So long as Zaqiel knew a Sinistari was with the muse, the angel would not approach her. But it was in the angel’s interest to keep his muse in sight, for he could not track her by scent but only by the identifying mark. Though the angelkiss made all senses unnecessary.
If the muse irritated the angelkiss, it acted like a beacon.
Ashur did not want to use the angelkiss until he had the woman in a space he could control.
Slender fingers gripped him tightly about the waist, clinging to the front of his shirt. He’d gained a mortal’s raiments after surfacing from Beneath. Upon arrival following his summons, Ashur had taken a look around, seen what the mortal men were wearing and had assimilated the trousers, shirt, jacket and boots.
A few minutes observing the men and their motored bikes, and he had learned the driving technique. He’d stolen a bike, leaving behind a crew of leathered bikers shouting at him as they struggled to start their own vehicles. Only one had managed to follow him, but he’d given him the slip.
He’d sacrificed valuable time gathering a few essential tools of this realm, and because of his delay the Fallen was still alive. Yet the angel would have never attempted the woman out in the open with witnesses. Or would he?
The world had changed. Ashur expected everything else—including the Fallen—had changed, as well.
“Drive under there,” she said, pointing toward a slope in the street that lunged beneath a towering cement building. “It’s my building. You can park underneath in the garage.”
Ashur took in the rows of shiny metal vehicles as he rolled slowly down into the cool, lighted garage. Man had come a long way from the horse-drawn carts he recalled. The improvement was unnecessary to judge from the huge, dense city where he suspected most could walk to and from their destinations.
And yet the motortzed vehicles were bright and loud. He must get one of those if he were to spend any amount of time here. He slowed and read the words on the back of a vehicle that appealed—Ferrari.
Concentrate, Ashuriel. Do you fall to the old sins so quickly?
Heh. Sins? He’d mastered them all. And with ease. Mortal sins were not considered evil or wrong to his kind. In fact, indulgence was a way of life.
Theft had come easily, without thought. Vanity, well, he wasn’t sure if the clothing he wore was the finest, but he was clothed.
Lust? Well, that suited him fine. He vaguely recalled that particular mortal sin now as the woman’s fingers impressed upon his chest. Though the particular elements that designed the sin had been lost to him over years of desolation. He knew it had involved touch and emotion and intense physicality. It would come to him, surely.
Violence would be granted when he shoved Dethnyht into the angel’s glass heart.
Parking the motorbike, he pulled out the key, sensing he’d need it to restart the thing. He waited for the muse to slide off behind him. He could feel her head pressed against his back and her fingers didn’t so much dig into his chest as affix themselves to it.
Touch. He pressed a palm over her narrow fingers. Yes, he’d forgotten the pressure of another person’s flesh against his own. So odd how he could feel her warmth even through the shirt. It shimmered through him and—He must stop regarding the sensation.
“We’re here,” he said. “It is safe now.”
An easy lie. One thing he did remember was the muse was always frantic and inconsolable upon learning her fate—which was usually seconds before the Fallen attempted her. “My lady?”
“Huh? Oh.” She slid off and tugged at her torn skirt. It revealed so much of her fine, long legs, Ashur had to steel the sudden desire to stroke his thumb along her thigh. “Sorry. You were … nice to hold on to.”
Ashur lingered on her smile, knowing it was a distraction, but unable to resist.
He slid from the bike and tugged off the heavy leather jacket to offer to her. “Here. Your skirt is torn. This will cover your legs.” And keep his eyes from straying.
“It’s not torn.” She dashed a finger along the hem, which upon closer inspection didn’t look torn, rather straight, but it was above her knees. “You’ve never seen a miniskirt before?” She smirked. Somewhere she’d lost her shoes and she stepped on the balls of her feet. “Would you, um, give me back my blade?”
“Why?”
“It’s mine. And if you don’t, I’m going to scream.”
She sought a show of trust. Ashur handed her the blade, and she clasped it to her chest, yet not in defense. Foolish woman.
“Thank you. So, that man. He’s a real angel?”
Ashur detected a lightness in her tone that didn’t seem right after what she’d been through.
“I mean.” She absolutely beamed at him. “I’ve always wanted to see one. And everyone has always made me think I’m a nut for believing in them. But if he was the real thing I really need to know because that would mean I’m not crazy, and—”
“Yes,” Ashur blurted out, mostly to stop her from rambling. “Zaqiel is a real angel. A Fallen one.”
She sucked in the corner of her lip and her eyes flashed brightly. The shadows and shades of gray the world offered him shimmered about her and expanded into a brilliant aura of white. Something inside her wanted to explode, Ashur felt, yet she restrained it by tensing her muscles, and then she did a strange move by bending her arm up and pumping it once. A triumphant gesture?
“Come on,” she said, turning and rushing away from the parked motorbike. “I suppose I at least owe you a drink for saving my life. If you could call that a save. You coming?”
He followed her into a small box with doors that closed automatically behind him. The interior was lined with mirrors and a panel of blinking buttons. He recognized the numbers and assumed she knew what she was doing.
“You called this an angelkiss,” she said, stretching out her forearm.
“Yes, and don’t scratch it.” Not yet.
“And why did you lick it? Is that some kind of new pickup move I’m not keen on?”
“My saliva counteracts the angelkiss for a while, but it’s obviously wearing off if you are feeling the need to scratch. Whatever you do, Six, don’t scratch it. It acts as a beacon to Zaqiel. It is the only way he can track you and I’m not yet prepared to face him. I want you in a secure place first.”
“Right.”
He could sense her fear, but he also sensed her strange fascination. It put out a sweet odor that intrigued him. It had been so long since he had experienced the mortal condition. She was still traumatized. Her fingers shook minutely and she worried her lower lip. A pretty, thick lip that held his attention until the doors opened with an alarming ding.
“Did you call me Six?” she asked as she strode down a white marble hallway carved with elaborate designs. Steps bouncing, she appeared giddy. “What’s that about? I do have a name.”
“I don’t want to know your name.”
She glanced over her shoulder. Deep, dark eyes dusted by long lashes took him in. Ashur couldn’t determine if they had color; the world—which he knew should be in color—was revealed only in black, white and shades of gray to him. For now.
“Sounds kinky to me,” she said.
“Kinky?”
“Yeah, you—Sorry. It’s not every day I’m chased by an angel. Will we see him again?”
“Soon. Surely.” Ashur quickened his steps to join her before a door where she tapped in some numbers on a lighted panel. “Six.” He took her arm gently and turned it up to display the mark. The Roman numeral six sat on the surface of her skin, the color dark like her hair. “That is your sigil.”
“It’s a birthmark. It does kind of look like a six. But seriously, I’m not going to answer to a stupid number—”
He gripped the door as she pushed it in, stopping her abruptly. “Do not give me your birth name. Please. It is easier this way.”
“No commitment with fake names?” she asked. “Easier to walk away?”
“Trust me.”
