Angel Bait (Angel Assassins #1) (6 page)

He slammed a vice onto his rebellious thoughts. Sex and a meal couldn’t trump his true desire. He had a deal with the angel and goals of his own.

Razor’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “You want a piece. I can see it in your eyes. We can share.”

“What are you offering?” Saul emerged from his hiding place.

“I get to do her first.” Razor thrust his thigh between the woman’s legs then passed a lecher’s eye over him. “I’ll do you, too, if you want to make this interesting.”

The woman shrank away. Saul ignored her to smooth his gloveless hand down Razor’s back.

The thug closed his eyes. “Ah yeah. Let’s do this.”

Saul thrust his arm forward, smashing through Razor’s back with his clawed fingers. Razor coughed and a black blood mist punctured the air. Droplets showered the woman’s pale, upturned face. The mist settled onto her flawless skin like a stain.

“I’ll be having a talk with my recruiter,” Saul said. “Dregs like you are unacceptable.”

Razor’s plump hand fumbled to the spot below his ribcage. He gawked when his fingers slid into the hole that hadn’t been there a minute ago. He sputtered.

Veronica fainted. Saul caught her slight weight in his arms and dragged her away. Razor’s body crumpled to the ground, the lifeless eyes tracking nothing.

“You have brothers?”

Jarrid needed air. Open space. A target he could shoot. Ionie’s dark beauty was distracting, and that never happened to him. Ever. Human women were trouble, as a legion of angels once discovered. Yet something about this one filled him with curiosity. Open minded, intelligent, and feisty. All good traits. She wouldn’t be forced to do a damn thing she didn’t want to do.

Then there was the burst of arousal he’d scented a moment ago. She was attracted to him. Her unique spice struck him like a kick to the chest. She smelled like a banquet of delicacies to a starving man. Ripe fruit, sweet juices, warm, soft … .

A swift heat suffused his body, surprising him. Jarrid took a cautious step away from Ionie, expecting a delayed return of the Act of Contrition. He saw the hurt on her face, and for a second, he wanted to hold her against him and replace her doubts with his lips.

What. The. Fuck?

“Jarrid?”

“I’ll introduce you to the Order.” His words were forced, like they’d been sucked from his voice box with a plunger.

Outside. Now.

He burst out the front doors and jogged across the parking lot to his truck before Ionie could ask any more questions. He climbed in and watched her struggle to haul herself into the front seat.

“You may be big, but little people like me could use a ladder,” she said. “Or a gentle shove.”

She smiled then, with a twinkle of mirth in her eyes to match the twitch of her mouth. Why couldn’t he stop staring at her lips? Jarrid lowered his eyes. He was losing his mind.

“Boy, you have to lighten up,” she said, huffing out a breath. “I have a sense of humor and enjoy a good laugh. You’re too serious.”

“I’m in a serious line of work.”

Ionie secured her seatbelt. “What exactly does a nephilim do for Heaven? Are you guys the celestial Marines, or something?”

Jarrid considered his reply. He had his bait and now he needed to keep her mind focused anywhere but on those dead bodies. Cain had said to give her what she wanted. In a reporter’s case, what she wanted was information. A little couldn’t hurt, right?

“We’re a type of Special Forces.”

“You do stuff like the Navy S.E.A.L.S or Green Beret?”

He struggled not to smile. Her curiosity was kind of cute. He left the question unanswered, hoping to make her eager to learn more. He was right. A second passed before she tried again.

“Do you have any sisters?”

“What?”

“Sisters,” she said. “Female nephilim related to you. Are there any girls in the Eternal Order?”

“No.”

“No, there aren’t any women on the team, or no you don’t have a sister?”

Jarrid darted a glance at Ionie. Secured in her seat, she twisted to the side to face him. The notepad in her hands contained several scribbled passages.

“Is this an interview?” Somehow the notion disappointed him.

She stared at her notepad and then back at him. “Does this bother you?”

She was doing her job. He could get behind that. “No, there are no females among the nephilim. The Order is male.”

“How do nephilim, um … ” Her voice dropped off.

“Speak plainly.”

Why do people always drag shit out?

She sat up straight as if she bolstered the courage to follow his request. “Where do baby nephilim come from if there are no females among your kind? Plain enough for you?”

Jarrid liked her grit. He didn’t like her question though. “Nephilim are no longer born.”

“What? Impossible,” she said. “Everybody comes from somewhere. I had a mom and dad before she died and he split. You had to have parents too.”

He clenched his jaw and tried to control the memory flood her words unleashed. He failed. His father, a Watcher sent to observe humans, foolishly fell in love with one. Jarrid’s birth brought pain to them both, and their deaths were his fault.

“When an angel screws a human and produces an abomination, the child is nephilim.” He almost gagged on his own bitter words. “Such couplings were outlawed centuries ago. There are no children, no women, no parents, among the nephilim.”

“My God,” Ionie said. He risked a look at her. A fan of lashes tempered the moisture threatening to spill from her eyes. “I’m sorry, Jarrid. I didn’t know.”

Holy hell. Did she feel sympathy — for him? “Why does it bother you?”

“What a lonely way to grow up,” she said. “Did you know your parents?”

He let her words linger. This time he didn’t feed her hunger for knowledge. He had no intention of dredging up those particular memories again. They would remain buried, never to surface while he lived. He revved the truck and sped up a more welcome road. In the distance, he spied the solace of Belle Isle.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. He wanted this assignment over.

• • •

Ionie stood on her toes outside a massive warehouse, straining to see past the imposing black-iron gate. “Where are we?”

She knew they were on Belle Isle, but the small tract of land was private property. Nothing was welcoming about this place and a heavy chain barred her way. As sunlight slid beneath the horizon, no streetlights flickered on to brighten the landscape.

“Jarrid?” Ionie said. The half-angel closed the truck door.

“This way.”

Ionie stared at his retreating back and hesitated to follow. He headed to one side of the multi-story warehouse. Not wanting to stay outside alone, she hurried to catch up, tripping over the shoot of weeds growing through the pavement cracks. She tipped her head back and noticed two security cameras. Jarrid waited while someone inside the not-so-deserted structure let them pass.

“Stay close to me. Don’t speak unless spoken to.”

She rolled her eyes at his gruff order. Too bad he didn’t have a sense of humor. She liked that in a guy. That and a butt that filled out a pair of jeans. She peeked at his backside. Jarrid’s body was the kind romance novels went on and on about. Mountains of muscle. Valleys of flawless skin. A package worth unwrapping. A butt a girl could grab hold of and chip a nail. Warmth flooded her body and swelled in a damp ache between her legs.

Come on! Not again!

She saw his body stiffen in front of her. He craned his head to the side and inhaled. Ionie stopped, mortified.

Oh, tell me he can’t.

A deep rumble punched from his throat, and her momentary embarrassment shattered when he glanced at her.

Look away. Look away. Look away
. Her mutinous body overthrew her common sense. Her gaze shot to Jarrid’s face and all she could do was gasp.

Pure silver, like moonbeams stolen from the sky, drilled into her. Jarrid’s nostrils flared as if scenting prey. Ionie’s brain dissolved into gelatin under the scrutiny. His gaze held her and a wave of God knows what hit her like a cold caress. A moan slipped through her opened lips. She should be freezing. She should be scared stupid by the invisible force roving over her skin in teasing licks, but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t do a damned thing.

“Is there a part of me you’d like to see up close?” Jarrid’s face was miles away from calm. His lips seemed too full, too ready to kiss away the scant oxygen remaining in her lungs. She swallowed the tennis ball of need lodged in her throat and tried to rein in her traitorous libido.

“Where are we?” she asked, hoping the subject change didn’t come off as forced as it sounded to her.

Jarrid only watched, his keen eyes seeming to see more than he should. She squirmed in spite of herself. The corner of his mouth quirked up in the facsimile of a smile before the expression disappeared behind a new mask.

“Follow me, and remember what I told you.”

The gate opened to admit them and he turned away. Ionie shook her muddled brain clear. She’d never felt so unnerved, or so aroused. She followed him. The second door looked too new to be part of the original structure. It was a deep gray, closer to black, with an indentation the size of Bigfoot’s hand embedded in it. Jarrid placed his right palm onto the spot, and a faint light glowed beneath it.

Ionie’s curiosity assailed her. “What is that? Does it read handprints? Seems a little too James Bond for a place like this. Does it scan DNA, or is it … ”

Jarrid removed his hand, threw back his head, and mumbled something to the ceiling. If he prayed for her to shut up, she hoped God laughed at him. “You’ll ask no more questions. You’ll never reveal anything you see or hear tonight in a future article. If you wish to have a future.”

His rough words sunk in, dousing her arousal in frigid water. She glanced at the large door and schooled her features into a mask of her own.

“I don’t scare easy. Stop trying to frighten me.”

“I’m not trying,” he said, leaning forward until his nose was inches from hers. The bastard sniffed her, like a curious canine. “You smell nervous, among other things.”

Ionie reeled back on her heels. Only pride and hours on her elliptical kept her from passing out from shock. Blood rushed to super-heat her cheeks.

“Shall we continue inside?” Jarrid pressed his hand into the grooved receptacle and the quiet space filled with the metallic hiss of a latch releasing. He stepped through the door. Ionie exhaled and followed.

The place was immense, with walls and ceilings of exposed brick and steel girders. She craned her neck to see skylights covered by a thick tint. The smoky color dimmed the room in degrees, dispelling some of the natural light.

Ionie admired the interior structure. “Beautiful.”

“You approve?” he asked.

Silly question. The place was an
Architectural Digest
wet dream. The warehouse was a rough beauty honed into something unique. She followed Jarrid down a hallway big enough to drive semis through and at the same time she scribbled notes for several articles she could write to capture the majesty of the forgotten building. A photo spread would make page one.

“How long has the Order lived here?” she asked, her gaze still roaming over the sealed concrete floors, rich red bricks, and yawning archways leading to other rooms.

“Tanis helped construct the main building in 1923. Ask him about it.”

Ionie tripped over her feet. “What? That was 89-years ago. He’s still alive?”

Jarrid didn’t reply. He turned left, under one of the archways she’d spotted earlier.

“This Tanis is alive and really old then,” she said. “I’d love to interview him, if he can remember anything about building this place.”

Jarrid turned to regard her. She recognized a hint of mischief in his expression. “I would enjoy hearing you ask if his memory is sound in his old age.”

Maybe telling an old man she thought he was senile wasn’t the best icebreaker. Plus, she didn’t like Jarrid’s teasing tone. When she met Tanis, she’d lay off the memory thing. Just in case.

He stopped outside a thick oak door. “Remember what I’ve told you.” He walked inside.

Whatever she’d expected didn’t come close to what the room held; a library that eclipsed any wing of the Detroit Public Library. Every wall held floor-to-ceiling shelves housing what looked like thousands of hardcover books. She inhaled the scent of old leather, it was calming and filled with warmth. She forgot about Jarrid and stopped on a soft rug in the center of the library and turned in a slow circle, the journalist in her doing backflips. Reporters loved research, and they loved books. Libraries were her first love.

“I’ve died and gone to Heaven,” she said. Her fingers itched to pull a book from the shelf.

“Doubt you’d find this stuff there,” Jarrid said, studying her. She didn’t care.

“Then Heaven doesn’t know what it’s missing. When I was a kid, Grams and I went to the library every Saturday afternoon. The place was magic.”

Her happiness nosedived. Her grandmother took her to the library to forget, for a while, the fact she no longer had parents. “My mom died when I was a kid.” She circled her finger over the cover of a book on the room’s only desk. “Got caught in a drive-by. Grams said reading would help me find places I could visit with my mother. My own little worlds where we could be together forever.”

“Did it work?”

Her eyes watered and her lips trembled.

No
.

She’d lost her mother and no matter how hard she tried, none of the worlds she conjured took away the pain for long. “People die, Jarrid. They don’t come back, no matter how hard you want them to.”

She smothered a sniffle. No use trying to explain a child’s longing to a man who didn’t have parents. “Where is everybody?”

“Nearby.”

“Could you be any more cryptic?”

“Yes.”

So far, finding an angel kind of sucked. Jarrid wasn’t close to the white-winged harp players she’d envisioned.

“Why did they send you on this assignment? I can tell you’re not a people person.”