Angel Bait (Angel Assassins #1) (3 page)

She checked her watch. Oren was late. He had twenty minutes before she’d have to bail. A sudden image of her reading the Jobs section of the paper brought a shiver.

Unemployed at twenty-five
.

Ionie scolded herself.
Put on your Wonder Woman Underoos and deal with it.

He’d show. He’d have a lead. She’d land a story worthy of the front page. A nearby celebrity tabloid offered a much needed distraction. She flicked through the pages, eyes scanning the headlines.

Fae Actor Dances with Werewolves in New Film
.

Fangs But No Fangs for Vamp Hottie Band Forsaken.

Remake of Casablanca Stars Demon Heartthrob.

“It was a Monster Mash,” she muttered.

“What’s that you say?”

Ionie looked up to find the newsstand attendant studying her, his unibrow hitched high.

“Nothing.” She replaced the magazine and walked to the curb.

“You showed. I’m impressed.”

She recognized the raspy voice and spun around. Oren had to be the thinnest vampire in existence, all gangly arms and legs, and the loudest wheezing breath she’d ever heard.
No wonder he dealt information for blood. His victims would hear him coming from two states over
.

The vamp looked like an animated corpse, the kind she’d expect in a Halloween fun house. His red eyes darted around in their sunken sockets. She could tell he was strung tighter than a Baby Grand.

“You said you had some info to trade.” She patted her bag with the tip of her finger.

“Not here.”

“I’m heading to Central next. If you want to chat at the station, I’ll hail us a cab.”

Oren’s watery eyes twitched. A walk into the police precinct would mark him for the snitch everyone around town knew him to be. Still, there was a code among lowlifes. They upheld stealth above everything else.

“We’ll talk here.” He glanced past her to the attendant sitting on a stool.

She took several steps away from the attendant. “What do you have for me?”

Ionie waited while Oren gave his surroundings another cautious check. He turned his pasty face to look at her. She suppressed a shudder as his tongue slid across his bottom lip. “Human women are so intriguing.”

She willed herself not to cover her body with her hands, focusing instead on why she was here. She needed a story. A big story. Oren made her skin crawl, but the guy was plugged into Detroit’s underbelly. He’d have some juicy piece of news in his bony head.

“You hear anything interesting, or not?”

He grinned, or maybe it was more of a sneer. She stared at his mouthful of needle-sharp teeth, transfixed.

“This is a big city. People get chatty. What’s your fancy? Werewolves taking over the unions? Vampires opening a medical clinic for the homeless? Angels looking for a good time?”

Her breath lodged in her throat. “What about angels?”

Oren shrugged, but the bastard didn’t elaborate. She fisted her hands, resisting the urge to punch him. After a beat she tugged on the flap of her bag. She reached inside, never taking her eyes off the snitch. The vampire watched with hungry anticipation, more interested in what she carried than the information he was supposed to be sharing. Ionie grabbed one of the plastic bags and pulled the top to the opening.

“Come on,” she urged, “I need more than vague comments before I slake your thirst.”

She kneaded the plastic. The vampire’s gaze latched onto her fingers. He stepped forward, focused on his next meal. She dropped the blood bag and closed the flap, breaking his focus.

“Don’t mess with me, Oren.”

“You toying with me?”

A cool breeze swirled under the collar of her hoodie, a cold reminder of the creature she was dealing with. The short hairs on her neck stood up and her body tensed.

Ionie ignored the shivers vibrating up her spine. “What about the angels?”

Oren appeared to shrink into himself, closing off his hunger. She exhaled when he stepped away.

I need to stop dealing with vamps
.

His beady gaze darted back to the bag. “I may have seen one of the halo brigade poking around the city.”

Her heartbeat jackknifed. Word on the street was angels didn’t mix with other races. The journalist in her ached to ask the winged wonders why, plus a gazillion other questions. The most intriguing question for them had sprouted on the night of her mom’s death. Grams had held her tight, rocking her and wiping away their shared tears.

“Don’t worry, baby girl. Folks say an angel stood over her ‘til the end.” Gram’s voice had been layered in comfort.

An angel
.

Had one tried to save her mom after she’d been caught in the drive-by shooting? The notion had always been irresistible to her news-hound curiosity, and when — not
if
— she cornered one, she’d not only end up with the story of her young career, but she may learn about her mother’s final moments.

But first, she needed to find an angel.

Ionie focused on Oren’s face. She flipped open her bag and removed the contents.

“If I find out you’re lying, this
will
be the last snack pack you get.” She planned to give the vamp a scalding look of disapproval. Instead, she tracked a thick bulb of saliva sliding from Oren’s mouth and down his chin. “Man, when did you last eat?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” She held out the bags. “Vamps need a steady diet, Oren. You go too long without feeding and bad juju happens.”

“It’s against the law to hunt like we should.” He grabbed at the bags with bony fingers.

Ionie clutched the bags to her chest. “No, it’s against the law to murder people to feed your blood lust. There are legal venues for vamps to take care of themselves. I did a Sunday spread on them three months ago.”

A strangled cry ripped from the vampire’s throat. “Those
venues
serve
animal
blood, Scribe. I’d rather starve to death.”

Scribe
. She bristled at the word some non-humans used to describe reporters. Not in a warm, fuzzy sort of way, either. Filthy news whores was a more apt translation.

“Listen, I don’t care if you have to drink cow or rat.” She leaned into Oren’s personal space. “You know the city’s at risk whenever a vamp’s stomach grumbles. If I catch you this hungry again, so help me, I’ll put in a call to the oversight council.”

Yeah, right. She knew she wouldn’t contact the council, not if she wanted to live and work in Detroit. Oren was too minor a player for the species relations organization to worry about; a total waste of the council’s time.

Oren sneered again. A second row of pointy teeth tore through his gums and slid into the thin grooves between the first set. She looked on as his wiry body shook.
Shit, he can smell my bluff like he can sense a paper cut.

His body took on new dimensions, elongating with his growing agitation. She told herself to hold her ground. His red irises scanned her face. The Taser C2 pressed reassuringly against her hip and she resisted the urge to grip it. Even in Oren’s emaciated form she knew he was much stronger than her. She doubted the newsstand attendant would swoop in to stop him from ripping a hole in her throat.

Screw this!

Her Grams didn’t raise a fool. She thrust the blood bags at him, shoving the packages with just enough force to shake the informant from his transformation.

“Bon appétit.” She strode past him. He tore open the bags, slurping the contents in noisy draws. There was no way in hell she’d stick around to watch Oren glut.

She reached the sidewalk and raised her arm to signal a cab. To her surprise, one already moved in her direction. She recognized the driver and a smile spread across her lips.

“Were you waiting for me, Mason?”

From the front seat, the shapeshifter kept a steady gaze on Oren. “You tip well.”

Ionie slid into the back seat and huffed. “I wish. Central, please.”

The car pulled into the early morning traffic and her informant faded into the distance. Her fear eased. Oren wasn’t normally dangerous — at least not when he’d worked with her before — but dealing in blood was risky.

Mason peered at her in the rearview. “How’d your date go?”

“He missed breakfast, which meant time to split.”

The cabbie harrumphed. “Looked like he was eyeing
you
for his next meal.”

“I wouldn’t make a good liquid diet. Too spicy,” she quipped.

“I’ve met a lot of humans, but I can’t figure you out.”

She pressed her back into the soft seat. “What are you trying to figure out?”

Their eyes locked in the mirror. “You deal with vamps. You didn’t blink twice at me. I’m curious why you seem — ”

“Comfortable around Others?” At Mason’s nod, she smiled. “My grandma. She’s big on the ‘we’re all God’s creatures’ mantra. Raised me to judge people on their individual actions, not by what an entire race has done. Humans can be good or bad, Mason. So can Leshii, vamps, and everything in between.”

His deep laughter surprised her.

“What?”

“I didn’t know I had a religious nut for a fare.”

“Hey!” Her laughter filled the cab.

The city was awake now, with traffic the first sign its inhabitants would soon be caught up in their daily grind. She stared out the window.

God, I love it here.

Too soon, Mason pulled the cab into the curved drive outside of Detroit’s Central Precinct, her home away from home. While it idled, she reached for her wallet and grabbed the few loose bills she found.

He waved off the fare. “This one’s on me.”

“What? My money not good enough for you?”

“Save it for all the poor vampires you have to feed.”

“Oh, you’re a riot.” She stared at Mason, waiting to see if he’d change his mind. When he raised a fuzzy brow she figured she’d lose in a battle of wills with the cabbie.

“Fine. I’ll overdose on coffee. My sleepless nights will be on your head.”

He rewarded her with a magnanimous smile. The radiance of it chased away the lingering unease with Oren. She stepped out of the cab, her mind already calculating the numerous hiding places for an angel.

Ascension
.

Jarrid left Tanis’ study in a mind fog and passed by his brethren unseen. Their shouts and laughter from the game room below followed him down the hall. He needed solitude. Only one place inside the Stronghold to go.

He reached the Think Tank, his personal sanctuary, and slid open the heavy metal door. His feet sank into the plush rug, and he crossed to his favorite chair. He settled onto the worn suede, the old wood creaking in protest.

All around him, Detroit came to life. His vantage point was the Think Tank’s enormous glass windows, thick as a baby’s arm and frosted on the outside to keep curious eyes out. Not that anyone could get close enough to the Stronghold to see within. The Directorate had purchased Belle Isle from the City’s founders in 1701, only months after Antoine Cadillac settled the place. The Order had made some improvements to security.

His gaze glided over the walls covered to the rafters with books. He loved the tomes and was a voracious reader. There was little about this world and its inhabitants he couldn’t find in those pages.

He stared out at the city again. Many races lived there in relative peace. The humans seemed to thrive, though they were by far the weakest residents.

Humans
.

Jarrid held scant love for his genetic siblings. He’d spent his life ignoring the half-human part of himself, wishing the DNA would fade into an abyss. Memories of the daily abuse of his youth flooded his mind. He could hear the words as if they were newly spoken.

“You are abominations.”

Jarrid tilted his head to glare at the new angel trainer looming over him in the training quarters. Same as yesterday and the day before. Always with the relentless training!

“Brought into the world in sin, suckled at the breast of a monkey, your existence speaks of the weakness of your fetid blood.” The angel’s voice dripped disgust. “Your sires, lost souls all, will one day be made to repent for their darkness.”

Blah, blah, blah. Way more blah than Jarrid wanted to hear. His hands itched, his emotions broiled. If he had wings, he would have flown from this nightmare ages ago. He forced himself to calm down, just like Tanis had taught them.

He considered the terrifying, yet beautiful, angel ordering him around. The powerful wings at the trainer’s back were covered in a cascade of brilliant white feathers. Pure. He couldn’t shake his malevolent awe. Angels are perfect beings. One day, Jarrid promised himself, he’d prove he was more like them. Maybe then he’d grow wings.

“Day dreaming, bro?” Cain asked. He strode into the library, stopped, and stared out a window.

Too late to be a social call.

Jarrid clasped his hands behind his head and waited until his unexpected guest turned away from the window. “Tell me what’s on your mind. I hate it when you drag shit out.”

“I don’t drag shit out. I’m thinking.”

If Cain’s thinking didn’t spell disaster, nothing would. His brother always tried to get him to loosen up, get in touch with his feelings.

Not going to happen
.

“This hunt may involve a human,” Cain said.

“Yeah?”

“An innocent, Jarrid.”

“Yeah?”

“If you find the woman, she won’t understand much, if anything, about angels and nephilim. Imagine her reaction to seeing a six-foot-five body builder with silver eyes at her door. You’ll scare the shit out of her.”

Jarrid sat up. What did he care about a mortal woman’s reactions? Nothing mattered except catching the Renegade and gaining freedom for his adopted family. “You make no sense. I find the woman. I question her. If she knows the outlaw, I make her tell me. If she’s an innocent, as you claim, I’ll protect her.”

“Are you so cut off from humanity you think this is a viable plan?” Cain rubbed his forehead, a sure sign a lecture brewed in his mind. “First, she may be too overwhelmed by the sight of you to utter anything but nonsense.”