Ashes of Angels by Michele Hauf Page A

head against the wall. Sharp and piercing, the angelic cry heated her veins. She thought her blood would boil and bubble through her skin—
    And then it stopped. And she heard nothing, only muffled thumping noises—her heart. The angel’s cry had affected her hearing.
    Gripping the railing and pulling herself to a wobbly stand, she gasped, which succeeded in popping her ears and restoring some sound. A swirl of dark glitter fluttered about the shirtless angel. Arms extended out, wings stretched high along the wall and ceiling, the angel was bathed in the demon’s ashy remains. The halo dripped with black tar, the demon’s blood.
    The angel had defended her honor. Go, Fallen one!
    Yet Sam’s wings were out.
    That shocking realization shifted her instincts to overdrive. She started for her loft then paused. That choice would trap her.
    She raced down the hall to the door that led to the roof. Without stopping to see if Sam followed, she grabbed the stairwell door. With luck, he would be so enthralled by his kill she could slip away unnoticed.
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    Samandiriel shook off the demon ash from his arms and with a flick of the halo to shed the demon blood, he replaced it at his hip. He toed the pile of ash.
    â€œI was quicker,” he muttered. “But you gave good fight. Rest peacefully, brother.”
    Briefly, he wondered if the soul bringer would arrive for this one, but wasn’t sure if the Sinistari possessed a soul. If he had indeed Fallen the same time as he had, that meant the Sinistari’s halo had fallen away, too. He did not possess a soul. And Sam knew for certain the demon did not hold souls captive in his heart, as he did.
    That was a hazard of teaching mortals the craft of silversmithing. An act he could hardly regret, even if those souls had been imprisoned inside him for countless millennia, never allowed to move on to either Above or Beneath.
    Stretching back his shoulders, he worked his wings along the walls until he found a comfortable position for them. He’d not intended to bring them out, but seeing the Sinistari shove the muse had bruised his resolve. The wings felt heavier while here on earth. Or perhaps it was that weaker mortal flesh and bone could never serve him as well as he required.
    The slayer was dead—just punishment, after his cruel treatment of the muse—but Sam bowed his head in reverence for his Fallen brother.
    Footsteps scampered nearby, and Sam glanced up to see a pair of boots, attached to a very desirable female, swing around a corner and up a stairway.
    â€œThe muse.”
    He caught a whiff of her luscious perfume. Mint entwined with vanilla spice. The scent permeated his pores and swirled within his being, winding deep into his core. Want emerged as a powerful burst of desire.
    He wanted to taste the muse. To wrap his hands about her soft skin and pull her close to his body. To experience the pleasures only she could give him. For the Fallen could experience pleasure only with his muse; no common, mortal female would serve.
    Inhaling, he drowned his senses with her teasing scent, spritzed over skin the color of crushed cacao. He wavered, slapping a palm to the wall to steady his dizzied senses.
    This is what you Fell for. Take her. Receive the mortal flesh .
    â€œMust…have.”
    Darting up the stairs, his wings dragged along the ceiling, cutting a jagged line in the plaster. He rounded the corner and sighted the boots again. Jumping the steps, he pounced onto the square landing between the two levels of stairs and swept up a wing to block the muse from running higher.
    She screamed and punched at his jaw and chest, delivering a random yet skilled defense that made him chuckle.
    The sigil at her wrist glowed brightly, and he knew his own did as well for it flared hot at his hip. He moved in closely, trapping her against the rough cinder-block wall. The Taser dropped to the floor.
    Her brown eyes grew wide and fearful. She tried