Warrior's Angel (The Lost Angels Book 4)

  At once, she’d known that the more vital thing she could do at that moment was get Mimi out of the warehouse and stick to her side like glue. It was like ripping off a Band-Aid for Angel, though. On the one hand, she knew this would protect Mimi – one wound was healed. But on the other hand, it still hurt. Because Rhiannon, the fourth archess, was still inside the building.

  Something was going to go down. Angel had no real, solid concept of what it was going to be, only that it was going to be loud, chaotic, and extremely dangerous.

  But then again, Rhiannon was a big girl. She could take care of herself. Angel happened to know first-hand that she’d been put through the ringer plenty of times only to come out in one healthy, very much alive piece.

  She hoped this time would be no different.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Michael was certain the woman hadn’t seen him. If she had, she was exceedingly good at hiding it. But he’d seen her. And he’d more than remembered her.

  Angel. That was her name. That was what Hesperos had called her when the two of them had appeared on the outskirts of Central Park to assist him in his battle against the dragons and their monstrous companions. Something else he’d remembered was that she had disappeared from the scene just a few seconds before Samael had appeared on it.

  And now she was leaving the warehouse with little Mimi in tow. He wondered what it meant. And he wondered if Hesperos was somewhere nearby. In fact, he considered reading Angel’s mind to find out. Or Mimi’s; children were no doubt easier to read, not yet having had the chance to build those mental walls mortals were so apt at constructing over time.

  This mind reading thing was something he’d had to come to grips with right away when he’d learned what Sam had so gleefully turned him into. Azrael had the ability to read the minds of others, and just like that, only a few hours into his change, the same ability had come crashing in on Michael, along with a host of other talents, some of which even Az didn’t possess.

  In essence, he’d had to make a choice. He could have easily opened himself up to the myriad of surface thoughts around him, but they were so thick, they were almost like a maddening static. He had the ability, but not the experience Azrael possessed, and reading someone took energy he had no real urge to waste. He wanted to save his strength for his archess. She was a fighter. Just like him.

  He had a feeling she was going to put him through the ringer when things came to a head. He was almost looking forward to it. He smiled at the thought, fleetingly, and then the smile slipped away. A darkness passed over his features, a shadow of suspicion.

  His eyes fixed on the back of Angel’s head.

  Instinctively, perhaps on the same predatory or protective level that Az had come to grips with, Michael reached out with his mental feelers. But when they brushed up against his brown haired subject, they reached a buffer. It felt like brushing up against rubber for just a moment before bouncing, his own mental reach repelled, for lack of a better word.

  Angel – whoever or whatever she was – continued through the double doors of the studio and out into the alley beyond, her hand entwined with Mimi’s. Just before the doors automatically closed behind her, she glanced back at him. Their eyes met. Some unknown message passed between them, and she was gone.

  Michael had no idea where they were going.

  He ran a hand through his thick blond hair and looked up toward the rafters of the warehouse. His cop senses kicked in, made stronger by the talents he’d only recently acquired. His mind worked.

  If Angel had helped him defeat the dragons at Central Park, then as far as he was concerned, she was on his side. If she was on his side, then she was on Mimi’s side. To the cop in Michael, that meant whatever she was doing, she was doing it to protect the little girl. And if she was protecting her by taking her out of the studio, then that meant that trouble was on its way to the studio. And Rhiannon was here. It was why he’d bothered to try to read Angel in the first place.

  Michael’s blue eyes heated up in his skull as they scanned the shadows of the bare-bones building above, peering through the myriad of darknesses in search of phantoms, leeches, or wraiths. He, himself, stood off to the side, more or less in the shadows and buffered from the prying eyes of onlookers. If he’d wanted to, he could have melded with them completely, becoming one with that gray darkness through a gift of his Nightmare blood.

  As far as Nightmares were concerned, Michael had the very strong notion that if Hesperos were in the warehouse, he would know it. He would feel it in that same blood.

  So, no phantoms, no wraiths, no leeches, and no Nightmares. What was left? What was going to happen?

  Michael’s gaze continued across the ceiling, down the support beams, and into the four thick walls that formed the outer barriers of the enormous building. They were strong, reinforced brick walls, sturdy enough to withstand the explosions Rhiannon’s pretend cover company regularly set off inside them to impress clients.

  His gaze narrowed and refined, and then just like that, something cut through his concentration, slicing through it and dispersing it like a drop of cold water in a boiling pot. It was a voice. It was her voice.

  He turned, following the sound.

  Rhiannon Dante emerged from a make-shift walkway between pretend buildings in a pretend mid-west town. She took a few steps as she stared down at a sheet of paper in her hand, then she stopped, ran a hand through her hair to get it out of her face, and touched her lips as she concentrated. Something in the paper she was reading had her concerned.

  Michael stood transfixed. He was watching this woman go through the most menial motions, the most basic and everyday expressions and movements, and he was utterly captivated. The way the light hit her hair, turning it into rose gold, the way her long lashes left shadows on her upper cheeks when she lowered them, the way her very slight smattering of freckles disappeared when she was warm or embarrassed or angry, and appeared again when she was cold or tired or hungry, the way she nibbled at her bottom lip while thinking, or tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear in nervous habit – all of it was a study in choreographed perfection. She was a dance. He could have watched her get dental work done.

  He moved away from the shadows and approached her from behind. It was possible for him to move without a sound, but what would be the fun in that? A few steps away, his boots sounded on the concrete flooring.

  Rhiannon looked up from her piece of paper and slowly turned around. He saw her hand grip the paper more tightly and the color leave her face, even as the pupils in her eyes expanded.

  “Miss Dante,” he greeted smoothly. “We meet again.”

  Rhiannon stared for a moment, seemingly incapable of speech. He didn’t have to read her mind to know what she was thinking. The way her gaze skirted from his eyes to his hair to his shoulders told him everything he needed, or wanted, to know. He’d been a “human” male for two thousand years. He had enough experience reading women to recognize desire when he saw it.

  There was fear there too, though. That was to be expected.

  Not that it detracted from the desire.

  Rhiannon cleared her throat and plastered a nonchalant expression on her beautiful face. “Detective? To what do I owe this honor?” she asked, her normally sultry voice cracking just a touch under the stress of this surprise meeting.

  He shrugged those broad shoulders of his in the most casual manner, and looked around, taking in the details of their surroundings with a discerning eye. “City ordinances, fireworks, laws that dictate a contingency of the police force be present at all such demonstrations – that kind of thing.” He looked back down at her and smiled.

  It was a smile that said he had every right to be there, he was holding all the cards, and he damn well new it.

  She knew it too. He watched the play of nervousness skirt across her lovely features. She lowered her gaze, those long lashes brushing her cheeks again, and Michael’s gums began to ache.

  He frowned, recognizing
the pressure his brand new vampirism was putting on his body, and gritted his teeth when his blood started to heat up in hunger.

  Not now, he told himself firmly. Son of a bitch.

  “I see,” Rhiannon said, still looking down. “Then make yourself at home, detective, but I suggest keeping to the designated ‘safe areas,’ as we’re about to begin filming.” She turned away from him. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you where the nearest safe area is.”

  “My pleasure,” Michael returned, allowing just enough innuendo to enter his tone.

  Rhiannon’s shoulders stiffened a little, but he could imagine her cheeks were flushing too. His smile broadened, and the pain in his gums went from an ache to a throb.

  “So, what is it you see in him?” he asked as she hastily walked him toward some other area in the warehouse.

  “Excuse me?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “Your boyfriend.”

  Rhiannon stumbled slightly in front of him, her stride miss-stepping in what could only have been surprise.

  “I followed up with Mr. Remington about your alibi for last Thursday,” he told her in his best cop voice. “Denton Remington,” he mused out loud, making little of the man’s pretend name, “had a difficult time recalling the details of your date.”

  Rhiannon was silent for a long moment before she finally asked, “Oh?”

  “He says he picked you up at seven-thirty,” Michael went on, “but I believe you said it was closer to eight. You said it was Avengers you’d gone to see. Mr. Remington seemed to be under the impression you’d actually seen X-Men. Perhaps it was just a slip of the tongue on his part. Or yours.”

  Rhiannon didn’t say anything, and he knew her mind was spinning.

  “Interesting guy, Mr. Remington. Well dressed. Nice hair. Massive cappuccino machine in his immaculate kitchen. Great reading material on his coffee table, including some very interesting magazines. Element... Instinct… GQ.”

  Suddenly, Rhiannon stopped in her tracks and spun around, her ice green eyes crackling with sparks of indignation. “Just what is it you’re insinuating, detective?”

  Michael grinned. “What is it you think I am insinuating, Miss Dante?” he asked softly, meeting that gaze head on and moving in to close the distance between them. He could hear her heart hammering. He’d just outed her pretend boyfriend for the sweet and considerate but extremely gay man he’d so obviously proven himself to be when Michael had gone to question him. Of course, it hadn’t been the man’s décor or choice of clothing that had solidly tipped Michael off to his sexual orientation, in fact Michael was making those things up. It had been the fact that Michael had read his mind.

  Like he’d surmised, sometimes mind reading came in handy, such as during police interrogations.

  “Dent is a classy, sophisticated man with good taste,” Rhiannon defended.

  “Yes, he is.” Michael interjected, “He proved as much when he hit on me.” That was a lie too. The man had been well trained and was perfectly chaste.

  Rhiannon blinked several times in quick succession, her eyes wide, and her brows arched. She swallowed hard and her glare returned. Her mind no doubt found something to say to that, but she was saved from having to say anything at all by the sound of an actual bell that erupted from a sound system running through the studio.

  A voice came on immediately afterward to announce the beginning of the first shoot and hurry everyone on to their proper stations.

  Rhiannon continued to glare at him for several seconds after the announcement, and Michael made no move to stop her. The longer she glared, the longer she was looking at him, and there wasn’t a single molecule in his body that wasn’t enjoying that. Plus, the warrior in him enjoyed the challenge.

  “I have to work,” she finally hissed through clenched teeth. “That,” she said, pointing to an area where several other people with headsets and notepads were standing safely to the side behind a thick yellow strip of tape, “is the nearest safe area. Go there.”

  Michael chuckled softly and turned to do just that – when something along the wall behind the people in the safe area slithered.

  Michael stopped in his tracks and blinked. He frowned.

  He looked down at Rhiannon beside him. She, too, was looking at the wall behind the safe area. The color had drained from her face.

  “What did you see?” he asked – demanded, really.

  “I… I don’t know,” she said softly, the fight having left her voice.

  Michael turned back to the wall just in time to see it again. This time, it had moved a bit to his right, and it wasn’t a slither so much as a… pressing. It was as if the brick wall were composed of sheet plastic, and something behind it were attempting to push through.

  Michael straightened, his warrior reflexes singing to life. “Gargoyles,” he stated with forced calm. “They’ve come for you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rhiannon felt the wave of her stunned reaction go through her like a physical tide, jarring her where she stood beside Detective Salvatore. It was the repercussion of several realizations hitting her at once.

  Gargoyles. Coming for her.

  The detective knowing about it. Knowing they were coming for her….

  There was no time to process the onslaught of revelations; the brick wall twenty feet away was coming to life. At the same time, explosions began going off further in the warehouse. The ground shifted beneath Rhiannon’s feet, and she looked down.

  She jumped and barely stifled a scream when the very floor – the cement floor – slithered beside her boots just as the wall had. It’s stone, she thought frantically. The floor is stone too.

  “The floor is stone too!” she said out loud, her mouth automatically copying her mind. There was no filter in fear. There were people everywhere, it was broad daylight, and monsters were about to attack. By the sound of things, her powers were needed on-screen right now, where she would use telekinesis to make things fly around, and spread fire without gasoline, and bring lightning from a cloudless sky.

  Think, Rhiannon. Think!

  “We need to get you out of here,” said the detective beside her. She felt his strong hand on her elbow, guiding her back the way they’d come and toward the doors on the other end of the warehouse.

  “No!” Rhiannon stopped and yanked her hand free. “No,” she said hurriedly, turning to take in her immediate surroundings. “I have to deal with this here and now. I can use the special effects to mask whatever happens.” There were boxes everywhere, wires all around, and already, the minor fireworks were igniting further in. All of it could work to her advantage.

  She looked up to find the detective gazing at her through piercing blue eyes that hid unreadable emotion. She had no idea what he was thinking, had no idea how he could know about gargoyles or her involvement in them, and she had a hundred questions she wanted to interrogate him with, but a spot on the wall over his left shoulder revealed a stone-worked face, for just a split second, and her heart jumped into her throat.

  “Very well,” Salvatore finally told her, stealing her attention once more. “But we do this together.”

  Rhiannon’s brow furrowed. Together? What was a cop going to do against stone monsters, shoot them? She already knew first-hand that bullets didn’t work.

  “And we do it my way,” he concluded. Something flashed in the blue of his eyes, lighting them from the inside as if they were blue glass windows. The light grew, and they began to glow.

  “You’re not human,” Rhiannon whispered.

  Detective Salvatore smiled in quick affirmation, flashing long white, sharp fangs, before he spun – just in time. The wall behind him erupted like globulous, liquid rock, shooting toward him with horrible speed. It solidified into the shape of a tall, strong man as the detective raised his arms and the two met in hand-to-hand combat.

  Impossible. It was impossible, what Rhiannon was seeing.

  But it also wasn’t, not even a little bit, and a very
big part of her realized she’d suspected, and perhaps even known, all along.

  Detective Michael Salvatore was the man from the dance floor at the masquerade gala, after all. Now she was certain of it. He was the man in the black mask who’d seduced her into a near stupor and left an impossible treasure chest full of gold in her bedroom.

  He wasn’t human. He had fangs. And right now, he was personally fighting the gargoyles who had come for her.

  “Behind you!” he was suddenly warning. Rhiannon jumped, and spun to come face to face with the very same gargoyle male who had carved his way into her quadriceps a few nights ago.

  Behind him, the on-lookers who had been wearing head sets and carrying notepads behind the yellow line were now paying them full attention. However, they remained where they were, behind that line, and hope sprung to life within Rhiannon. Maybe they thought this was part of the show. After all, there were plenty of supernatural baddies in Comeuppance. If they just kept watching in ignorant fascination, that would be a blessing to count for sure.

  “You’re one little female,” the gargoyle told her, his expression a mixture of leering impatience. “We number in the thousands. You’ve been marked, and this will go on until you give in.”

  “Or until one of us is dead?” Rhiannon said, making sure to mouth it loudly enough for her audience to hear. She was going to play it up; right now, it was her safest bet at getting away with magic in plain sight. The female lead in Comeuppance had red hair, so maybe Rhiannon could slide by as her body double.

  “If I die, I will be replaced. On the other hand, if you die,” he said, lowering his tone and stepping menacingly toward her, “my kin will only seek out a replacement for you. Our number are dwindling again. New blood will keep us from extinction. Would you wish your fate on another woman?” He took another step, and Rhiannon found herself backing into a wall of boxes behind her. “One less capable? Less special?”