Archangel Rafe (A Novel of The Seven Book 1) (31 page)

Jehudiel: The Archangel of Illumination and Wisdom. His weapon is a three-pronged whip.

Latifa: (located between the eyebrows, known as the Khafi, or the Hidden) the spirit is removed from the body from the same point it entered.

Michael: The head Archangel and Leader of the Seven. His weapon is a dagger.

Nephilim: Hybrid half angel/half human beings who brought destruction to the earth. Presumed dead from the Great Flood.

Raphael: The Archangel of Healing. His weapons are his hands.

Remiel: Leader of the Grigori, the fallen angels. The eighth Archangel who fell.

Sage: A human angel with the power to see beneath the surface to true meaning and make connections. Reports to Jed

Samael: The Archangel of Love and Joy. His weapon is the cross bow.

Transition: When a full human makes the transition to Angel after his or her Archangel transfers the power of Vis viva.

Translocation: Act of moving from place to place and between Realms by rearranging body matter through disintegration and materialization.

Un ange avec le pouvoir
déviant
: A rare angel with deviant powers

Uriel: The Archangel of Birth and Renewal. His weapon is fire.

Vis viva: Angel’s source of power

Excerpt of Blowback

Here is a peek at the first book in the Black Cipher Files Romantic Suspense series....

Blowback (bloʹ bak)
n.
A deadly, unintended consequence of a covert operation.

Eerie blue light penetrated my consciousness first. The regulated thump-thump of tires pounded in my head, echoing with fierce resonance.

Where the hell was I? Why did I feel like this?
I kept my eyes closed, knowing pretense was paramount to my survival. Wherever I was, it wasn’t normal.

Ha. My life would never be normal.

I tracked back to my last memory. I’d hooked up with a guy. Had relatively indiscriminate sex with him.

I inhaled shallowly, carefully, not wanting to give away anything. I still smelled like sex. Really great sex.

I wanted to smile but kept my expression lax.

I’d longed to stay in that bed. Sleep with him. Just sleep with the comforting warmth of another human being. The ache had been so intense that as soon as he dozed off--I left.

That
was my last memory.

“You can stop pretending.”

I continued to fake sleep. I didn’t know that male voice. It was bland, not angry, but with a slight smirk, as if he knew something I didn’t.

“You should be awake by now. We calibrate our doses very carefully.”

That statement raised so many questions, I decided to comply with his unspoken request and let my eyes drift open. I calculated we were moving at a speed of about thirty miles per hour. Suburban, blacked out windows, bulletproof glass. The blue light came from the interior dome in the big SUV.

“The light is to protect your eyes. The drug affects your pupil’s ability to dilate and contract.”

What drug?
I kept silent.

“Not very curious, are you?”

My last conscious memory was from the motel off of 295 near Alexandria around nine in the evening. It was pitch dark out now, so I’d been out for awhile.

Lucas. Could the guy have been a plant? Possible. Since he was my last clear memory, it made sense.

I sifted through the spaghetti of my brain. For the past two days, I’d been undercover, shadowing Staci Grant’s life. Last night, I’d encountered Lucas Goodman, who’d been looking for Staci and thought he’d found her when he found me. The sexual heat between us had been instantaneous and mutual. A few sweaty hours later, I’d left, confident my movements as Staci had been tracked. My cover had been working.

They’d kidnapped Staci.

Excellent.

I was right where I needed to be.

Excerpt of Stone Cold Heart (Family Stone Romantic Suspense series)

Family Stone #1 Jess

In the early evening dusk, Jess Stone lay on her stomach in the twenty foot high rubble of a demolished church, underneath a black and gray city-scape tarp intended to camouflage her position. A sharp-edged chunk of debris dug into her lower rib cage, the scope of the Remington M24 cool and familiar against her face.

Her standard uniform of jeans, running shoes, and plain black t-shirt rendered her just another anonymous and transient relief worker...which she was actually. A black baseball cap hid her distinctive multi-hued blonde hair. The paper mask kept out the contaminated dust from the destroyed buildings but did little to stem the overwhelming stench of decaying bodies.

Tanks rumbled through the destroyed coastal town, their public address system blasting warnings for citizens to stay in their homes, curfew was in effect. The threat was a joke. Ninety percent of the people in the town didn't have homes left. Those who did were terrified to go back inside. In the fetid, humidity choked air, the tent cities erected in the parks and on the beach were seething masses of the injured and shock struck.

The substandard construction in the small country had never been enough to withstand the angry might of Mother Nature. Buildings had toppled like a stack of Tinkertoys, and left crumbling cement walls with twisted rebar poking out of the jagged ruins like a skeletal hand.

Trapped in the concrete pieces that littered the ground, the heat from the tropical day seared through her thin sturdy clothing. The stank of the raw sewage that ran in rivulets through the streets overpowered the salt-laden breeze off the ocean. People, covered with the grit of pulverized buildings and humans, shuffled along with blank vacant stares. Two weeks after the quake, still in shock, their lives decimated first by nature and then kicked and beaten by the ineffectiveness of a flawed relief system. Hundreds of humanitarian agencies had descended on the population duplicating efforts and yet completely missing the need in other areas. The government was ostensibly trying to coordinate the effort, however the mass chaos was undeniable.

Through the Leupold Ultra M3 fixed power sight, she tracked the movements of Henri LeRoy, leader of this tiny island nation, violator of human rights and dignity, and all around poor excuse for a human being.

Sickness roiled in her stomach. The power bar she’d eaten for breakfast threatened to add to the rubble pile as she tried to figure out how in the hell she'd ended up here. Back behind a sniper rifle with the power over life and death trembling in the muscles of her right trigger finger.

Dammit. When she'd decided to take control of her life and quit the FBI, she hadn't wanted to do this anymore.

She'd wanted to be a simple relief worker. She'd wanted to connect with her family, brothers and mother.

But that bitch, fate, had slapped her upside the head and now here she was, where she'd sworn she never wanted to be again. Looking through the scope of a high-powered rifle, with a crystal clear head shot and a murky sense of right and wrong.

With little fanfare, she could blast LeRoy's brain matter all over the silk-covered walls and the antique Louis the XIV scrolled chairs in the receiving room of his ridiculously elegant weekend mansion which, since built properly, had sustained minimal damage. Her muscles twitched with the knowledge and acceptance that with one slow slide of her finger, the despotic, amoral leader would be history.

Jess didn't want to kill him, didn't want to be directly responsible for another death. She didn't want this choice. She’d given up this kind of life. She'd left the FBI after a series of high stress cases to get away from the doubt and guilt that had crippled her. To make her own decisions about right and wrong rather than carry out the commands of her bosses.

But if Henri LeRoy lived, chances were astronomical that many other citizens would die.

And yeah, she'd probably been manipulated into this. Actually no probably about it. Assassination had not been listed as one of her duties when she'd joined Global Humanitarian Relief. Damn her brother anyway.

But now all she could do was lay here in the desecrated remains of the former church and hope that her special skill set wouldn't be needed.

Fortunately, she was secondary backup.

And unless several things went horribly wrong, she would break down her weapon, get back to the relief aid encampment, back to actually helping people, and be out of here without ever firing her rifle.

Then she could hand out seed packets to her heart's content and figure out what she was going to do next. If she'd stay with GHR and her brothers, or go. First, she had to get through the next two hours.

But if something did go wrong...she prayed that if she was called upon, she could make the right decision. Make the shot. Cold zero.