Ashes of Angels (14 page)

“We just got off a plane,” she argued around a yawn.

“And now you're getting back on. It's the safest. The Fallen are stalking Berlin.”

With that announcement all the women began babbling and another started to cry. Zane cast a helpless look to Coco.

“Let me handle this,” she said, and stepped in to embrace the circle of frantic women.

 

Sam had defeated the Fallen with the circle sigil. It had glowed so Cassandra had known the muses were in Berlin. She hoped Coco had gotten them out of the city.

Now Sam, with wings unfurled, stood with his back to her, looking over the destruction. Green ash from the angel's wings glittered amongst the crystal ash from the body. A single jade feather fluttered away on the wind, but she didn't chase after it. That was a trophy she had no desire to keep.

But as for the angel ash…

Sam's wings captured the pale winter moonlight and dazzled her eyes. She wanted to touch them, to discover if they were as solid as silver, or soft and flexible as they appeared. Her sculpture could never have captured the individual filaments in actual angel feathers. They fluttered softly in the breeze, as if they were eiderdown.

Taking a step toward him, she extended her hand to touch.

Sam twisted at the waist, his wings drawing close to his back and thighs. His eyes glowed blue. The sigil glowed on his back; he'd pulled the shirt away during the fight. Blue blood trickled from his hairline.

He tilted his head at her, wonderingly.

As if he'd never seen her before.

I
n the moment their gazes connected, Cassandra's gut clenched. Her mouth went dry. Heartbeats paused. Her breath hushed out in a cloud.

That was not a look of admiration or respect on Sam's face. Dark eyes arrowed onto her like a rifle sight. The Fallen had sighted his muse.

“Oh, hell, no.”

Her boots slipping on the icy snow, she turned to run. Everything Granny Stevens had taught her screamed through her brain. Always keep a weapon on hand. Never approach the Fallen, even if in human form. You are not stronger; you must be smarter.

Regrets that she had ignored intuition and followed something so inane as her heart stabbed relentlessly.

She'd let Granny down.

Flapping wings stirred the air and spun snowflakes about
her head. He pursued closely. Too close. No mortal could outrun an angel.

“No, Sam, this is not you!”

What was she saying? His current form was the real angel, or as close as an earthbound angel could get to being whole again. And that angel had only one goal on this earth—having sex with her. Which should be appealing, but Sam was not in his right mind now; he was being controlled by the compulsion.

A silver wing tip snapped around her waist, stopping her retreat as if a theatrical hook to pull an actor off the stage. Cassandra clutched the wing. It was cold, yet soft like feathers, which seemed impossible were she not touching it. Her boots scrabbled for hold, but she couldn't find purchase on the slick ice.

Another wing curled around her shoulder and brushed her neck. Too malleable, and pulsing with movement, as if another limb strapped with muscle. Also, too alluring for the danger she could not avoid. The wing caressed, warming and entreating her to relax, to succumb. An ethereal scent overwhelmed her senses. So sweet and delicious…

“No,” she cried as she went down, palms slapping the ice. “Not you, it's not you.”

Her body flipped, skidding on the ice. Wings pinned down her shoulders. Sam's face appeared above hers. His grin touched an evil Cassandra had not before seen from him, even when he'd shifted earlier on the rooftop. His intense stare crept over her face, down her lips and chin, leaving a frosty shiver in its wake.

“Please, Sam.” Could she appeal to his inner goodness? Was it possible to touch the man he usually was and bypass the angel's vicious compulsion to own and master her? “Look at me, Sam. Listen to me.”

Hell, she needed…something. No weapon would suffice.

Faith. She needed it now. But was it right to call upon faith out of the blue? She'd denied it up until now. Could it be hers for the asking?

You know it can be
.

Her heart racing, Cassandra said whatever came to mind. “You're too kind for this.”

A wing slipped around her shoulders and lifted her, cradling her head in a nest of silver feathers.

“You don't want this,” she warbled, hating when her voice betrayed her fear.

“Yes, I do,” he growled. Not Sam. His eyes darkened, making it difficult to see different colors; they were growing black. “My precious muse.”

“I'm not Sam's muse,” she said. “I'm his… I'm his bunny! The girl he likes to hold hands with. I'm not yours. You're a monster.”

She cringed. This man was not a monster. A monster was the nephilim. Sam was…struggling against his inner darkness. He had to be.

Please let him see beyond the compulsion
.

A single silver feather pulled away the sweater from her neck and she felt the stroke as if a soft sweep. He smelled like nothing she could name, but like everything she desired. Her lids fluttered.

“Not here, Sam. Think. The Sinistari could arrive any moment.”

Staying focused was becoming more difficult. In his appearance he remained the same, sexy, buff man she desired like no other. She did want him, but… But what?

“Must have you.” He bent and laved his tongue under her neck and jaw. The angelkiss burned, but he pulled away abruptly, eyes widening.

Releasing her, he shuffled away. The rosary tugged about
her neck, forcing Cassandra to swallow.
That
had given him a fright?

No time to wonder over it. She grasped the halo at his hip and slashed her arm across her chest, hoping she'd cut some part of him.

Cold angel blood spattered her face. Wings released her.

Cassandra dragged herself up, and slipping and sliding on the bloody ice, she raced toward the warehouse just ahead. Swiping a hand over her face, she wiped off the blue blood.

Behind her, Sam yowled. She'd left the halo embedded in his shoulder…or neck—she hadn't looked where she'd landed it.

Likely, the shallow wound would only give him pause, but that was all she needed. And hell, if she'd known the rosary would have detoured him, she would have wielded that a lot sooner. But how had it worked against him?

Skidding into the open warehouse doorway, she gave a hoot upon seeing there was an actual door to close. Slamming it shut, she pulled the rusted iron bolt into lock position. The door frame was steel, yet the walls were corrugated tin.

“That will never keep back an angel.”

Searching the darkness, her eyes adjusted to the haze. Gray shadows revealed shapes of stacked pallets and cardboard boxes. Empty wood spools as high as her shoulders may have once wound wire or plastic tubing. Nothing she could drag in front of the door without great effort.

Which meant she had better hide.

Something thumped the door as Cassandra rounded a stack of pallets. He cried her name, and it had never before sounded so mournful. Had he changed back to mortal form? She couldn't take the chance of finding out.

The door flew inside, and she scrambled to get away, but tripped over a wood pallet and sprawled on the floor.

The angel appeared, silhouetted in the doorway—wingless.

Or were his wings stretched out behind him? She couldn't see. The shadows hid his complete form. So she wouldn't take a chance.

Remembering she did have a weapon, Cassandra thrust out her hand and shouted,
“Agothé!”

Dragging herself upright along the slatted wood, she didn't look to see where he had landed. Running outside and along the warehouse wall, she cursed the thick ice coating the ground beneath the soffit, and slapped a hand to the corrugated tin as she went down, scrabbling for purchase, and finally buffeted into a snowbank.

Something landed in the snow above and before her, sifting down flakes that sparkled like diamonds and kissed sharply over her face.

Sam bent and extended his hand. “I'm sorry, Cassandra.”

“Sorry?” She stabbed her fingers into the snow and used it to lever herself up. He was a man now, no wings.
But not really a man. And never can be one without a soul
. “You weren't going to touch me tenderly and shower me with kisses just now.”

“I know, I… It's the compulsion.”

“No bloody shit!” She backed away from him, brushing the snow from her arms and knees. “You should have seen the look in your eyes. It was as if you wanted to eat me. And they got so dark, almost black.”

“Sorry.”

She gaped at his simple apology. It wasn't enough. It could never be enough.

“The fight with the Fallen…it angered me and brought up my wings. I…was out of my mind and thinking only as a Fallen. I'm thankful you were able to get away from me.” He touched the cut on his neck that dashed a blue line through his skin—her handiwork. “Forgive me?”

“Forgive you? You think you know so much about me? You know nothing!”

“I am trying to learn. Teach me, Cassandra. Make me understand you.”

She slapped her shaky arms across her chest and gave him her back. The angel seemed to sense her utter hatred for him at the moment.

But to be truthful with herself, it wasn't hatred. And it wasn't fear. It was her inability to just walk away from the guy. Because she liked him. How crazy was that? Despite the fact he had his moments of unthinking focus that compelled him to want to have sex with her, whether or not she approved, she liked the hunk of angel.

She admired him for his truth and honesty. He would never try to gloss over the compulsion and expect her to accept that part of him. He abhorred that side of him.

She adored his accidental innocence. Sure, he knew about showgirls and their skimpy attire, but inside he was still learning the world and wondering at everything he encountered. How awesome was that?

But what she liked most about him was his willingness to help mortals who were unlike him. A Fallen should have no concern for feeble humans. And yet, Sam walked amongst them as if he belonged, and could think of nothing beyond ensuring their safety.

And hers.

“I can forgive you,” she started slowly, still unsure if she were saying the right thing or just acting from her heart, “if you'll do one thing for me.”

“Anything.”

If his heart was in the right place, he would allow her this test. This breather. He knew so little about her, and yet, she wanted him to know more, to know it all. But how to do so when walking toward chaos?

Just take some time. You need it
.

Her heart stuttered and wondered if this was the right thing,
yet she ignored that tremble and said, “Let me walk away from here alone. Don't follow. I have to get away from you.”

“Please—”

“You can't do that for me?”

He bowed his head and nodded. “I will do whatever you ask. But you may be in danger.”

“No more than the danger I just escaped. Stay away from me, Sam. At least…” She swallowed the tears she didn't want him to see. “Until I come to you. Promise me.”

He nodded. “I promise.”

 

He had followed.

Cassandra looked out the window from her third-story loft. Below in the park, the snow swirled, creating an undulating blanket of lush dunes. An angel sat on one of three rope swings, his bare back to her building.

A wingless back.
Thank, God
. Yet he wore no shirt because his wings had torn it away. Someone would surely get suspicious. And though she knew the cold affected him not at all, the urge to toss him a shirt made her fingers flinch.

She pressed her palm against the cold glass and winced when the image of his glass heart formed in her mind. An angel's heart was cold red glass. It did not beat. It could not know love.

Could it?

Granny Stevens had told her if a demon loved it was deemed a sin, and if an angel hated, that was their greatest sin. But could they know love? Angels were supposed to embody love, but were the Fallen included in that bunch? They'd rebelled. Surely, love would not come so easily to those lusty angels who sought sex.

She and Sam were so different. Though they wore the same sigil—had been destined for one another—they could never be the same. They looked the same, most of the time. But when
he was shifted to half-angel form his differences were too apparent. He could not control his compulsive need to mate with her in that form. Yet she understood he struggled with it.

There could never be a “them.” Not unless he became completely mortal. And it would be easy. He simply needed to place the halo holstered at his hip above his head to receive his earthly soul.

Would he do that for her? Did she want him to?

“Yes,” she whispered.

Yet he'd told her he wanted to return Above. The outlaw angel had a mission here on earth. When all the Fallen, vampires and nephilim were slain, he would leave.

He'd leave her.

And she wasn't sure how she felt about that.

Okay, so she did know. It hurt that he could walk away from her. And it troubled her that she'd already developed an attachment to him. The very man Granny had warned her against for over a decade!

“You're not thinking straight.” She was allowing her heart to influence her logical thoughts.

“Love doesn't happen this easy. I'm just…infatuated. I want him like I want any other sexy man when I'm jonesing for some intimacy. Get a grip, Caz, this is not love.”

It was only like. And like was a long way from love.

Outside, Sam formed a snowball and tossed it to a boy bundled in a black snowsuit with a hood lined in fur, which only revealed his eyes. The scene was too normal except that the man wore no shirt.

She turned and clasped her arms about her stomach. “I wish you were still alive, Granny. I need you now.”

She needed someone to talk to. And Coco was too wrapped up in love with her man to focus and be clear about Caz's life, to give her insight to what it really felt like to be in love. Cassandra had plainly recognized the look on her sister's face. Her
eyes were bright and she never stopped smiling when Zane was in the room.

Walking into her bedroom, she glanced in the vanity mirror. Her eyes didn't look different than usual. She tried a smile, but it quickly wilted.

In the mirror's reflection, the silver angel called to her. She turned and ran her fingers along the line of one wing. Proud, bold and ethereal was the look she'd been going for as she'd sculpted this piece. She hadn't thought much about the design before diving in and following the swing of her ball-peen hammer as she had pounded life into the silver.

She'd created Sam. She had known at the time he was her angel and had romanticized meeting him one day. He would look at her and fall in love and forget the reason he Fell. They would embrace and live happily ever after.

Cassandra tucked her head against her elbow and began to cry.

 

The boy was about eight, Sam figured. He caught the snowball Sam tossed him against his chest and crushed it with his too-big red mitten. He chuckled deeply. His cheeks were rosy and he oozed a kind of glee Sam had not known until now. It lifted his spirits.

Children truly were closest to Him in their innocence and wonder. Sam possessed the same curiosity for the world, and felt sorry for the humans who had grown away from or had deliberately abandoned their wondrous innocence.