Angel Bait (Angel Assassins #1) Read online

  Angel Bait

  Tricia Skinner

  Avon, Massachusetts

  This edition published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, Ohio 45242

  www.crimsonromance.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Tricia Skinner

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-6515-5

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6515-1

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-6516-3

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6516-8

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  This is a dpgroup exclusive.

  To Jon, my sweetheart, and to Rowan, my little angel.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Acknowledgments

  I’m thrilled for this opportunity to thank a few people for their help and support on my road to publication. Every pep talk, thumbs up, constructive feedback, shoulder to cry on, free drink, free lunch, chocolate cookie, or confirmation that my sanity wasn’t compromised, made it possible for Angel Bait to find a home.

  To Jon, my husband, thank you for keeping me on course. I love you. To Rowan, my son, I hope seeing your mommy’s book one day inspires you to follow your heart and dreams.

  To my family — Madeline, Jimmy, Natalie, Patrick, Frances, Lawrence, Katie and Logan — I send thanks for the enthusiasm you showed for this book long before a contract appeared.

  Thanks to the FF&P Mud Puddle for great critiques, and bonus appreciation to my good friends and super supporters Paula Millhouse, Amber Belldene, and Celia Breslin.

  Cathy Yardley, thank you for rocking my plot and teaching me to write like lightning.

  Huge thanks to Suzanne Frank, director of the Writer’s Path at Southern Methodist University. You believed in me and never stopped.

  Dr. Janet Harris, you were a lifeline. Thank you.

  Thank you, Michele Mrak, Gary D. Swaim, and Rosa Sommers of the Department of Graduate Liberal Studies at SMU.

  Thank you to my friends at The Guildhall at SMU, especially Rene Archambault, Brad Hansen, and Du Ngu.

  Annie Seaton, thank you for the “tweaks.”

  Finally, a million thanks to Jennifer Lawler and Terese daly Ramin at Crimson Romance. Thank you for seeing something in “my boys” and giving my book a chance to shine.

  CHAPTER ONE

  In a nondescript alley on Detroit’s lower west side, the autumn night concealed Jarrid like a second skin. He clenched his jaw, stifling a yawn, and for the tenth time since he’d set watch he wondered how in hell he’d pulled such a lame assignment. Annoyance nibbled at his patience. He wouldn’t question Tanis’ orders, but his boss had to know this job was beneath an assassin with his experience.

  Stay focused.

  He slid his finger down his shoulder strap to touch the first dagger, then its twin, nestled deep in the harnesses along his sides. He expelled a quiet breath. Bored or not, he had a job to do before he could leave this stinking hole and return home to the Stronghold.

  “I ain’t paying them shit!” The target jabbered into a cell phone, ignorant of his impending visit. The high-pitched voice reverberated in the narrow space, loud enough to attract unwanted attention.

  What an ass. Jarrid surveyed the area again. He didn’t need a bunch of tourists snapping pictures.

  He straightened, his back resting against the cold bricks behind him, and studied the man. The target’s clothes cast him as Joe Businessman. Chintzy gold cufflinks. A ho-hum tie. From the shoulders up, though, the man was a dark elf, just like the current US Secretary of State. The target’s long, white hair flowed thick around his ebony neck and was tucked behind elongated, pointed ears.

  Hello, YuL of Elven. At least this soon-to-be dead guy piqued his interest. Usually dark elves preferred to conduct their money laundering in third-world locations with slipshod law enforcement. This one had made friends in high places. Then he’d betrayed them, which made the elf Jarrid’s problem. Too bad the job included an interrogation clause. Talking meant he had to listen to them beg, see them shit themselves, watch them cry.

  Thank you, no. I’ll pass. He’d rather kill them clean and move on.

  All Others and humans knew the Eternal Order enforced angel law, and most species who dared to deal with Heaven stayed out of trouble. Not this prizewinner. Jarrid glared at the fool who’d tried to wheedle out of a bargain with Heaven. Not surprising, the angels weren’t big on forgiveness.

  “Oh, right. I’m supposed to bend over and take it?” YuL dragged a hand through his hair. “Look, I want to make a new deal. Tell Azriel I have information. I’ll trade it for the money I owe.”

  This better be worth my time. Jarrid rolled his neck, cracking away the tension worming into his muscles. He corded his back like a cat until his body relaxed.

  The elf shoved the phone into his pocket and muttered to himself. Jarrid stepped from the dark hiding place between the two abandoned buildings.

  “Jesus Christ!” YuL slammed back against a wall, his mouth a gaping sinkhole.

  “I get that a lot.” Jarrid stepped closer. “I don’t think he’d appreciate the comparison.”

  He shifted his leather coat, flashing the arsenal attached to his body. Curved daggers sheathed near his rib cage. Two Desert Eagle Mark XIX’s strapped to his hips and a belt of bullets around his waist. Another dagger secured to his thigh.

  Jarrid advanced.

  “Ke a’tu mul-dab ven,” YuL said.

  The magical chant struck Jarrid in a low rush of air. He grabbed the elf, lifting him off the ground, and eyeballed him. “You trying to piss me off?”

  Swirls of mist rose around his feet, covering his legs and boots. The mist thickened and rolled up his body, wavering. Then it darkened.

  “Globe of darkness? Seriously?” He fought a grin and released the elf. Some elves trained in dark magic, and this idiot had obviously paid attention in sorcery class. The unmistakable sound of scuffling slipped inside the now-opaque globe. Did the elf have a weapon?

  Jarrid sighed and closed his eyes, focusing on the half of his nature impervious to parlor tricks. Grace, his angelic power, sparked inside him. He opened himse
lf to the coolness inside his body. Then the first twinge of pain surfaced, tingling under his skin like a thousand needles hooked to an electric generator. He ignored it and opened his eyes.

  “Oh, God. Oh, shit,” YuL shrieked.

  Yeah, he got that a lot too. With his power revved up, Jarrid knew his silver eyes glowed like two solar flares in the middle of a black hole. The mist dwindled to a thin smoke. He stepped out of the inky sphere and stood over the man now cowering against the wall.

  “If you’re done with the bullshit, we have business to discuss.”

  “Please, man.” YuL clasped his hands together like a church goer. “Let me go. I’ll pay what I owe.”

  “That’s not what you said earlier.” Jarrid slid a curved dagger from its sheath.

  The elf shrank away from the blade. His legs crumpled and he slid down the wall. “Don’t kill me. I … I have information.”

  “Which is the only reason you’re still breathing.” Jarrid crouched in front of the trembling elf. “Tell you what. Give me the info and I’ll make this painless.”

  “No, wait.” The target’s eyes goggled. “Th-there’s a Renegade in town. He’s hired some bloodsuckers for muscle.”

  Every muscle in Jarrid’s body stiffened. That one word knocked his heartbeat right out of sync. A Renegade? No fucking way. He narrowed his gaze. “Name?”

  “Didn’t catch one,” YuL sniveled. “I was at The Church when I heard two vamps bitching about some chick. They were pissed they hadn’t found her yet.”

  “Tell me about the woman. Why does he want her?”

  “I … I don’t know. They said she published something in the newspaper. Honest to God, that’s all I got.” The elf rubbed a shaking hand across his face.

  Jarrid hadn’t had a lead on a Renegade in over two hundred years. The elusive fallen angels could hide better than a rattlesnake in tall grass. “How do you know a Renegade is involved?”

  “Come on, man. One flat out said, ‘at least the Renegade pays well.’ I put two and two together.”

  Jarrid remained silent, but chaos cranked his mind. The chance there’s a Renegade in his city was so remote, so improbable. Yet if the elf spoke true, the tip meant one more score to settle. And one giant step closer to Ascension.

  He turned the idea over in his head. Ascension would only be granted if he attained something considered more valuable than him remaining under Heaven’s heel. Would a capture force the ruling angel Directorate to reward his team?

  A fragile thread of hope connected to another, and another, until his heart and mind grabbed hold. He had to find the Renegade, minus interference from the angels. But the information was vague at best. One woman in a city of millions? Where the hell would he start?

  “Anything else?”

  YuL shook his head. “I swear that’s all I got, man. I didn’t know who they were talking about, but I know Renegades hold a special place with you angels.”

  “I’m no angel, you piece of shit.” He’d never been considered pure enough by those pricks to count as anything more than a half-breed. That’s all the nephilim were to them. Half-angel and half-human. Abominations.

  Color drained from the elf’s face. “I was gonna trade the info for what I owe. I can’t believe they sent an assassin after me.” YuL cupped his hands together. “Christ, I don’t owe that much. Please don’t kill me, man. Please.”

  He ignored the hysterics and tapped the earpiece concealed by his hair. “Intel retrieved.”

  If the elf’s info was solid, the next few days would be crucial to tracking the outlaw and snuffing the bastard. A familiar hatred bubbled under his skin and Jarrid’s grip tightened on the dagger’s hilt. He was here because of Renegades — the former Watcher angels who’d impregnated human women to create their half-breed race. Now, he was forced to serve Heaven.

  Since his mother’s death.

  Since his own imprisonment.

  Since the angel sent to kill him spared his life.

  The elf scrabbled backwards against the piss-stained wall. “Just let me go. I won’t tell a soul.”

  “By decree of the holy host, YuL of Elven, you have broken a sacred covenant with Heaven and have been deemed unworthy of forgiveness.”

  Jarrid buried the dagger deep into the elf’s heart. Confused orange eyes stared at the dagger, and then at him as if they tried to memorize the face of death. Finally, the spark behind those eyes slipped away.

  “Your life is forfeit.”

  YuL’s Adam’s apple bobbed twice then stilled.

  Extracting the blade, Jarrid rose and considered the body slumped on the wet pavement.

  “You can’t fuck with Heaven, pal. It has bigger dicks.” He shrugged and stood at parade rest, bracing himself for the aftermath of another completed mission. After two, maybe three breaths, white-hot pain flash-fried his veins, making his body sway. Then it flambéed his internal organs.

  The Act of Contrition. What a bitch.

  The damned Act tunneled through Jarrid’s system, lighting him up with angry, pain-filled streams of energy. He ground his teeth until his jaw popped.

  He gripped the bricks in front of him. His stomach churned as the smell of urine and who knew what the fuck else invaded his nose. Riding out another ember wave, he sent a flurry of curses to the asshole inventors of this little pick-me-up. Only angels could have devised such a shit-storm of payback every time a nephilim used his grace. He knew the Act of Contrition was a literal penance, one he and his brothers suffered. Heaven had spared their lives as children. This was their ransom.

  Jarrid focused and looked up, past the building, to the cloudy night sky. Heaven wasn’t up there, despite the beliefs of religious zealots. Above him was open space, but he couldn’t unfurl wings and soar across the Motor City. Only angels had wings. Half-breeds like him were grounded.

  Damn them. Sweat traveled a cool path down his neck. It didn’t matter if he used his powers to do his job for his superiors. It never had.

  His earpiece crackled. “Need extraction?”

  No, I need a new fucking digestive system. Careful to keep his voice level, Jarrid raised one trembling hand and tapped the receiver. “Send the cleaning crew. I’m coming in.”

  “Cleaners en route. Arrive alive.”

  The earpiece hissed once and went quiet. Arrive alive. No doubt about it. The elf hadn’t been a fighter. Nothing about this mission was worthy of an assassin with his experience.

  Eventually, the burning dissipated and he pushed off the wall. The toe of his boot clipped YuL’s leg and Jarrid looked down. The laxness of the body gave the appearance of sleep, except for the lime-green blood oozing from the single stab wound. The elf had broken a deal with the wrong fly boys and would end up in an incinerator.

  Fucking angels.

  Jarrid raised his head and stared at the sky. As he made his way out of the alley, cool air caught his loose hair and blew it around his shoulders. He jumped in his truck and peeled away from the wretched stench of the alley and past the boarded up remains of Dee’s Chicken Shack to reach the welcomed stretch of Woodward Avenue.

  He lowered the window and floored the accelerator. The truck shot down the road like a dark-blue comet, clean air flooding the interior. Streetlights blurred. He maneuvered around the few speed-conscious drivers in his path without slowing his momentum.

  • • •

  “Just in time,” Cain called out.

  “Did I miss curfew?” Jarrid exited the truck. He drew the clean air rolling off the Detroit River deep into his lungs.

  An easy smile spread across his brother’s face. Cain leaned against a wrought iron railing. “Tanis called a meeting.”

  Jarrid rolled his eyes. “Of course he did. When?”

  His brother’s smile widened.

  R
ight. That would be now.

  “Fuck.” Jarrid strode toward the side access door, trying not to breathe in through his nose. “I smell like piss and blood. I want a shower, then food.”

  A sharp whistle split the air, and he turned to catch the plastic-wrapped sandwich Cain threw at him.

  “Your stomach keeps bitchin’ like that and you’ll wake the neighbors.” His brother walked over. “Besides, you always smell like shit to me.”

  Hunger and an eternity of friendship warred with an acute desire to shove the sandwich down Cain’s blowhole. He settled for showing off his middle finger.

  His brother frowned. “Is that any way to treat the guy who braved Nesty’s wrath to bring you sustenance?” Cain clutched his chest and gave a melodramatic sniffle. “You wound me.”

  Jarrid bowed his head and laughed. “Man, you missed your calling.”

  “Tony-award winning actor beloved by millions of swooning females between the ages of six and ninety?”

  “No.” He sniffed at the sandwich. Damn cellophane. “Pain in the ass feather duster with a touch of gay.”

  Cain’s expression crumpled.

  Jarrid laughed and stalked away. His brother’s heavy boots echoed behind him, but he didn’t slow down. He ripped open the plastic-wrapped sub and devoured the meal before he reached the second door.

  “Did you get any good intel?” Cain reached over and opened the door.

  “Not much, but sounds like a Renegade’s taking a vacation in Michigan.”

  Cain whistled low. “Tanis will want in on this one.”

  “Taking down Renegades is directive number one. You know he’s supposed to push paper in his office and let us do Heaven’s dirty work.”

  Cain arched his brow. “You want to tell our fearless leader he can’t tag along?”

  He looked at Cain. The obsessive crap between Tanis and the Renegades was personal. One of the assholes must have tangled with the angel at some point and done serious damage. Hell, that must have been some fight since Tanis’ wings ended up … FUBAR.

  The airy corridor was raw, its exposed brick walls and steel support beams channeling him towards the main building. Above their heads, wire cages trapped bald light bulbs in the ceiling every fifteen feet. The synchronized echo of their boots on the concrete floors announced their arrival. Jarrid opened the last door and they entered the heart of the Stronghold.