For long moments, Christian didn’t answer. Then he swung around with a frown. “No. He’s one of the old ones.”
“Perhaps his fire’s different. He summoned it as a ball in his hand rather than from the end of a sceptre.”
Christian shook his head but the tension on his face had faded and a spark of hope lit his eyes. He came to stand before her and held out a finger. “One fingertip only.”
She swallowed, spooked by the talk of excruciating pain. Her finger hovered in the air a fraction from his. He closed the distance. As their skin touched, a sound like distant wind whistled in her ears. A rushing sensation flowed through her body. White fire burst from her fingertip and engulfed Christian’s arm.
She squeaked with surprise and yanked her hand back.
“Tricia, are you all right, mon amour?” Christian dropped to a crouch before her, his face a mask of concern.
“It didn’t hurt,” she assured him, embarrassed that she’d made such a fuss.
“When you cried out, I thought you were in pain.” Christian levered himself on to the bench beside her. Before she had time to think, he pulled her into his embrace; his lips pressed against hers. The rushing feeling gradually eased until it was no more than a gentle tickle across her senses. Christian pulled back, blinking in astonishment. Flickers of white fire danced all over him. “I’ve never seen the like. Runihura did more than protect you; he’s given you fire that eclipses mine.”
Tricia stared at him, totally nonplussed. “Why?”
Christian shrugged. “He moves in mysterious ways. What matters is that I can touch you; we can be together.”
He pulled her on to his lap and nuzzled her neck. Tricia giggled at the sudden release of tension. She held out her hand to see if she could summon fire. Instead, a curved dagger with a mother-of-pearl handle appeared on her palm, white fire skating along the blade. She dropped the knife in shock and it disappeared again. “Good gracious, what does Runihura expect me to do with that?”
Christian rubbed his thumb over her lips and flickers of sparkling white fire danced between them, tingling against her skin.
“We have the rest of our lives to find out, mon amour.”
S.J. Day
Eve of Warfare
A Marked Story
“By warfare and exile you contend with her.”
“You want me to babysit cupid?” Evangeline Hollis’ fingertips drummed against the wooden arms of her chair. “You can’t be serious.”
“That is not what I said, Miss Hollis.”
Raguel Gadara’s reply was laced with the compelling resonance unique to archangels. He sat behind his intricately carved mahogany desk in his expansive office with a leisurely sprawl that didn’t fool Eve for a minute. Gadara was watching her like a hawk from beneath slumberous lowered eyelids.
From her seat in one of two brown leather chairs that faced him, Eve raised both brows in a silent prompt for him to explain. The eternal fire crackling in the fireplace to her left and the portrait of the Last Supper decorating the space above the mantel were tangible reminders that her formerly agnostic view of the world was shattered forever.
Her secular world was behind her, displayed to breathtaking effect by the wall of windows overlooking Harbor Boulevard. Gadara Tower sat a few blocks south of Disneyland and California Adventure, just outside the city zoning that ensured no skyrises were visible from inside the amusement parks.
“I said ‘cherub’,” the archangel reiterated. As he leaned back in his chair, the diamond stud in his right ear caught the light. “We received a report of suspicious activity in San Diego. Zaphiel has been sent to address it and requires an escort.”
Eve’s guard went up. Raguel’s job on earth was to manage the infestation of Infernals in North America. Why would a cherub intercede? And why wasn’t Raguel more upset about that? All the archangels were intensely ambitious. It didn’t make sense for him to concede any power to anyone, even an angel of considerably higher rank. “I get that pairing him with me instead of giving him a full contingent of your personal guards sends a message that you’re annoyed, but as far as impact goes, it’s more of a ‘meow’ than a ‘roar’.”
“I send no message,” Raguel denied, attempting to look innocent, which was impossible.
“Right.” Diplomacy and showmanship were utilized just as often in the celestial underground as they were in the secular world. The cherubim topped the angelic hierarchy. Even the seraphim ceded rank to them. Exposing such a high-level celestial to her bad demon karma was stupid enough to have a really clever motive behind it. “I asked for you.”
The rumbling masculine voice was dangerously soft. Eve turned her head, knowing a small, childlike figure just didn’t fit that mature voice but she was still unable to shake the image of a chubby baby with tiny wings and a big diaper.
Catching sight of Zaphiel, she blinked. Holy shit.
He was massive. Ripped with muscle and terribly beautiful, with eyes of the same blue hue found at the heart of a flame, and golden hair that hung past his shoulders. Fan-fuckin-tastic. There was only one reason angels and demons went out of their way to get to her: they wanted to irritate the two men in her seriously screwed-up romantic life — Cain and Abel. They went by the names Alec Cain and Reed Abel in present day, but they were the infamous brothers of biblical legend nevertheless.
She glanced at Gadara. “This really isn’t a good idea.”
The archangel smiled. That flash of pearly white teeth within the framework of coffee-dark skin told her he had an ulterior motive for agreeing.
“I have every faith in you,” he said, practically purring.
Oh boy. Not too long ago (back in her old life) working for Gadara Enterprises had been a career dream of hers. Raguel Gadara was a real estate mogul rivalling Donald Trump and Steve Wynn, with property developments all over North America just begging for an interior designer of Eve’s calibre. In reality, however, the dream turned into a nightmare. Her years of interior design education and experience had been relegated to the sidelines of her “real” job: demon bounty hunting.
“Time to go, Evangeline,” Zaphiel said, jerking his head imperiously toward the private elevator that would take them down to the lobby level. The deliberate use of her name cemented the suspicion that she was — yet again — being used as a pawn in a bigger game.
It was a game she didn’t play well; something the cherub would be figuring out soon.
Eve stood. In her former life, she’d be sporting Jimmy Choo stilettos and a svelte pencil skirt. As a Mark — one of thousands of sinners cursed with the Mark of Cain — she was wearing Doc Martens and worn jeans. The thick, straight black hair she’d inherited from her Japanese mother was pulled back in a simple ponytail. Dressing for the job was 24/7; Marks never knew when they’d be called out to vanquish a rogue demon.
She walked to the cherub, expecting him to shift/teleport them to wherever it was he wanted to go, but he just smiled smugly.
“You will drive me,” he pronounced.
“O-kay. .” Moving on to the elevator, she pressed the call button.
Within minutes, they were buckling into her red Chrysler 300. When she glanced at him for directions, he told her to drive toward Anaheim Hills. As he spoke, a pair of sunglasses appeared on his face, reminding her that he was yanking her chain by making her drive to their destination.
She pulled out of the shadows of the subterranean parking lot and into the bright Southern California sunshine. Grabbing her Oakley sunglasses from the centre console, she put them on.