The Forsaken(7)

“Like Hell,” she said, twisting around to confront him face-to-face.

Demon daggers looked more inviting than the leader’s pale blue eyes as they narrowed in contempt. Her jaw clenched shut so hard he heard the click of her teeth, and her knife cut deeper into his throat, causing more of his golden-hued blood to flow down his throat and onto his collar.





Chapter Two


“Izzy!” Meredith’s call cut through the taut-wire tension.

Isabella sliced her Cherub sister and best friend a silencing look.

“I think it best if you remove your knife, sister.”

The reprimand came from Shea, the only Cherub in the group who still attended worship four times a day. Shea’s hair fell in curly waves to her waist. Shea, who had to be forced to wear the on-stage costume, tended to follow proper decorum, praying for the day the heavenly gates once again accepted them. It wasn’t in Izzy to tell her again and again that those gates had been sealed shut from the likes of them.

Izzy was seventeen, and like all her fellow sisters hadn’t aged a day since cursed from the heavens. Izzy viewed it as a sick part of the Mistress punishment.

Now this Seraphim angel with his gray eyes that declared “I’m the man” had invaded their homemade haven. Anger rooted itself like a fast growing vine, twisting in her gut. This must be part of my penance. The Seraphim looked to be a little older than her seventeen years. She judged him to be about nineteen. Charcoal-colored hair—cut to human military precision—marked him a Sere, a step below becoming a full-fledged Sera warrior. Then he’d let his hair grow to the traditional shoulder length. To become Sera, he must first find his b’i?, preordained by the Mistress, of course.

That’s the reason he is here. Not to rescue me or us, but so he can become a true angel warrior. We don’t really matter to him…I’m just a means to his advancement.

“I take it you are Isabella.”

In typical Seraphim fashion, he was bossy and demanding. She loathed him instantly. Giving into Meredith’s wishes, she removed her knife, cutting him a crafty look.

Izzy didn’t say anything. Instead, she waited for him to press.

“You’re also the Cherub from the alley.” It wasn’t a question, and she noted how he avoided stating the obvious. She had saved his ass.

Izzy was pleased with her restraint. Swearing only earned her more ink on her body and since she had a temper, she was beginning to think it wise to refrain from cursing out loud. The last thing I want is for humans to notice me more and think of me as a freak show. While some might think the Hebrew word inked in the traditional semicursive lettering of Rashi script that was burned into her flesh, was a work of art, Izzy thought it was a bloody mad itch. Only Meredith knew the true extent of the curse the Mistress leveled at her.

“Yeah, I’m the Cherub who killed the demons you had drawn to the area. You’re lucky I was on my way home. Otherwise you’d be enjoying the fires of…”

“I’d gathered that myself, Izzy.”

“Isabella,” she corrected. No way did she want her nickname rolling off his tongue.

He nodded. The movement one of casual grace. She gritted her teeth. She wanted nothing to remember her homeland or traditions and this guy, in less than five minutes, had her recalling everything she’d lost.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Her palms were sweaty, but she resisted wiping them on her leather pants.

“Wondering where else you might be hiding knives, my b’i?.”

Isabella got right into his face. “Never. Do not ever call me that. I am not, nor ever will I be your…your, oh Hell. I’ll never be your heavenly wife.” Izzy gasped as the fresh burn from the use of the swear word, Hell, caused more Rashi script to scorch her right butt cheek.

Turning on her heels, she stomped up the stairs all the way to the third floor of the apartment building. She knew it was a childish thing to do, but she didn’t care. It wasn’t like she had a mother or any other freaking adult to yell at her for her rude behavior. Two years ago, when they’d gotten kicked out of the heavens, the seven of them had quickly learned they needed to band together and work toward a common goal. Getting the Mistress to allow them back into the heavenly realm had been their first priority while assimilating into mankind. Now Izzy’s task was to keep her sisters safe and make their lives on Earth bearable.

“Why aren’t you at the Cherub safe house?” asked the Seraphim called Nathanael.

She tried to recall him but couldn’t. In fact, born of the house of Raphael, she wondered if he knew it had been his father who had severed her wings. Izzy hadn’t thought of her wingless form in years, and doing so now made her want to cry. Tears, she’d learned, were useless. Her sisters always took care to keep their own wings invisible and that act of kindness, while warming her heart, still felt like a slap in the face. She, no matter what, would never be angel again.

“Never fear, Seraphim. We went, but realized fast we were better on our own. After a few short months here we have established our own place on Earth. M’sumli sere q’ulat ch’eei—welcome to our blessed dwelling, Sere.”

“What did you say?”

“If you can’t recognize civility, far be it for me to—”

“What do you mean?” His voice sounded agitated. “How many months have you been here?”