Death's Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels by Heather Killough-Walden Read Free Book Online Page B

enigmatic plan to contend with. Neither Az nor his brothers or their guardian Max could determine what the hell was motivating the Fallen One to behave as he did. He’d gone after Eleanore Granger in the devious, underhanded manner for which he was infamous. And then he had gone out of his way to help Juliette Anderson escape the Adarians and wind up safely with Gabriel. Some days, Samael was blatantly opposed to the Four Favored. Other days, he appeared to aid them. He was a riddle. But whatever he was up to, Sophie wasn’t safe on her own.
    Az waited only a few moments after summoning his subjects before he felt the air around him stir in a way both enticing and unnatural. He opened his eyes and stepped back. Three male figures dressed in varying degrees of black and gray landed gracefully on the pier’s wooden planks in front of him. All three of them bowed their heads with extreme deference, and it was only after several long moments of respectful silence that any of them spoke.
    “Az.” One of the men greeted him in a deep, somewhat gravelly voice. He spoke the name tenderly, as a friend would, and his blue eyes glinted with something akin to love. He was quite tall, though not as tall as the Four Favored and certainly not as tall as Azrael. His reddish brown hair was thin on top, his blue eyes were intelligent, and his mustache gave him a friendly appearance. He looked a bit like a seasoned cop.
    This was Randall McFarlan. His fangs were not as pronounced as those of the other two men; he was older than they were by centuries and had learned how to retract his teeth a good deal so that they were less noticeable. He looked to be somewhere in his late forties or early fifties and had the easygoing air of a man who had been very handsome in his youth but had probably not noticed it because he’d been concerned with other things. He seemed wise and gentle, and in this case, what he seemed to be was exactly what he was.
    “Randall, I need your help and the help of your servants,” said Az. “You have humans who work for you. I need them to work for me now.”
    Randall’s brow furrowed with concern. “Of course,” he said. “What’s goin’ on?” His words drawled, easy and slow, but the worry that laced them was evident.
    Beside him, a younger-looking, thinner man cocked his head to one side and asked, “It’s something big, isn’t it?” He had short-cropped brown hair, blue eyes nearly the same color as Randall’s, and a disposition that was the antithesis of the older man’s. His face was open and youthful, and his tall, slim body seemed to radiate a hyperactive energy. “I knew it. I’ve had a feeling all week,” he went on matter-of-factly, nodding at his own words and clasping his hands behind his back as if he were pleased with his premonition. “It’s go time, isn’t it?”
    Randall turned toward the younger vampire and frowned. “Terry, what the hell are you talkin’ about, ‘go time’?” he asked, shaking his head. “What is ‘go time’? ‘Go time’ for what?”
    Terry blinked, looked from Randall to Az, and then shrugged. “I don’t know, I mean—just
go
time. You know. Something big is about to go down. Right? I can feel it in my bones.”
    Randall rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. “Your bones, Terry?” he asked incredulously, managing to appear infinitely patient by the fact that he had yet to raise his voice. “Seriously?”
    “Well . . . I
am
pretty old, you know. Don’t old people start feeling things in their bones?”
    “Old
humans
do, Terry,” said the third man. He hadn’t spoken until now, but at the sound of his very soft voice, both Randall and Terry glanced at him. “Old vampires—not so much.” He shook his head a little, shrugged as if to make nothing of what he’d said, and focused on smoothing an invisible wrinkle from his sport coat. He was a middle-aged Hispanic gentleman, impeccably dressed in a crisp white button-down, brown slacks, a