Always, Angel

  Get Rhiannon out first, she told herself. With great effort, she dropped flat to her stomach, rolled over, and looked up at the wires where the archess still hung. The woman was no longer conscious. Most likely, she would need healing; Angel was going to have to save strength for that.

  If she could transport to the wires, brace herself on them, and use telekinesis to unlock the manacles, she could grab Rhiannon and transport away. Even as she went over the harried plan in her head, she wondered whether she had enough power—not to mention dexterity—to pull it off.

  I can do it, she thought fiercely. She closed her eyes and concentrated, but focus was ripped from her with cruel precision as the phantom once more attacked, this time wrapping its immaterial fists around Angel’s throat. He lifted her from the stone floor and dangled her above it like a rag doll. Unconsciousness again threatened, a blackness that was an end to the suffering, but Angel’s will was strong. As ice crept through the skin, muscle, and bone of her throat and jaw, she ruthlessly forced her body into transport mode.

  The world began to waver, tilting slightly as it always did when she moved through space and time in the blink of an eye. And then it settled down again, and she’d gone nowhere.

  The phantom had realized what she was trying to do and ruined her attempt. Because he could transport as well, he’d been capable of tapping into that magic and canceling it out, anchoring her in place. Her opponent was quickly and almost effortlessly proving why his kind had been considered the assassins of the unnatural world for millennia.

  It’s over, she thought as the dim light of the cathedral began to recede and her body went numb. It was almost a peaceful thought, though there was still some small part of her that was afraid for what her death would mean for the world. It was a letting go—and it wasn’t as if she had a choice in the matter.

  As she began to slip away, she felt her true form emerge. For the first time in twenty centuries, Angel took on the image of the being she’d been made into. She could feel the hiccup in the phantom’s power before her as she changed. He was surprised.

  “And there she is,” came a familiar voice from somewhere too far away. Angel barely heard it, but she recognized it. It rumbled with a sexual energy nearly unequaled and was a voice she would know anywhere.

  Distantly, she felt the phantom drop her. She hit the stone floor with a numb thump, unaware as to whether she’d hit her head or landed on a twisted limb. She couldn’t tell; she couldn’t feel. She lay there listening as her body expended energy healing itself and sound carried to her with increasing clarity.

  Once the numbness receded, the pain started up, and she grimaced against the agony as her veins decrystalized, her lungs expanded, and her head began to pound. Through the pounding and the rush of blood through her ear drums, she heard scuffling sounds, crashing sounds, the cacophony of something splintering and then shattering. Someone grunted in pain, and then another voice cried out in defeat.

  There was a sucking, popping sound, and then a silence marred only by the ragged breathing of the survivor—and the echo of boots moving across the floor. Angel opened her eyes to stare at the horizontal plane of smoothed stone beneath her cheek. Several seconds passed in which she heard the rattling of chains and the release of a catch. Angel moved her arms, ignored the twinge of stiffness yet remaining from the cold, and pushed herself up until her elbows were locked. She raised her head.

  Hesperos finished laying the archess out across the top of a choir pew and then turned to face Angel. He made his way back to where she lay and slowly lowered himself to one knee beside her, his steel-green eyes flashing. “So this was what you were hiding,” he said softly. Almost kindly. There was genuine admiration in his gaze as it flitted from her eyes to her hair and back again. “You’re lucky I decided to keep an eye on you, Angel,” he continued as he offered her his hand.

  Angel glanced down at it. There was a gash across his right wrist, but even as she watched, the wound began to close. Incubi were one of the only three species on Earth capable of defeating phantoms. Vampires and archangels could handle them, but one was elusive and the other was rare. If the Nightmare King hadn’t been keeping tabs on her, she would be dead.

  Angel took his offered hand and shivered from something other than cold as his fingers closed possessively over her own. Her body continued to heal itself even as he helped her stand. Her legs were a tad wobbly beneath her, but they quickly regained their strength and, once they did, Angel tried to pull out of his grasp.

  She failed. Hesperos held her fast and used his grip on her to pull her up against his body. At once, his magnetic warmth infused her, melting away what remained of the unnatural chill the phantom had inflicted upon her. It felt like being absolutely frostbitten before diving into a pile of clothes fresh from the dryer.

  Angel couldn’t help but close her eyes. She barely suppressed a moan of pleasure.

  “I know who you are, Angel,” he told her, lowering his head to whisper his words across her ear. “I know what you are,” he added, running his free hand through her incredible, long, fine hair. “And most of all, I know who you’re hiding from. I know your secret now, precious one.”

  He paused, allowing the unspoken threat to sink in. Then he tightened his grip on her, raised his head to spear her with his vivid eyes, and spoke it anyway, just for good measure. “What will you give me to keep it?”

  Please read on for a sneak peek

  at the first full-length novel

  in the Lost Angels series

  by Heather Killough-Walden,

  AVENGER’S ANGEL

  Available from Signet Eclipse in November 2011.

  They were there for a signing. The movie Comeuppance had been such a hit with vampire fans around the world, it had been turned into a book—and then a series of books—and cast members from the movie were signing autographs in bookstores across the globe. It was late in the afternoon and Uriel’s signing as “Christopher Daniels,” the actor who had played Jonathan Brakes, the gorgeous vampire in Comeuppance, was about to begin.

  They’d pulled up to the back of the bookstore in order to prepare. Across from him in the back of the limousine sat Max, Uriel’s manager. He was also Uriel’s guardian—and guardian to his three brothers, Michael, Gabriel and Azrael. Max was good at the job; he was an ace at donning the multitude of different hats it took to deal with four very strong male spirits in an ever changing world.

  Just as Max was reaching his hand through the break in the separation glass to signal to the driver that they were ready to go to the front of the store and meet Daniels’s fans, a harsh shrieking sound drew Uriel’s attention to the limousine windows.

  His vivid green eyes grew very wide. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Gillihan replied.

  “They’re blocking the exit,” Uriel said, his tone laced with shock. A throng of teenage girls had amassed on the Tarmac that ran around the side of the bookstore and were racing toward the limousine at breakneck speed.

  There was no time to formulate a plan. He could either stay inside the car indefinitely and wait for the cops, or he could escape from the car and run. Fast.

  Uriel threw open the door of the limousine and bolted out of the backseat. Behind him, he heard Max calling, but he ignored the guardian and headed directly for the bookstore.

  Later, and in retrospect, he would realize that heading toward the bookstore instead of away from it was, at the very least, a bizarre decision. Especially considering that the slew of fans now racing toward him like a medieval village mob was coming from said store.

  However, there was little thought involved. The girls were coming around the corner from the front of the store, which gave him a clear shot at the back door. It was mostly instinct that propelled Uriel across the lot to the locked back exit of the establishment. And it w
as superhuman strength that then allowed him to wrench the door open against the lock and rush inside.

  He sensed that the alarm wanted to go off. He used his powers to silence it and pulled the door shut behind him, making sure to yank it in tight enough that it warped a little and held.

  The girls outside reached it just as it shut, and their fists pounded furiously on the metal of the barred exit. They were getting soaked out there. He was more than a little damp himself.

  He wondered if they were also hurting one another as they shoved toward the door. He sincerely hoped not. But whatever was happening, the sheer number of them suggested that the door wouldn’t hold for long. All they had to do was work together and it would come open.

  Uriel passed the restrooms on his left and strode toward the science fiction section of the store just beyond the exit foyer. There, he stopped and grimaced. Another mass of girls, nearly as large as the first, was grouped around the front of the store. There must have been a hundred of them. . . . Maybe more.

  The door behind him creaked and then scraped.

  Uriel thought fast and ducked into the women’s restroom. Once inside, he closed his eyes, pressed his back to the wall beside the door, and listened. The exit door of the bookstore gave way beyond and he could hear the group of girls rush into the hallway. They raced by, their Converses squeaking with rainwater on the linoleum tile.

  “You have to memorize a script to act, and the movie you starred in was also turned into a book, so I assumed that you could read.”

  Uriel’s eyes flew open to find a woman and a little girl standing a few feet away, beside the door of the first stall.

  “I was obviously wrong,” she continued. “Because you’ve mistaken the women’s restroom for the ridiculously famous sex symbol restroom—which is next door.”

  Uriel’s heart stopped beating. His jaw dropped open.

  He couldn’t be seeing what he was seeing in that moment. He couldn’t be feeling what he was feeling. Not now. Not here, in a bathroom—after two thousand years. Maybe he’d slipped in the rain outside and hit his head.

  No, that was impossible. He was relatively invincible. Being hit on the head would do nothing to him but make him a little cranky.

  She was really standing there before him. She was real; he could see her, hear her—he could even smell her. She smelled like shampoo and soap and lavender.

  Jesus, he thought, unable to refrain from letting his gaze drop down her body and back up again. She was everything that he had ever imagined she would be, from her tall, slim body to her long jet-black hair, and those indigo blue eyes the color of a Milky Way night. Her skin was like porcelain. Her lips were plump and pink and framed perfect, white teeth. She was an angel.

  She was his archess. And she was . . . scowling at him?

  He frowned.

  The door to the bathroom had shut firmly behind Christopher Daniels, and he clearly had heard what she’d said, but he still just stood there like he was frozen, and Eleanore could not figure out why. “Mr. Daniels, is there something I can help you with?” Eleanore asked.

  She had to admit to herself that when Daniels had first entered the women’s restroom, she’d been taken completely and utterly by surprise. First of all, he was even more handsome in real life than he was in his plethora of press photos. And that wasn’t supposed to be the case at all. Wasn’t there supposed to be loads and loads of makeup involved? Tricks of the light? In real life, didn’t actors have acne and scars and wrinkles and undyed roots for miles?

  In real life, an actor’s eyes didn’t seem to glow the way they did in the movies. But Christopher Daniels’s eyes did. It was nearly eerie, they were so intense. They instantly called to mind the dreams she’d had of him. It was always his eyes she saw just before she woke up. All of the pictures he had plastered across the nation didn’t do them justice. His eyes were the color of arctic icebergs, so very, very light green that they seemed . . . more than human. They were incredibly beautiful.

  She was standing in a restroom, face-to-face with a famous actor who was, quite literally, the most attractive man she had ever seen. And yet he was looking at her as if she were the gorgeous movie star instead.

  And so she was more than a little surprised at herself when, instead of feeling faint and falling all over him like all of the other girls in the world seemed to do, her first instinct had been to stand up to him. For what, exactly, she had no idea. For coming into the girls’ restroom, she guessed. Of all things! What kind of crime was that, exactly?

  Eleanore’s subconscious mind knew the truth. She wasn’t mad at him for coming into the wrong restroom, of course. She was mad at him for being who and what he was: gorgeous—and famous. It was an old brain kind of thing.

  He was obviously hiding. That was clear. And from the sound of the giggling schoolgirls beyond the door, she would wager a guess that it was his fans he was hiding from. The nerve! First, these guys fight tooth and nail to climb their way into fandom, and then they balk at being loved by the masses.

  What was up with that?

  Meanwhile she’d forgotten Jennifer, the little girl she’d come into the bathroom to help in the first place. But Jennifer had clearly noticed Daniels as well. Her hand slipped out of Eleanore’s own as she spoke up. “Miss Ellie made my stomach feel better!” she chimed in, completely out of the blue. “I was throwing up, but she touched my tummy and made it stop.”

  Eleanore paled. Oh no, she thought. Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet—don’t say any more!

  “Which is a good thing,” Jennifer went on, nodding emphatically, “because the throw up made me want to throw up some more.” Jennifer was only about five, but she wasn’t shy. She grimaced and seemed to want to push the memory away with her little hands. “It was so gross.”

  Eleanore felt herself blanching further. She pulled her gaze off the famous actor and looked at the wall. She needed to compose herself. She needed to get a handle on the situation—take control.

  Finally, she rolled her shoulders and looked back up at him.

  She blinked. He was still staring at her in abject fascination. That was fascination, wasn’t it? Not amusement? Maybe he just thought she was mental. . . .

  “Mr. Daniels, I’m going to find Jennifer’s parents and then I would be happy to announce your arrival over the intercom, if you’d like—”

  Daniels pushed himself off the wall and stepped toward her. His motorcycle boots made a heavy thud on the linoleum floor. It sounded dangerous. A warm, erotic warning thrummed through Eleanore’s body.

  “You’re the reason it’s storming,” he said. “Now it makes perfect sense.”

  Eleanore’s world tipped on its axis, and fear gripped her. Her vision began to tunnel. “P-pardon me?” she asked. Her voice sounded hollow to her own ears.

  What is he talking about? He can’t know.

  She almost shook her head against the possibility. She thought about taking a step back, suddenly needing space. But there was a tiny hand in hers, squeezing tight, and she couldn’t escape.

  “You’re a man and this is a girls’ bathroom,” little Jennifer said.

  Christopher Daniels glanced down at the child. Jennifer’s nose was scrunched up and her gaze was reprimanding. The actor seemed to be considering the girl for a moment and then he looked back up at Eleanore.

  “Ellie,” he said softly.

  Eleanore swallowed hard. Her mouth and throat had gone dry. “It’s—it’s Eleanore,” she stammered. And then, realizing that she’d just given out her name and that perhaps she shouldn’t have, she looked away from him and shook her head. “Mr. Daniels,” she tried again. “Excuse me. I really do need to find Jennifer’s parents. She’s just been pretty sick.”

  She brushed past him to push open the door and as she did, the air seemed to thicken around her; it suddenl
y felt cloying and confusing. It took forever to get by the actor; she could feel him watching her as she came near and he made virtually no move to get out of the way. His nearness was electrifying and disarming, his body tall and hard and very real. Time seemed to slow down as she opened the door and stepped out into the store.

  But once she was past him, she walked as quickly as she could with a five-year-old tethered to her arm, which wasn’t very fast at all. She heard footsteps behind her and glanced back to see that Daniels was following her. He kept pace easily, a small, determined smile playing about his lips.

  Christopher Daniels is behind me, Eleanore thought. The famous actor, Christopher Daniels, is behind me! He’s probably looking at my ass. She tried not to groan out loud at that thought. As if it mattered!

  She wasn’t sure what her bottom looked like from his vantage point; she never bothered with the mirror that much in the morning. And she was nearly as horrified by the fact that she cared what she looked like to him as she was by the fact that he seemed to be looking at her. Was he looking at her butt?

  Of course he’s looking at my butt, she thought. He’s a guy! That’s what they do!

  She berated herself for the internal monologue of Clueless-worthy concerns and once more wondered what he’d meant by his storm comment. Did he know that she’d caused the storm? If he did—how?

  There’s no way, she thought. He must have meant something else.

  Eleanore stopped beside the customer service desk and bent to whisper into Jennifer’s little ear.

  “This is our secret, okay?” she said, hoping against hope that the child would catch the urgency with which she made the request.

  Jennifer looked up at her and then glanced over at Daniels, who was leaning against a bookshelf a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression both bewildered and amused. Then she nodded and smiled up at Eleanore, and Ellie’s fear dropped down a notch.