Ashes of Angels. Michele Hauf

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СКАЧАТЬ sigil was not a tattoo, but an indelible mark. Cassandra had been born with hers. It was the reddish-brown color of henna, but it never faded, as henna did. “Yours isn’t glowing,” she remarked.

      “Only when I’m in half form.”

      Cassandra’s heart dropped to her gut. The only way a Fallen could get his mortal muse pregnant was in half form. They assumed the wings of an angel on top, yet remained human in every way, including all the essential sexual organs.

      Samandiriel.

      She had known his name since Granny had found it in the book of names and sigils. Neither had spoken it out loud to the other. Yet after everyone had gone to sleep, and Cassandra lay in her bed staring at the sky through the oak tree near her window, she’d whisper it. Because that’s what teenage girls did.

      The name had become a sort of mantra, and at the same time a death toll. Samandiriel, the one angel who existed to find her. Samandiriel, the angel she had sculpted in silver. Samandiriel, her death.

      A dizzy wave washed through Cassandra’s brain. She had to remain alert. Stay strong. As soon as he stopped, she’d open the door and run, never mind her lack of coat and gloves. They were only blocks away from a busy restaurant area; she could find help before she froze to death.

      “So you’re taking me somewhere, and then you’re going to shift shapes?”

      “No. Cassandra, I would not assume you’d be so enamored with me you would allow such an intimate act so quickly.”

      She could only gape at him.

      Was this one for real? The Fallen were supposed to be focused on getting their muse pregnant. She’d never thought the Fallen would have a sense of right and wrong.

      “Seriously, did you land on your head when you Fell to earth?”

      He chuckled. “Actually, I originally landed in a shallow stream. I almost drowned, were it not for a couple of village children who pulled me out. But that was a long time ago.”

      Uh-huh. Like during Biblical times. The angels originally Fell way back when, and God decided to punish them for Falling and swept them all to the Ninth Void courtesy of the Great Flood. Water and angels did not mix; they couldn’t swim.

      She had to do something. She couldn’t let this go further. Opening the glove compartment, she shuffled through the manuals and parking tickets. Yes! She knew she’d put that in there last month.

      The Fallen pulled the car to a sliding stop against a snow-stacked curb. Ice slicked the tarmac. The snowplows had not been out since the storm had begun earlier in the afternoon.

      “You live close,” he said, “but I’m not picking up your heat trail. Can you give me directions?”

      “To my place? Not bloody likely.”

      Gripping the Taser in the glove compartment, Cassandra swung her arm around and landed the angel aside the neck, under his chin. He jerked, his hand releasing the steering wheel. His torso stiffened, unable to fight the high voltage.

      A thrusting fist bent the steering wheel. He let out a sound that crackled in her eardrums. It sounded like myriad languages all at once. Gritting her teeth at the pain of the noise, she held firm on the Taser.

      And he cried out as if struck through the heart by a blade. Something creaked and then a flash of thick silver something moved out from between his shoulders. Whatever it was, it cut through the car roof and smashed out the rear window.

      Panicking, Cassandra dropped the Taser and kicked open the passenger door. She scrambled out onto the foot-high snow packed along the curb and looked over the destruction.

      Wings had grown out of the Fallen’s back, bladed, thick wings that had cut through the car like butter. They looked like … silver? She was a silversmith; she knew her metals. The entire structure of wings looked forged from silver, yet appeared soft as feathers, for the downy barbs fluttered in the brutal cold.

      Trapped, the Fallen looked at her and growled.

      Not about to stick around, Cassandra took off across the street and headed in the opposite direction of her apartment—only a quarter mile up the street—and one very angry Fallen angel.

       Chapter 2

      Samandiriel shook off the vehicle from his wings. Metal creaked and split. A tire rolled up against the snowbank. The backseat wobbled and fell from the passenger half of the vehicle.

      He eased a hand over his shoulder. That little misadventure had taxed his mortal muscles to weary bands. Though his wings were of silver—indicative of his mastery over the silversmith art—they were adamant and indestructible. Yet there was only so much damage this mortal body could take, even in its half form, which was as close to his original ineffable form he could get while on earth.

      He glanced at the mangled car. He’d had to rip his wings out sideways to get free. “Bitch,” he muttered, but the anger that had spurred his shift subsided quickly.

      It had been a common human reaction to fear. Yet the muse had known what to expect. She had known he would come for her. And it appeared the petite bit with the big brown eyes and beribboned hair could handle herself in a threatening situation.

      With a smart cock of his head side to side, he then unfurled his wings completely and followed with a whole-body shake that flexed muscles and tested mortal bones for endurance. Nothing broken.

      Thing is, he had no intention to hurt the muse, as she suspected. Cassandra Stevens was a beauteous creation to admire. He could look at her ever after, admire her fine bone structure, the soft brown flesh and long hair that seemed alive with depth. Her voice spoke to him in vivid pinks and violets, bathing him in a luscious sensory oasis.

      But once in this form, and if he were near Cassandra, he would feel the compulsion, the need to mate with the muse.

      After his original Fall, Samandiriel had observed his brothers. The Fallen went after their muses with sanguine intent and did not care that they harmed, hurt or damaged the muse psychologically and physically. Their only focus was to mate with them, to experience the carnal pleasures that had tempted them to Fall.

      Yet after that initial Fall, the Great Flood had washed over the lands and swept his fellow Fallen from the earth. Samandiriel had been imprisoned in the Ninth Void, awaiting release. He’d had much time to think.

      He wanted nothing to do with the wicked pact he’d joined in with his brethren. All he desired was to return Above. But to do so, he suspected he must prove his worthiness, which necessitated his current mission.

      A mission to ensure his Fallen brethren did not achieve their goal. And for the other reason, once a Fallen mated with a muse a nephilim would germinate, be born, and destroy all living things in its path.

      Yet that mission had been altered after learning about the vampires. So much work to do. And here he stood, having been defeated by an odd electronic device wielded by a tiny woman.

      “Bloody bunch of good you’ve done so far.”

      He’d walked the world upon arrival on earth yesterday. His kind could move swiftly over СКАЧАТЬ