Angel Slayer. Michele Hauf

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СКАЧАТЬ she actually thought the man beautiful, like a rock star or an actor pumped up for the role of warrior. Yet she also sensed danger from him.

      “My lady.” He shook his head at her in pity. “I wouldn’t use that little stick to pick my teeth.”

      Suddenly the knife jerked from her fingers and flew toward his. He caught it and tucked it in the waistband of his pants.

      “Who—What? How did you do that?” Eden asked.

      She took another step back and clasped her arms across her chest. “You ripped me away from the scene of an accident. I thought you were rescuing me. And who was that man? The punk guy. He chased me through the city on foot! He ran so fast it was like he wasn’t human. And he flew away from me when you arrived.”

      “That was Zaqiel, and he’s come for you.”

      Eden didn’t know how to respond to that statement. The name was weird, but the second part of what he’d said was weirder.

      “Come for me? Who are you?”

      “I am … Ashur.” He glanced toward the motorcycle and added, “Ashur Man … Yes, Manning. I won’t harm you. I require you to draw Zaqiel here so I can slay him.”

      “Slay?”

      Nausea wavered through Eden. She spread out her hands in the event she toppled, which was looking probable. But she had to stay strong and keep a clear head. All her instincts screamed danger. And the rescuing knight was beginning to sound more villainous. He had made up the name he’d given her, surely.

      “A Fallen one is on your trail,” the man—Ashur—said.

      “Fallen?”

      “Or Grigori, if you prefer.”

      The oddness of recognition straightened her posture and she found a clear thought. For someone who had been painting angels since she was a teenager, she’d spent a lot of time sorting through books about them. She’d read parts of the Hebrew bible and the pseudepigraphal book of Enoch.

      “Do you know what a Grigori is?” she asked, hoping he’d grabbed the wrong term.

      “I do.” He bowed closer to her, his massive frame shadowing her and making her feel so small. “And you, my lady, do you know what a Grigori is?”

      “I most certainly do.” She squeezed her forearm because if she scratched any more she’d tear skin. “Next you’ll be telling me you carry a flaming sword and—”

      Glass crackled from above. A row of windows along the second story shattered. A rain of glass shards poured downward.

      Ashur slammed into Eden. Her breath gasped out. He shoved her into the darkness near the far wall, away from the falling slivers of deadly glass.

      “He’s here. Stay put,” he said in a low command. “Don’t get in the way.”

      If he was speaking about the punk being here, Eden didn’t see him.

      “Where is he?” she called nervously. “How could he have possibly followed us?”

      Ashur tilted his head aside and lifted a hand to silence her. She could sense his anxious alertness. But he wasn’t half as tense as her muscles were. They felt ready to snap.

      She scratched her forearm.

      Suddenly Ashur approached her. He gripped her wrist and looked at the red skin right below the birthmark. “This is how he follows. The angelkiss. It is a beacon. Scratch again, my lady. Lure him to me.”

      “But he just—” A beacon? Scratching where he had licked her lured the crazy druggie to her? No way was she going to continue. “No, I—”

      What sounded like wings, yet sharp and cutting as if metal, sliced the air. Eden searched the broken window frames overhead. She could only huff and try futilely to settle her frantic heartbeat.

      “This is not proving successful. He will not approach when he knows I am guarding you.” Ashur twisted to look at her. “I must lead him to believe I’ve left you to your own devices.”

      “No! Don’t leave me alone.”

      Her outburst caused him to pause. Had he intended to leave her here? Obviously he was weighing it in his mind right now. And had she just asked for help from a man who scared the crap out of her?

      All her life she’d wondered about things like angels and the fallen and what they might look like, and now. This could not be happening.

      Finally Ashur nodded. “I will not leave you. But my intentions cannot be fulfilled here and now. Give me your hand.”

      She tucked her hands behind her hips.

      Ashur lunged and gripped her wrist, roughly forcing her hand forward. And then he bent and dragged his tongue over her skin, right over the itchy spot where Zaqiel had licked her.

      “What the hell?”

      “It counteracts the angelkiss,” he said. “For a while. Don’t scratch until I tell you to do so.”

      He grabbed her, sweeping her into his arms as effortlessly as if she were a doll. He deposited her on the back of the motorcycle again. Tears rolled down Eden’s face as he kicked the bike into gear and they rolled over the litter of glass.

      “Tell me where you live. I want the angel to think you are alone and waiting.”

      “Oh, hell. An angel? A real …? This can’t be happening.”

      “Your address, my lady.”

      If she had known the address for the police station, Eden would have rambled that one off. Yet the idea of being dropped off at home, where she felt most safe and could lock the doors and keep out all the crazy men after her, sounded too good to be true.

      She gave him her address, and the motorcycle picked up speed.

      He’d spoken of Fallen angels, and kisses from angels, which made her think he was talking about real angels. She believed in angels. They weren’t all glowy and peaceful and full of grace as modern media would have a person believe. Some were positively evil—the fallen ones.

      Something the cabbie had said returned to her. When they were in the tunnel, the cab had slowed and he said he saw an angel.

      Had Zaqiel been that angel?

      But why would an angel be after her? Had it something to do with the dreams she’d been having all her life?

      As they sped down the pier, Eden glanced over her shoulder and saw Zaqiel keeping track with them on foot.

       Chapter 3

      Bruce speed-dialed Antonio in Paris, then checked his watch only after he’d done so. It was 6:00 p.m. in New York. That made it something like midnight in Paris.

      The receiver clicked. “What?”

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