Avenger's Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels (16 page)

Read Avenger's Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels Online

Authors: Heather Killough-Walden

A few of them snapped photos of him now as well.
Christopher Daniels!
Uriel bent over his archess and scooped her up into his arms. She was so light—it was as if her power had literally drained her of substance. He whispered to her, trying to console her slight form, and as he did, he felt hot tears stinging his eyes. In a show of righteous anger that he had no ability to control, Uriel turned to face the onlookers once more.
His emerald eyes were glowing bright with the wrath coursing through him. His teeth bared, he straightened to his full height and bellowed into the crowd, “Get
back
!” His order was unnaturally loud, carrying over the din of confusion and amazement that the intersection had become.
In the next instant, and out of a clear blue sky, lightning struck a parked vehicle in the black lot on one corner of the intersection. Thunder pierced the sky, drawing shrieks of surprise from half of the people in the streets. Others ducked, shielding their heads protectively as another bolt hit the top of a building, eliciting a second peal of thunder that rocked the earth beneath their feet and bellowed in human eardrums.
The crowd began scrambling back away from Uriel, whose eyes were lit with an eerie and unnatural fire. On the sidewalk across from him, a limousine pulled up and skidded to a loud halt. But the sound of its tires squealing against the pavement was drowned out when another bolt of lightning struck down and the people scattered in fear.
Uriel rushed toward the car with Eleanore in his arms and the door was opened for him before he reached it. He ducked into the back and Max stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Uriel laid Eleanore out on one of the seats and turned his burning gaze on his guardian. “Deal with them,” he growled.
Max Gillihan swallowed and nodded. He had never seen Uriel like this. And the errant lightning was a new thing; Uriel could not normally control the weather. It was all disconcerting, but Max had little time to think on it. Human minds needed to be cleansed of their recent memories. Cell phones and cameras needed to be wiped. Conversations had to be traced and dealt with.
That was part of his job.
So Max slammed the car door shut and nodded to the limo driver, who pulled away without further ado, leaving the guardian to his arduous task.
 
The sun coming up over the lake in Chicago never failed to take Samael’s breath away.
It was something he never would have known, nor would have been able to appreciate, from where he used to reside, in a place where the sun never set to begin with.
But without night, there could be no day. And it took a human existence to understand such a thing. Samael knew that this was why the Old Man would never fully be capable of empathizing with the people who lived and breathed on his planet. He was too far removed from them; his hands were too clean, dusted off with finality long, long ago.
Now, from the sixty-sixth floor of the Willis building, which most people still called the Sears Tower out of habit and a grudging respect, Samael could believe that he had made the right choice. Right here, right now, with those pink-purple-orange reflections gleaming off of the water and the blood-sweat-and-tears creations of man—it was easy.
Samael took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He closed his eyes as the first beam of light hit his window, warming it from the outside. He placed his palms against the glass and absorbed the heat, needing it as much as did the human world down below.
“My lord?”
Slowly, and with quiet, slightly irritated deliberation, Samael lowered his hands and turned around. He and his “staff” were alone on their floor today. Otherwise, Jason would not have addressed him in such a manner.
“What is it?”
“You’ll want to see this, sir.” The handsome young man held a folder in his hand. It looked a lot like the manila folder that had held Eleanore Granger’s personal information. Jason strode forward and held it out for his master.
Samael took it and opened it to the first page. He was met with the photograph of a young woman gazing at him with hazel eyes that nearly glowed in a tanned, smiling face.
“This photograph was taken in Brisbane, Australia, two days ago,” Jason told him as Samael absorbed the woman’s beauty, his fingertips tracing over the rich brown curls that cascaded to her shoulders and behind her back. “One of Darion’s men snapped it, my lord—after watching the woman heal an injured surfer.”
Samael’s head snapped up, his charcoal-gray eyes darkening. “Did anyone else see this?”
“No, sir.” Jason shook his head once. “Darion was not in his human form and the surfer was unconscious. She pulled him out of the water, tended to him, and ran from the scene. Darion and one of his men followed her throughout the remainder of the day until they took this photograph that night, as she was dining with friends.”
Samael thought this over. His dark eyes were glittering with untold machinations. He looked back down at the pages in his hand, reading her name. “Juliette Anderson,” he whispered.
The second archess. Like Eleanore, she, too, was strikingly beautiful. They were nearly as different as night and day in hair color and complexion. But there was a likeness to them as well. It was incredibly subtle, whatever it was; he couldn’t quite give name to it.
“I wonder,” he said then, running his hand over her photograph once more, “who
she
belongs to.”
 
It was with a slow and highly unsettled uncertainty that Eleanore came rising back into consciousness. Her eyelids were heavy, but there was light behind them. Not a blue light or a muted light, as one would find in a hospital room or under fluorescents. This was sunlight.
That’s a good sign,
she thought meekly.
She concentrated on listening then. She expected to hear buzzing sounds, like the flickering of halogen bulbs. She expected the jingling of keys on chains or the melodic, muted tones of people pressing the buttons on code keypads. But there was none of this. Instead, there was the gentle crackling and popping of a fire in a hearth. And there was warmth.
And the feeling that she was being watched.
Eleanore turned her head and opened her eyes. Her vision was blurry, but through it, she saw the fuzzy outline of a face and body beside the bed. It leaned forward and a lock of her hair was gently brushed from her forehead.
“Take it easy,” he said. “You’re safe here, Ellie. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” The figure moved back again and she heard the creaking of a wooden chair beneath him. She recognized his voice this time when he added, “Rest as long as you need to.” He sighed and she saw him run a hand through dark brown hair. “God knows you’ve earned it.”
Though she couldn’t see it clearly, she knew that his brown hair was thick and a little too long to be conventional. And she also knew that his eyes were green; the kind of ultra light green that was next to impossible to get without contacts.
And if she hadn’t felt as if she had been run over by a Mack truck, she would have sat up in that bed right then and there and decked him.
“You asshole . . .” she whispered, her voice a hoarse scratching of what it had been earlier that morning. She swallowed, blinked, and forced herself to go on. “You had no right . . . selfish . . . spoiled . . . überbrat . . .” She breathed the last part, the effort utterly and completely wearing her out.
Christopher Daniels was still beside the bed. She blinked a few times as his figure came increasingly into focus. She wondered what he was thinking.
His beautiful form sharpened and cleared just as he threw back his head and laughed heartily, deep and full, the sound like a salve on Eleanore’s body and soul. It soothed away her fear and somehow smoothed over the rougher parts of her indignant fury.
She frowned, watching him, bewildered by the fact that she was so fascinated with the sound of his voice and the warmth that his nearness afforded her.
Finally, he straightened, lowering his head, his smile lighting up his face the way it did on the silver screen. But
this
smile was just for her. And his green eyes sparkled with emotion that was not faked; he wasn’t acting now.
“You’re absolutely right, Ellie. I should not have done what I did.” He seemed to ponder something for a moment, silent and contemplative. Then he asked softly, “Will you consider forgiving me?”
Eleanore licked her lips and whispered, “Too tired to forgive you.”
“I think I can do something about that,” he said then, and stood. She watched as he moved away from the bed and two other men stepped forward. She blinked and frowned.
They were extremely handsome, both of them. One had black hair and gray-silver eyes and looked as though he spent a lot of time outdoors; he was tan and scruffy and had a five-o’clock shadow. The dark tone of his skin caused his eyes to stand out with such severe intensity, they seemed to almost glow in the handsome frame of his face.
The other man had wavy blond hair and very, very blue eyes. They looked like light, clear sapphires as they gazed down at her.
Two more men with impossible eye color. Goose bumps rose on her flesh and she was helpless to stop the flush of a blush that warmed her neck and cheeks. She wanted to shake her head at the circumstances; they were just too improbable. But she was too weak. What the hell
was
this, anyway? These kinds of men didn’t really exist. Was this some kind of gorgeous actor convention? Was Richard Armitage in here somewhere, too?
“Eleanore, my name is Michael,” the blond man explained softly as he took Christopher’s seat and leaned forward.
Tall, dark, and handsome stood beside him and nodded a greeting. “I’m Gabriel,” he said, watching her closely. He had the slightest Scottish brogue that curled the edges of his words with an ancient sort of elegance.
Very gently, the blond one placed his hand on Eleanore’s exposed arm. For some reason, though he was a complete stranger, she didn’t want to pull away. His touch didn’t frighten her. It was warm and comforting and as inexplicable as it seemed, Eleanore
trusted
him.
“This is going to be hard for you to accept at first, but you aren’t the only one in the world who possesses the ability to heal others,” he told her. His tone remained calm, his voice even. He spoke slowly and waited for her to process his words. “I can do it as well,” he said, flashing white teeth in a humble smile.
Eleanore didn’t know what to say to that. Obviously, the cat was out of the bag on her abilities. She wondered how much damage had been done. All of those people—all of those cell phones . . . and the little girl and her father. Were they okay? Had it been worth it?
Beside her, Michael closed his eyes and Eleanore felt her arm heat up under his palm. For a half second, she was afraid that it would heat up too much and that she would get burned. But instead of building, the heat spread—up her arm, across her chest, up her neck, and down through her stomach and into her limbs.
She closed her own eyes and exhaled, allowing her head to roll to the side as Michael’s healing magic did its job. She could feel her strength returning to her. It was like being uncovered and lifted from the grave after being buried alive. She had never been on the receiving end of this kind of power. It was wondrous. She almost wanted to get hurt again just so that she could keep feeling it.
Gabriel laughed, and Eleanore vaguely noticed that his chuckle was as charismatic in its deep timbre as Christopher Daniels’s was. “I think the lass is feelin’ a wee bit better.”
“Are you an actor, too?” she found herself asking, as if she were intoxicated and there was no filter for her thoughts.
Gabriel’s eyebrows shot up, his expression at once bemused and disgusted at the insinuation. “No, lass. But speakin’ of actin’,” he said as he turned to shoot Christopher a pointed look.
Michael looked up as well and Eleanore glanced from one to the other, waiting.
Michael nodded. “I think that it’s high time you two had a long talk.” He stood and stepped away from the bed, the muscles in his tall form rippling beneath his jeans and T-shirt just as Christopher’s always did.
Eleanore took it as a cue. She put her arms beneath her and sat up in the bed, at once marveling at how easy it was to move. Only seconds before, she’d been nearly positive her own heart would soon stop beating from sheer exhaustion. Now, however, she felt she could sign up for a marathon and make it at
least
half of the way through. And running wasn’t even her thing.

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