Angel Bait (Angel Assassins #1) (21 page)

As he stood, blood trickled down one bicep to drip onto her ruined wood floor. A floor morphed into a graveyard. Men she didn’t know lay upon it, a piece here and there. She couldn’t summon the strength to vomit.

Jarrid lowered his arms and the others followed. He appeared calm, almost resigned. How could he be? There were bodies on the floor. Near his feet. Around his brothers. Bodies placed there by The Eternal Order. She stepped back.

His team.
She moved back another step.

“Ionie.” He said her same in the gravel-churned tone he always used.

She stared ahead, unable to understand why her beautiful house looked like a bomb detonated in the adjoining kitchen. For a second, she wondered if she’d left something in the microwave. A stupid idea, sure, but maybe she’d stuck an enormous can of shrapnel inside and it blew up and killed all the men on the floor.

“Ionie, it’ll be okay,” Jarrid said.

Why did he sound so calm?

“Are you hurt?”

Her eyes burned from the grit in the air, and her ears made his words muffled, almost unintelligible. Yet inside her head, a high-pitched alarm rang out without end.

“She’s rattled to the bone,” someone said. “Her brain’s on autopilot.”

Was that Kas?
She studied the outlines of the nephilim’s face. Kas made her laugh.
Not right now
.

Jarrid stepped toward her. “Ionie, we have to get you out of here and back to the Stronghold.”

Her heartbeat raced, pounding out a Reggae dub step in her chest. Without looking down, she took more steps backwards, using her fingertips to guide her along the crumbling walls. Jarrid and his brothers moved forward, slow and easy. She felt like prey being stalked.

Sweet Jesus, who are they?

“We’re your friends,” Kas said, turning his empty palms to her. “We won’t let anything happen to you, beautiful. I promise.”

Ionie swallowed against the dryness in her throat.

That one reads minds.
She shuddered. The quiet one, Nestaron, looked at her with sad eyes. Cain, the charming one, frowned. She paused to analyze Jarrid’s blank face.

He’s probably brooding
.

When her fingers slipped from the wall into open space, she turned her head. The dust wasn’t as thick in this room. She looked down and wished it had been.

The mutilated corpse of her best friend, JP, lay unmoving on the ground. Fresh tears spilled from Ionie. She took a trembling step into the room. Blood pooled around JP’s body, her blond hair matted to the wood. Compelled forward, she reached the body on wobbling legs and sank to her knees.

Not JP. Not JP.
Ionie touched the cold flesh, her hand shaking. She brushed plaster from the graying skin, then from the wool jacket. She kept going, cleaning chips of wall away from the stained shirt and lifeless arms. Ionie’s body twitched as reality eclipsed her. She was sitting on the floor of her home brushing plaster off her best friend’s dead body.

A pair of black boots entered her peripheral vision. “I’m sorry, but we must leave.” Jarrid didn’t touch her, but she sensed he’d haul her to her feet if she didn’t get up.

Frustration, then anger, overwhelmed the aching sadness in her heart. JP was dead. Someone tried to kill her, too. A coil of heat tightened inside her.

JP, the sweetest person she knew, wouldn’t make her coffee on Saturday mornings. Her lovable Great Danes would be impounded.

She left her pack behind
. No, Ionie corrected herself. JP would never do that. JP’s gone.
Someone killed her
.

Grief slammed into Ionie and she clutched her chest. The pain was like a forest fire left to consume itself. Her soul burned under her skin, hotter than lava. She threw her head back and her mouth opened to scream.

All the windows in the house exploded as loss overtook her.

• • •

The sonic blast struck The Order before any of the assassins could brace themselves. Ionie’s Grace contained the full power of an angel, more than anything Jarrid or his brothers held. When the pulse flung him into the ceiling, he released a stunned gasp. A loud, sickening crunch told him a rib had snapped. Not any of his.

Below him, Ionie’s whole body shimmered like a captured star. Outside, the faint sound of sirens grew closer to the once-quiet neighborhood. He tried to push off the ceiling, but his proximity to her volatile power kept him in place.

“Damn it!” Jarrid thrashed against the invisible force. “Release me!”

A pair of silver eyes shined inside Ionie’s brown face. “Abomination.”

“What the hell?” he said, mouth gaping. Her voice held an odd rasp.

“Abomination,” she said, sneering up at him.

Sweet God of All!
Ionie was linked to the Renegade and the bastard spoke through her.

“Get the fuck out of her!” Jarrid growled, thrashing against the ceiling. The sirens screamed their proximity.

“Not yet, half-breed.”

Frustrated, he sent a quick mental order to Kas.

All of you stand down. I don’t want her hurt
.

Ionie moved to the shattered bay window, peered out, then turned to look at him. Her eyes blazed with pure power. “You made a mess, half-breed. Now that I’ve found her, so will I.”

As she walked through the broken front windows, Jarrid summoned his Grace. He focused on the force that imprisoned him, sending pulses of energy against it. He cursed, thrashing until clumps of ceiling dropped to the floor. Beleth’s power gripped him tight.

“Cain? Kas? Nesty? Where the hell are you?”

Groans answered.

Great
. His bad-ass assassin brotherhood had their asses handed to them by a girl.

“We’re not the one pinned to a fucking ceiling, chief assassin,” Kas said, stumbling into view. “And can you think quieter? My head’s killing me.”

Jarrid glared at his brother. “Get me down, asshole!”

“Language,” Nestaron said.

He ignored Nesty, and listened for the approaching sirens. The cops sounded only a few blocks away. “Where’s Cain?”

“Here,” came the whispered answer. “Hey, Ionie broke my rib.”

Jarrid planned to tell Cain he’d break all of his ribs if they didn’t go after her, when he dropped like a boulder. He hit the floor hard enough to crack the wood. “Come on. Let’s get her and blaze it back to base.”

Nesty yanked him to his feet. Then Kas returned from the window, grim faced. His brother’s eyes spoke volumes.

Ionie was gone.

Saul palmed his gun as the nephilim filed out of Ionie’s house. The towering bodies moved swiftly despite their obvious injuries. He sneered while the bastard who’d clocked him outside The Church limped across the street to a truck.

What would it take to kill that asshole?

His fingers flexed on his weapon. Twelve of his best goons had ambushed the freak. Since the half-breeds still breathed, his boys were toast. Damn, what a cluster fuck the fight must have been. The firepower had lit up the house up like a trapped lightning storm.

One woman wasn’t worth this much trouble, no matter who wanted her. Thinking of the Renegade, Saul debated whether or not he should contact the bastard. The city was in chaos, as ordered, but he didn’t expect the battle royal he’d witnessed. No, he’d have to call Beleth. He thumbed in the angel’s number in his cellphone.

“I sensed her. Bring her to me. Now.”

The guy lacked manners that’s certain. Saul steadied his voice. “Twelve of my men are dead because of her.”

“No. They are dead because they failed.”

“The Order came to her house. All of them.”

He heard Beleth’s dismissive sigh and gripped the phone tighter. The self-righteous prick didn’t give a damn about his men. He’d remember that the next time he sent his boys out. It wouldn’t do to decimate his forces before he secured his rule on Motown.

“My connection to her has weakened,” Beleth said. “Retrieve her.”

The line went dead with a click.

Fucking angels
. He peered at the nephilim talking to each other. Then they split up and drove away. Saul slumped in his car as Jarrid’s truck peeled down the street. The others drove in the opposite direction. He eased up and started his car.

Saul wanted to grab the woman when she had slipped out of the house, but he’d hesitated. She glowed like a Christmas tree, an unnerving reminder she shared too much with his ally. Yeah, the bitch was definitely the one he’d searched hell and back to find. Unfortunately, she’d hopped in the Excursion before he could do anything.

Where would she go?

Saul glanced at the wallet he’d placed on the passenger seat.

Ah, yes. How could I forget?

Ionie and the rabid wolf he’d snuffed were pals. He tugged the Lycan’s driver’s license from the plastic holder. The woman lived on the West side. Grinning, he flicked the card onto the seat and pulled out of his parking space. As a pair of Detroit Police cars turned up the street, Saul maneuvered past them. He wouldn’t be able to get the bodies out of the house. None of his boys carried ID that could link them to him, but he knew the cops would run their prints and learn what gang they ran in.

He ran an unsteady hand over his head. The werewolf was a retired cop. That would get noticed. Saul’s fangs lengthened, piercing his lips. He’d fucked up leaving his dead crew and a former cop with her throat slashed. When Beleth found out, he’d be a corpse.

Saul floored the gas pedal and the streets blurred. What he needed was leverage. The overgrown half-breeds searched for Ionie. He had to find her first, but he wasn’t dumb enough to take on the Order alone.

Interference
. That’s what he needed. Someone to call those dogs back to their cage.

He let a wide grin slide across his lips.

Time to send a message
.

His car turned up a street dotted with vacant houses and empty lots. Hidden in the dilapidated doorways were the poorest of Detroit’s residents — squatters who made the forgotten structures home. A small group of vampires loitered in a tight cluster when he brought the car to a stop. They eyed his flashy BMW, sizing up his wealth and power. He leaned against the car and waited for the most curious to approach.

“Nice wheels,” one said. Saul glanced at the guy’s haggard face. He’d recognize the snitch anywhere.

“Business must be slow, Oren,” he said. “Or is skeletal the new skinny?”

Oren stared at the cracked pavement, shifting his weight from leg to leg.

“You’re the one who tipped off the Order about my partner,” Saul said.

“What?” Oren’s body shook, his beady eyes searching for an escape route. “I never spoke to those dicks. Had to be the Scribe. She’s sniffing around angels for a story.”

The hollow admission didn’t appease Saul. If the idiot hadn’t mentioned angels in the first place, the reporter wouldn’t have sought any. “Why’d she think you’d have information she could use?”

“I … I hear things,” Oren said.

“You heard things about angels?” He pushed away from the car. “Any angels in particular?”

The sharp smell of sweat permeated his senses. The snitch was terrified.

“I didn’t know anything at the time,” Oren said. “Angels keep to themselves. I saw one and sold the info to her.”

Saul stepped forward. He grinned when the lesser vampire cowered. “Doesn’t matter now. I’m here to hire your messenger service.”

“Say what?”

“You’re well connected, Oren. I have a message you’ll deliver to the angels.”

The vampire blanched. “It’s not like I have those winged freaks on speed dial. How am I supposed to get a message out?”

Saul pinched the bridge of his nose. Dealing with gutter trash wasn’t a task he performed, unless pushed by boredom — or desperation. “Angels have a ruling board. You get them a message, and I’ll make sure you’re swimming in blood when you’re finished.”

“Hold up. You’re talking about the Directorate,” Oren said, shaking his head. “They’re outside of my usual clientele. I don’t have the connections to — ”

Saul flicked his hand and struck the snitch in the chest, his fingers digging into the pasty skin. Oren’s face drained of color. “I don’t care how you do it, asshole. You will get my message to them, or I will shred you into jerky strips.”

• • •

The Excursion rolled to a stop outside JP’s single-story house. The serenity of the yard’s edged grass, and trimmed Yews, made Ionie gulp for air. Her best friend was dead. The house would be sold. She’d never again kick back in the kitchen, laughing over an insane story JP concocted to amuse her.

What about the dogs?

A fresh wave of grief caused her to sob. She couldn’t send them back to Great Dane Rescue. They’d been family to JP. Her pack.

She slipped out of the truck and struggled to walk to the front door. She approached, and the familiar ruckus of barking sounded from inside the house. The spare key in her hand could have been a brick. The heavy weight matched the pain in her chest, but she unlocked the door. Bowie and Echo greeted her as always, their frantic tails spinning like helicopter blades.

“Come on, you two,” Ionie said, scratching their ears. “You’re crushing the air out of me.”

The animals reacted by easing back enough for her to stand without leaning. She continued to lavish scratches and strokes along their sturdy necks. Ionie pushed back some of her sadness to enjoy their company. Soon, three more Danes appeared — Mighty Moe, Ky, and QT — leaving her encircled by slobbering, wiggling gentle giants.

Her brittle heart shattered.

Echo pulled away from the pack and stared at the closed door. Bowie, Ky, and QT followed. Mighty Moe, a litter runt and sickly since birth, leaned her scrawny frame against Ionie’s legs before plopping her butt on the floor. They waited for their alpha.

“Listen,” Ionie said, her voice cracking, “something terrible’s happened.”

The dogs turned their stocky heads to face her. Eight pairs of brown-gold eyes stared, but Echo’s ice blues remained focused on the door. How would she explain the tragedy to a deaf dog? She stroked Moe’s neck, then moved until she knelt next to Echo. The dog licked her face.