Angel Bait (Angel Assassins #1) (2 page)

The Act of Contrition.
What a bitch
.

The damned Act tunneled through Jarrid’s system, lighting him up with angry, pain-filled streams of energy. He ground his teeth until his jaw popped.

He gripped the bricks in front of him. His stomach churned as the smell of urine and who knew what the fuck else invaded his nose. Riding out another ember wave, he sent a flurry of curses to the asshole inventors of this little pick-me-up. Only angels could have devised such a shit-storm of payback every time a nephilim used his grace. He knew the Act of Contrition was a literal penance, one he and his brothers suffered. Heaven had spared their lives as children. This was their ransom.

Jarrid focused and looked up, past the building, to the cloudy night sky. Heaven wasn’t up there, despite the beliefs of religious zealots. Above him was open space, but he couldn’t unfurl wings and soar across the Motor City. Only angels had wings. Half-breeds like him were grounded.

Damn them
. Sweat traveled a cool path down his neck. It didn’t matter if he used his powers to do his job for his superiors. It never had.

His earpiece crackled. “Need extraction?”

No, I need a new fucking digestive system
. Careful to keep his voice level, Jarrid raised one trembling hand and tapped the receiver. “Send the cleaning crew. I’m coming in.”

“Cleaners en route. Arrive alive.”

The earpiece hissed once and went quiet.
Arrive alive. No doubt about it
. The elf hadn’t been a fighter. Nothing about this mission was worthy of an assassin with his experience.

Eventually, the burning dissipated and he pushed off the wall. The toe of his boot clipped YuL’s leg and Jarrid looked down. The laxness of the body gave the appearance of sleep, except for the lime-green blood oozing from the single stab wound. The elf had broken a deal with the wrong fly boys and would end up in an incinerator.

Fucking angels
.

Jarrid raised his head and stared at the sky. As he made his way out of the alley, cool air caught his loose hair and blew it around his shoulders. He jumped in his truck and peeled away from the wretched stench of the alley and past the boarded up remains of Dee’s Chicken Shack to reach the welcomed stretch of Woodward Avenue.

He lowered the window and floored the accelerator. The truck shot down the road like a dark-blue comet, clean air flooding the interior. Streetlights blurred. He maneuvered around the few speed-conscious drivers in his path without slowing his momentum.

• • •

“Just in time,” Cain called out.

“Did I miss curfew?” Jarrid exited the truck. He drew the clean air rolling off the Detroit River deep into his lungs.

An easy smile spread across his brother’s face. Cain leaned against a wrought iron railing. “Tanis called a meeting.”

Jarrid rolled his eyes. “Of course he did. When?”

His brother’s smile widened.

Right. That would be now.

“Fuck.” Jarrid strode toward the side access door, trying not to breathe in through his nose. “I smell like piss and blood. I want a shower, then food.”

A sharp whistle split the air, and he turned to catch the plastic-wrapped sandwich Cain threw at him.

“Your stomach keeps bitchin’ like that and you’ll wake the neighbors.” His brother walked over. “Besides, you always smell like shit to me.”

Hunger and an eternity of friendship warred with an acute desire to shove the sandwich down Cain’s blowhole. He settled for showing off his middle finger.

His brother frowned. “Is that any way to treat the guy who braved Nesty’s wrath to bring you sustenance?” Cain clutched his chest and gave a melodramatic sniffle. “You wound me.”

Jarrid bowed his head and laughed. “Man, you missed your calling.”

“Tony-award winning actor beloved by millions of swooning females between the ages of six and ninety?”

“No.” He sniffed at the sandwich. Damn cellophane. “Pain in the ass feather duster with a touch of gay.”

Cain’s expression crumpled.

Jarrid laughed and stalked away. His brother’s heavy boots echoed behind him, but he didn’t slow down. He ripped open the plastic-wrapped sub and devoured the meal before he reached the second door.

“Did you get any good intel?” Cain reached over and opened the door.

“Not much, but sounds like a Renegade’s taking a vacation in Michigan.”

Cain whistled low. “Tanis will want in on this one.”

“Taking down Renegades is directive number one. You know he’s supposed to push paper in his office and let us do Heaven’s dirty work.”

Cain arched his brow. “You want to tell our fearless leader he can’t tag along?”

He looked at Cain. The obsessive crap between Tanis and the Renegades was personal. One of the assholes must have tangled with the angel at some point and done serious damage. Hell, that must have been some fight since Tanis’ wings ended up …
FUBAR.

The airy corridor was raw, its exposed brick walls and steel support beams channeling him towards the main building. Above their heads, wire cages trapped bald light bulbs in the ceiling every fifteen feet. The synchronized echo of their boots on the concrete floors announced their arrival. Jarrid opened the last door and they entered the heart of the Stronghold.

A forgotten relic of Detroit’s automotive past, the Stronghold was a circa 1915 assembly complex of three interconnecting buildings. Six hundred and fifty thousand square feet of privacy for the Eternal Order to handle its business. The core of the structure housed living quarters that would make loft lovers envious. From a floor-to-ceiling movie screen with a custom sound system to top-of-the-line gaming computers.

Jarrid paused at the entertainment room and loosened his coat.

“You want a drink?” Cain headed toward the bar.

He waved him off. “Nah, I’m good. Time to debrief.”

Jarrid and Cain moved up the staircase, entered the study, and found Tanis working on his computer.

Better not be new assignments.

Tanis didn’t look up. “The Directorate sent two assignments — a standard reconnaissance mission down in Hamtramck and a link to a story in
The Detroit News
.”

Jarrid groaned and peered at the screen. The browser opened and he read the headline.

Body Found In River Rouge
.

“I’ve read the latest crime story twice already,” Tanis said. “A church group setting up their annual picnic discovered the body. Nothing like a little decomposed flesh to bring out the Lord.”

The cursor paused over one sentence.

“The unidentified woman is the third victim to suffer severe burns, but the coroner has declined to speculate to the cause.”

Jarrid frowned. “Three dead women with burns?” Before he received a reply, the door opened and in walked the rest of the team.

Nestaron slipped in first, his rust-colored hair pulled back. He sat in an armchair and hooked his long arms over the low back, and then offered a nod and waited.

In contrast, Kasdeja waltzed in like he expected applause. His inky-black hair settled around his face. He gave a cocky wink, which Jarrid ignored. Kas smoothed his hand down his tie-dyed shirt, the latest in a blinding collection of “old school” fashion he believed would make a comeback.

Tanis rolled his eyes and mumbled, “God of All, don’t let the 60’s return.”

Cain leaned against a bookcase, his blond mane framing his tanned face.

“What did you find out?” Tanis asked.

Jarrid crossed his arms. “A Renegade is in the city.”

No one moved, but he sensed the tense wave pulsing through the room.

“No name given,” he continued. “He’s searching for someone and he’s hired vamps for the job.”

A hiss rose from the team, but Jarrid didn’t join in. He scrutinized Tanis. Any outlaw was a priority, but one among the old Watchers held a special place with his mentor. The one man he wanted to take down the hardest: Beleth, a former general in Heaven’s army.

“You got a hunch, bro?” Kas asked. Tanis looked up, straight into Jarrid’s face.

“My target didn’t give up much. He overheard a conversation between some recently employed blood drinkers. The only unusual part is about a woman.”

Nestaron leaned forward in his chair. “Race?”

“No description, but the vamps dropped something about the paper.” Jarrid rubbed his lower jaw. “If we take that literally, we’re looking at a clue they’ve planted or one they expect will lead to the woman.”

Tanis glanced at his laptop. “The stories were compiled by staff and wire reports. The reporter isn’t named.”

“I’ll start at the newspaper and find out who was assigned to this column,” Jarrid said.

Tanis nodded. “If it’s a woman, bring her in. This is a stab in the dark, but we don’t have much to go on. You’ll need a solid cover story. The reporter could own a bullshit detector.”

“I’ll start with the boss, work my way in that way,” Jarrid replied. “Boss tells reporter to help me. Bingo. If not, I always have a Plan B.”

“Do whatever it takes. Cain, Nesty, and Kas will split the magazines. For now, tag any woman who might catch a Renegade’s eye.”

Meeting over, his brothers left the study, but Jarrid stayed behind. Tanis stood stiffly and walked to the front of the desk. His twisted, burnt wings hung useless at his back.

“I’ll update the Directorate,” Tanis said.

“Leave out the lead.” Jarrid looked fixedly at him. “Let me confirm the intel first, and then we’ll discuss what additional info to pass along.”

“Why?”

“We haven’t landed a Renegade job in two hundred years,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “And the dicks upstairs will assign this one to some ass-kissing angel soldier like they did all the other leads we’ve sent in the past. If this outlaw is in Detroit, I want him.”

Tanis folded his arms. “The Order wasn’t created for your personal vendettas.”

“Look who’s talking.” Jarrid snorted. “Man, you have it bad for these dudes, and that’s gospel. We get it. All I want is a clear shot at this one, for all of us.”

“Why does it matter if
you
get the shot?”

“I’m the best tracker on the team. I’ll find the woman and then use her to find the Renegade. When I take the asshole down, our
superiors
will be forced to recognize the entire Order.” Jarrid leaned in close and lowered his voice. “For all the shit we’ve endured. All the sacrifices we’ve made because we’re half-breeds … I want them to acknowledge what you’ve known for centuries. We
are
worthy of Heaven.”

Tanis inhaled sharply.

Jarrid watched his mentor’s surprised expression as the words sank in.

“Ascension,” Jarrid said. “I want them to remove the hold on our Grace.”

Ionie scowled at the wall clock, convinced it had ripped her off.
Four in the freakin’ morning.

Her shift at the paper had ended five short hours ago. Still her eyes ached and her body felt as heavy as a sack of rocks. She buried her face in the couch cushion and groaned.

Maybe she should reschedule her meeting with Oren?

Damn, I can’t.
The skittish vamp would bolt, and she’d be stuck with the four bags of O-positive she’d agreed to pay him. She couldn’t afford to waste money.

Twenty-eight minutes later, she stood outside her duplex. The newsstand where she’d arranged to meet Oren was a short cab ride away. Thanks to her piece of shit Passat dying on her, the cab was the quickest option. Yet another dent to her sorry ass bank account. She nibbled her lip.

Should she call Grams to ask for a small loan?

Beg my grandma for part of her Social Security check? God, I’m not that hard up, am I?

“Eight Mile and Woodward,” she told the cabbie.

His green skin caught her attention. She studied his picture on the city permit tacked to the cabin’s safety glass. “When did Leshii start driving cabs?”

“Ever since you humans left the fields for concrete jungles.” The driver peered at her in his rearview.

“Guess everyone has to make a living somehow, huh?”

The shapeshifter shrugged. “I’d prefer being worshipped like a forest god, but betters can’t be choosers.”

“I think you mean beggars.”

“Nah, I had it right.” The cabbie winked.

Ionie’s lips twitched. Her resistance failed and a chuckle slipped out.

“What you doing out so late?” His casual tone soothed her frazzled nerves. Not a bad trait for a cabbie.

She scanned the permit again and found his name. “This is early, Mason Acker. To answer your question, I have a hot date with a vamp I don’t want to miss.”

Mason gave an exaggerated shudder and glanced at her reflection. “Bloodsuckers are bad news, lady. You sure you wanna be dating one?”

She flipped her leather identification case open and pressed it against the Plexiglas. Mason stared from the rearview mirror. “Well, shit on me. You a TV reporter?”

“No, general assignment slave at
The News
.” She slid the badge into her pocket. “I eat vamps for dinner.”

“Better than the other way around,” Mason said, shaking his head. He waved a hand at the street ahead. “This it?”

Too bad the pleasant ride was over. Mason was chatty, which couldn’t be said for the rest of his forest-god brethren.

“Thanks.” Ionie glanced at the fare and paid with a meager tip.

“Hey, Lois Lane, you want me to hang around? In case blood boy gets any ideas?” Mason turned in his seat to retrieve her money from the change holder. With short-cropped gray hair, he looked around fifty.

Ionie offered him a serene smile. His race wasn’t all about hugging trees and chanting for rain. Leshii had been known to drain the life force out of a few misinformed people. She hunched next to the window. “He won’t even eye me funny, unless he wants to suck on a Taser.”

• • •

The newsstand was visible from the busy intersection. Oren wouldn’t pull anything stupid, but then again vampires leaned toward the unpredictable.

She shivered in the damp morning air. A clunker rumbled down the street, its exhaust spewing smoke. She buttoned her jacket up to her neck, and tucked her nose into the collar to avoid the pollutants.