Angel of Darkness (The Fallen #1)(60)

“Good.” She barred her sharp teeth in a cold smile. “He”—her hand tightened on Keenan’s—“knows, too.”

Az measured her with his gaze. “With all that you’ve done, are you worried about what the afterlife will hold for you, vampire?” He offered her a smile in return, and it wasn’t pretty.

“I know why you were on the church steps that night ...” He whispered the words. “You would have gotten a free pass that night. Straight upstairs then, but now ... now fate will be different for you.”

“Get out of here, Az!” Keenan snarled, his control fragmenting.

Az didn’t move.

“You wanted another chance, didn’t you?” Az asked. “But that’s not what you got, you got—”

Keenan raced across the room and plowed his fist into the angel’s jaw. The smash of bones and flesh felt good. Az flew back. The angel crashed through the door frame and stumbled outside.

“Guess what that is, buddy?” Keenan followed him out, and Nicole ran at their heels. “It’s called pain.” Time for the angel to start learning how humans lived.

Az picked himself up slowly. He lifted a hand to his jaw. His eyes narrowed. “No—you can’t—”

“I can see you.” Keenan stalked closer. “I can touch you. And if you try to come at me again—or send any of the others after us—I will kick your ass.”

Az’s jaw clenched. “You can’t.”

“Yes, well, until about five seconds ago, I’m guessing you didn’t even think I could deck you—think again.” His hands clenched into fists. “The rules in this game are changing.”

“Because you say so? Who are you to judge?” Fire there, cracking through the ice of Az’s words. “You’re an angel whose wings burned. You were cast down to live in this hell ...”

“Watch it,” Nicole warned. “I rather like this place.”

Az’s lips tightened.

“How does it feel?” Keenan pressed.

That blue stare cut to him.

Keenan smiled. “The anger is better than never feeling anything, isn’t it?”

Az’s wings folded down behind his back. Ah, his control was coming back as that slight break in emotion vanished. “You don’t want me as an enemy.”

“No, Az, you don’t want me as one.” He shrugged and opened his arms. “I’ve already fallen. What do I have to lose now?”

Wrong words.

Az’s stare immediately shifted to Nicole. “What indeed.”

Keenan lunged forward.

But he moved too late. Wind whipped against his face as Az’s words floated in the air, “I’ll be seeing you, Keenan.”

The angel vanished.

But Keenan knew Az would be back. After all, angels never lied. They could twist the truth, confuse and beguile, but they couldn’t lie.

Neither could the Fallen.

If you try to come at me again—or send any of the others after us—I will kick your ass.

His words to Az had been a promise.





The sun beat down on Carlos Guerro as he sauntered down the New Orleans street. Sweat trickled down his face, but he didn’t care. He’d long grown used to the heat.

He was alone on this hunt. That was the way he wanted to be. The day he couldn’t kill a gang of humans on his own ...

He turned the corner and found the old bar, just off Bourbon Street. The place was open now, of course, even though it was barely one o’clock in the afternoon.

His eyes narrowed as he went inside. Dim interior. They probably kept the lights that way so the folks didn’t notice how worn the furniture was or see how the cracked mirror in the back hung haphazardly. The darker a place was, the better it tended to look.

His prey waited to the left. Six men slumped in chairs. Bruises covered the men, and blood stained their clothes. He inhaled, a nice, deep pull, and caught the scent he needed—vampire. Not just any vamp though. Her.

Following her hadn’t been easy, even with the speed of the private plane he’d chartered. But then, he didn’t really like the easy hunts. He’d found a sheriff just over the state line who’d survived her attack. Then he met a female cop in San Antonio who’d been pissed to hell and back about the prisoner who’d escaped.

The San Antonio cop hadn’t been as guarded as the sheriff, so he’d known he could push her. Carlos had flashed his own badge. It paid to keep a fake one, he’d learned that long ago. Once she’d realized she was talking to a brother in blue, the cop had opened up and revealed all about the escapee.

Nicole St. James. Age twenty-nine. Ex-school teacher who’d snapped one night and killed a man in a New Orleans alley. Minutes after that kill, she’d attacked a cop.

Since that night, Nicole St. James had turned full-on psychotic killer. Two more men met her, then bled for her. The female cop had said St. James was a serial killer. One who got off on slicing the throats of her victims and drinking their blood.

Good story, but he knew it was bullshit. The serial killer story was often used to cover Other crimes.

Carlos motioned to the bartender. “Whiskey.”

Voices rumbled around him as the glass slid across the table. He took a deep breath, inhaling more of that elusive scent. Then he drained the glass and the fire of the liquid burned his throat. Oh, but it was a good burn. His eyes narrowed as he studied his whispering prey. The group of bikers looked pissed—and in pain. He wondered about them. Did they pretend the world was normal, too, or did they screw the rules?