Читать книгу Ashes of Angels - Michele Hauf - Страница 7

Cassandra Stevens stepped back from the finished silver sculpture to admire her handiwork. She had formed the male body from silver sheet metal, and worked with various shaped anvils to capture the smooth muscles and lithe structure of the male form. For the wings, stretched back and out from the body, she had used a lost-wax casting method to achieve the intricate barbed vanes.

A month’s work glistened under the bright light that hung over her workbench.

When she wasn’t working afternoons at the Central library as a research assistant, she spent her evenings designing silver objects d’art and jewelry. Her dream of forming an elite jewelry design business were going much slower than planned since arriving in Berlin two years ago, but better to be meticulous and careful than to rush into things. At least regarding business.

In life, rushing into things was always the better option. Danger did not sit back and wait for a person to weigh their options. One must always be ready.

Yeah, you go, Action Danger Girl, she chided her silent thoughts. Thinking she was ready was much easier than actually being ready. She’d never be sure. Never.

The silver sculpture had known its form the moment she’d begun to sketch a flat image on paper and had then transferred it to a sheet of silver.

“An angel,” she murmured, knowing, as she’d been working on it, how telling it was she sculpted an angel.

Fascinated during the process, her fingers had worked of their own volition, as if they instinctively knew what her subject should look like. That had never happened with any of her previous projects.

Tossing her hair over a shoulder, loosely bunched at the middle with a ribbon to contain the thick, wavy tresses that hung to her elbows, Cassandra stroked a finger down the abdomen of the figure. She sighed. This was the closest she’d been to six-pack abs in months. Lately, her social life had been suffering for her art.

What social life? You forgot to get yourself one of those, remember?

Another sigh would just be redundant.

The silver wings stretched out behind the sculpture about a foot, and the whole work was heavy, but not delicate, for she’d riveted and soldered the wings in place.

Cassandra had dreamed of winged men most of her life. Winged nightmares had visited her sleep, as well. But her hopeful heart emerged during that flicker of wakefulness following a nightmare and, as a result, the dreams overcame the nightmares.

Most of the time. Doom remained the overwhelming common theme in her dreams.

Angels were … not good. The Fallen ones Granny Stevens had taught her about were downright evil. They were as spiteful, selfish and dangerous as some mortals.

But one angel managed to rise above the dire warnings and tease her admiration. She’d never imagined his face—until now.

Studying the tiny face about the size of her thumb, Cassandra offered him an approving nod. “You are a handsome bloke.” No halo sat above the sculpture’s head, but that made sense to her. He wouldn’t have one.

A dangerous thrill giddied over her skin. She’d created an effigy of something others believed could harm her.

Danger teased, and she always responded. “Will I meet you someday?”

She carried it into her bedroom and placed it on the pine dresser opposite the end of her bed. Sitting on the bed, beneath the violet mesh canopy, she marveled that the angel looked down over her. She hadn’t planned it that way.

He’s the furthest thing from a guardian angel.

“I pray to survive when finally you come for me,” she said to the sculpture. “I can feel it. You’ll be here soon.”

Paris—Underground

“We’ve intercepted sensitive information between a muse and a hunter.” Bruce Westing handed the tribe leader, Antonio del Gado, a computer printout of conversations. “Cassandra Stevens is located in Berlin. She’s the contact point for what I estimate to be at least three muses traveling to Germany. And, I can’t verify this, but I think a pregnant muse is also on her way to Berlin via unknown escort.”

Del Gado slapped the paper on the desk before him. “She’s pregnant with a nephilim?”

“Fingers crossed.”

Bruce winced when he realized that should have been a more exacting reply. He was doing the best he could with the technologically inept staff provided for him. Tribe Anakim was one of the most clichéd groups of vampires around. They lurked in darkness due to their extreme sun affliction, and Bruce was never surprised when one developed the Bela Lugosi sneer and creep.

The tribe leader rubbed the heel of his palm over an eye. The man was ancient, and had big dreams, but Bruce supported his wacky idea. Being denied the sun for centuries would try any man’s nerves. “How many more names do we have?”

Bruce tapped the laptop keys. Antonio del Dado didn’t know how to use a computer any more than the other tribe members, so Bruce was the tech wizard for tribe Anakim, as well as the chief angel tracker. The latter was much less taxing on his patience.

“Only three,” he reported, turning the laptop so Antonio could read the names. “You want me to prepare the summoning room?”

“Yes, immediately. If any number of muses are congregating in Berlin, then we’ll have to bring the Fallen to them. And check with Rovonsky. He’s been preparing equipment for capturing and securing the nephilim. The equipment is easy enough to move. I say we leave for Berlin before daybreak.”

Bruce lifted a brow but didn’t comment. Anakim’s entire tribe lived by the night. They had slaves to do their day work. Like him.

Not a slave, but a well-paid employee.

“This is finally coming together, Bruce. I can feel it. Soon, tribe Anakim’s bloodline will be infused with the blood from our nephilim ancestors. We will finally become daywalkers. Do you know, I haven’t seen the sun for three centuries?”

“That’s a long time, boss. You could use a tan.”

Antonio’s expression remained sober.

Reminded of the boss’s lack of humor, Bruce closed the laptop. “I’m on it. And I’ll send a man after the muse, Cassandra Stevens, to keep an eye on her.”

“Excellent. Soon, Bruce, soon, a plague of dark divinity will stalk the earth.”

Yeah, whatever. Always so dramatic, the boss man. Just as long as that plague stayed away from him.

“When this is over,” Bruce muttered as he strode down the torchlit walls of Anakim’s lair, “I’m going topside for good.”

Coco Stevens listened to the phone ring endlessly. Her boyfriend, Zane, waited in the doorway, one of Coco’s pink suitcases in hand. Outside in the cab sat Ophelia O’Malley, her pregnant belly ready to burst from the seams of her stretchy sweater dress.

“No luck?” Zane asked and glanced outside. “You can try calling your sister again when we reach the airport.”

“I forgot to charge my cell phone, and you don’t carry one.”

“They do still have pay phones, love.”

Sighing and hanging up the landline, Coco melted into her boyfriend’s embrace. That Cassandra trusted her enough to handle this mission meant the world to her, but that also meant she couldn’t screw it up, or there’d be no future missions. Coco was all about the adventure.

“I wanted to let Caz know we were on our way. She’s been uptight about us informing her on every leg of this mission.” She peered over his shoulder. Berlin was getting a snowstorm, but here in London it was raining. “Is Ophelia all right?”

“The muse is fine. Craving a pint, or so she says. But I don’t think alcohol is safe for a pregnant mother, eh?”

“She’s due any day now. I’d say a little beer isn’t going to hurt a thing. We’ll get her something at the airport.” She closed the door to her flat behind them and locked it. “Cassandra must be out skiing or free-running, or doing something dangerous. She’s been into the danger-play lately. I worry about her, Zane. She’s not indestructible, yet she thinks she is.”

Zane wrapped an arm around her waist and led her to the cab. “She’s got a lot on her shoulders, love. I think it’s her way of spitting at the big bads and challenging her less-than-rosy destiny. Of course, Adventure is not her middle name.”

“It’s mine,” Coco said with a gushing smile and kissed her lover. “I hope she’s out partying. Living it up before, well, you know.”

“Don’t worry your pretty head, love.” He helped her into the back of the cab, then went around to put the suitcase in the boot. “Off with Adventure in hand,” Zane muttered. “Never a dull moment with the Stevens sisters.”