s everyday life, Others were simply people who lived around her, worked with her.

Yet a sleazy vamp had attacked her with such fervor he’d almost drained her. The notion an innocent could be harmed with such brutal intent … Tanis riffled his hands through his hair.

Jarrid’s bait had crept under Tanis’ skin, dug through his cavernous heart, and built a home.

Shit
. Like he needed one more person to worry over.
And a human woman?
His wings drooped to the floor. The original plan had veered off track.

He checked his watch with a cursory eye. Thirty minutes until his check-in with the Directorate. His superiors expected a progress report on the Renegade, and he had zilch.

Should I mention the attack?
He twisted the idea a few times, analyzing the pros and cons of revealing Ionie’s existence, her potential benefit to the mission.
They’d demand I turn her over
. Jarrid would lose his shit.

Kas walked into the room and leaned over the monitor. “You get anything off the surveillance cameras?”

“Nothing yet. I’m running a side program to filter out some of the snow. The video is shit, but I’ll pull something off as soon as the rendering is done.”

The nephilim nodded, a grim line creasing his forehead.

“Got something to say, Kas?”

“Why are we using her? Hell, she has no idea she’s bait to catch a psycho!”

Tanis rubbed his sore eyes. “We do the job. You know what that means.”

Kas shoved away from the desk and prowled the room. The tight knot of his shoulders matched the tension each member of The Order displayed after tonight’s attack. His boys needed to decompress or they’d atomic bomb in the warehouse.

Decision made. Vampires — the black-hearted mercenaries — had earned a lesson in pain.

“I want you, Cain, and Nesty, on the streets. Find some bloodsuckers and leave a calling card. Make it clear Ionie is under our protection. I want every fang in Detroit limp and running to their boss.”

Kas’ silver eyes flashed, his expression cold. “We’ll break some bones, remove some organs. The fuckers heal fast anyway.”

Tanis tapped on the keyboard to hide a smile. Kas was out the door when he glanced up.

He checked the internal feed. Jarrid sat like a golden statue by Ionie’s bedside.

Would he have obeyed an order to leave the Stronghold to track vamps?

For centuries, he hoped Jarrid wouldn’t abandon his human side to grow cold and distant like angels. The notion always disturbed him. “Did she crack your armor, son?”

He traced a finger across the monitor, over the hunched back of Jarrid’s immobile figure.
Did he recognize what he felt?
Tanis doubted Jarrid knew what to make of the jumbled emotions filling his head.

Yes, Ionie was bait. Unfortunately, she snared an assassin with deep-seated issues.

He groaned, and returned to his work. The night would be a long one.

• • •

An errant curl escaped Ionie’s dark pillow of hair while she slept, fascinating Jarrid. The soft, dark-brown tendrils beckoned and repelled him. He lifted the silky strands with a finger. They curled around, capturing him like the woman they drew life from.

He watched the rise and fall of her chest while she slumbered. His Grace had healed her wounds, but he was uncertain how to explain the attack when she woke. Every explanation he’d conceived seemed dipped in lies.

Fact — a dirt bag vamp had made her an entree during his watch.

A fresh clump of guilt settled into his gut like a bad meal. He thought he’d choke on the ashen truth. The vamp had masturbated during the feeding. The image made Jarrid want to go back in time and rip the pervert’s dick off.

Ionie didn’t deserve the shit storm.

My bad
. His paltry apology barely broached the need to ask her forgiveness. He’d fucked up. He chose The Church.
Shouldn’t have left her side
.

Jarrid released her hair, leaned away, and took in his surroundings.

He lived like a monk. Other than the monstrous bed, his room contained few creature comforts. A wooden table and chair served as a desk, his often ignored laptop a dusty decoration on the wide surface. The thick-pile area rug was authentic Persian wool. Stacks of books filled corner shelves.

Jarrid gazed at the black-predominate wardrobe in his closet. He left the clothes whoring to Nesty and Kas. A bathroom suite completed the room’s slim offerings.
What would Ionie think?

The errant thought surprised him. He wanted to see her reaction. Cain’s den of iniquity was crammed with contemporary luxuries, all of which would appeal to a modern woman. Jarrid scratched his head. A television and Blu-ray player in his room couldn’t hurt. He’d get to enjoy
A Game of Thrones
without the soundtrack provided by Kas’ technobabble and Cain’s constant rewinding of the love scenes.

Why am I thinking of this shit?
He liked his life ordered, predictable, and solitary. Didn’t he? Jarrid peeked at the exotic creature he’d never seen coming. A human woman who made him laugh, and who stirred his slumbering desires. God of All, she intrigued him.

Tonight she’d made him crave, with the sway of her curvy hips, her crimson smile, and her chocolate eyes blazing with a fire.

Ionie charred his soul.

He leaned close, inhaling her special scent deep into his lungs. She defied his experience. Hadn’t he spent centuries ignoring his base human genetics? An assassin didn’t need emotions clouding his judgment. A killer tapped his most primal self, relying on an emotionless state to complete his mission. A conscience didn’t make pulling the trigger easier.
Emotions got you dead
.

Ionie stretched then, resting a slender brown arm on the comforter. Jarrid reached over to tuck the bare limb under the blanket. His hand slipped under hers and she closed her fingers around three of his digits. The sensation jolted him, the warmth of her palm melting his resistance. He leaned closer, his nose nudging the thick strands of hair curled at her ear.

“I vow to the God of All to fix this. My daggers will carve your name into the vamp who attacked you. My bullets will rust his veins. Long before he dies, he won’t forget the nephilim who watches over you.”

He pressed a solemn kiss against her hair. Conscious not to wake her, he called on his power. A cold pulse drifted into Ionie. He spied her soul,
blazing like a star
.
It soared and retracted, humming with life. Ionie was beauty, inside and out. His Grace pulsed in time to her dancing spirit, and for a moment, they joined like no other beings could.

Satisfied she would rest, he pulled his power back.

Too intimate, too raw
. The final strands of his Grace retreated.

Then Jarrid’s body stiffened.

Something tugged at the cosmic trail, wrapping around his soul with fiery determination. He gripped the mattress, shaken by a sudden burst of pain.

He forced a second pulse of Grace into the void, erecting a wall to sever the connection with Ionie’s soul.

What the fuck was that?

Ionie dreamed of a cool light skimming over her skin, caressing her, waiting for her to respond. It hummed, swarming and nudging her like a curious child. She sensed recognition in the brilliance, familiar as an old friend. She reached out, but the pulsing flickered.

A dim light challenged the first, shoving her away.

No!
The lights collided, the flash blinding her the moment they tangled in a whirlwind of shimmering energy.

“No!” Ionie’s body shot up from the bed.

“Be still.”

Jarrid’s voice
.

“You’re safe.”

Ionie opened her sleep-heavy lids and tried to make sense of her surroundings. She focused on the crumpled sheets across her waist and legs, and then the edge of the mattress dipping under Jarrid’s weight.
A bedroom?
A desk and chair sat in a corner. Books crammed on shelves nearby.
Not Cain’s
.

“Where am I?” she asked, regretting the question. Her throat ached, raw and sore. She swallowed past the discomfort.

“My room,” Jarrid said. “I can move you somewhere else.”

“No, it’s fine.” God, her head hurt. “Why am I here?”

“Tell me what you remember.”

Her fingers snagged on a clump of matted curls on her cheek and she frowned.

Two hours to get the damn things to obey
. She blew a decimated strand from her nose.
What do I remember?
Getting ready for her date. JP insisted she dress to kill.
Nephilim bait
.

Her cheeks warmed. “I met you at The Church. We danced.”

He dropped his sterling gaze to her shoulders. A slow movement, as if he meant to memorize every inch of her skin. A tremor rolled up her back.
Oh, yes.
She remembered dancing. Jarrid had devoured her come-hither moves, his intent stare missing nothing she’d offered.

“What else?” he asked. His rough voice sounded as sexy as ever.

She rubbed her forehead. She’d been hot — too hot — despite her meager dress. Her body had burned for Jarrid to touch her, just once, anywhere he pleased. Her hormones had reacted like a heat-seeking missile, bent on blowing through his armor so she could get to the man beneath.

She’d decided to slow down, afraid of scaring him off. Left Jarrid to powder her nose then she ran into … .

“A vampire!” Ionie clutched her neck. The rest of the evening rushed to the surface.

A vamp had followed her. Pressed her against a wall. Groped her legs with clawed hands.
Oh God!

He’d kissed her.

She bolted from the bed before Jarrid could reach for her. Panic blindsided her and she stumbled into a wall.

The vamp had dragged her to the alley.

Oh, God! Sweet Jesus!

Strong arms scooped her up and carried her into an enormous bathroom. Jarrid placed her before the sink. The image of the vampire’s hand tugging at her dress formed in her mind. Ionie vomited.

Heavy fingers cupped her hair, keeping it from falling into the mess. Dry heaves shook her, but Jarrid’s callused fingers rubbed the nape of her neck. She rinsed her mouth when she’d finished, certain she’d purged everything — including her spleen.

A light tap on her shoulder made her turn her head. An unopened toothbrush lay next to her hand. She almost cried at Jarrid’s thoughtfulness and managed a weak nod.

After cleaning her mouth, Ionie studied her reflection. She touched her neck, seeking proof of the vampire’s bite. Her skin was clear. Relief settled over her.

“He fed,” Jarrid said, dashing her calm.

“Saul.” Tears stung her eyes. “He said his name was Saul.”

A growl rose from the nephilim’s chest, his reflection warping as rage shook him. Ionie spun to face her protector. If looks could kill, Jarrid was Death’s first cousin.

Her brain cranked out bulletins of warning.

She should be terrified. She should run. She should call for help.

Yet no shrill alarms rang out.

While Jarrid warred with his anger, the oddest thought calmed her.

He’s not a threat to me
. She drank in the sight of his powerful muscles. He could crush her with his thumb.
But he wouldn’t.
This giant had a gentle side. He’d shown it only moments ago with his attentive handling.