Avenger's Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels by Heather Killough-Walden

her from me, Uriel,” Samael continued, as if nothing had just transpired. “But good luck convincing her you’re in the right—and I’m in the wrong.” He cocked his head to one side and his gray eyes glittered. “Especially when you bring the bracelet into the scenario.” He shook his head. “I doubt she’ll appreciate the lovely gift once she knows the truth.”
    “Get out.” It was Michael who spoke then, his voice a mere breadth above a whisper.
    Samael’s eyes cut to the tall, blond archangel who had once been the Old Man’s favorite so long ago. His charcoal gaze began to glow. The look they exchanged was of the most pure form of hatred. Masked by the sheerest facade of calm.
    “Very well.” Samael nodded once. “I’ve said what I came to say.”
    He stood and moved to the front door of Eleanore’s apartment, the man in the blue suit following on his heels. In the doorway, Sam turned and his gray eyes pinned Uriel one last time. “The ball is in your court.”
    With that, Samael’s form melted into the darkness behind him. He and his servant vanished and the apartment was once more free of his ominous presence.
     
    Eleanore came awake in a pleasant daze, her limbs deliciously heavy, her body languid, her mind strangely at ease. But the feel of the mattress beneath her was different; it was foreign to her. The air felt unfamiliar. She slowly blinked her eyes open. Where am I?
    She could sense that it was freezing outside. It was a hard November freeze that would kill what remained of the farmers’ crops and the last, stubborn roses that clung to untended vines across the town. She could always sense these things, so she knew it to be true despite the warm, white comforter draped across her.
    Slowly, she sat up; the sleepy succor her body was wrapped in made her feel luxurious and easy, like a cat taking a stretch after a long nap. Again, she blinked. Her short-term memory was blurred, but miraculously, she wasn’t afraid. She should have been. This, she knew. And yet . . . she couldn’t seem to be bothered.
    “Where am I?” she asked out loud, taking in the opulence of the massive master bedroom suite she found herself in.
    A hearth sat nestled into the opposite wall, flanked by carved granite and marble. It crackled pleasantly, the fire within it the perfect height and warmth. The flames sent dancing light across the marble floor and its thick rugs. The pile of the rugs was high, inviting bare feet. There were tapestries on the wall, each depicting something ancient and mysterious. There were unicorns and dragons and there was text written in languages she didn’t comprehend. The air felt clean, free of dust, and scented with something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. A kind of flower? A spice? It was intoxicating and made her feel even more relaxed.
    There was a large oak door in the wall adjacent to the fireplace and upon it now was a gentle knock.
    Eleanore wondered who could be on the other side, and when she did, she remembered everything that had happened that night: the motorcycle accident, the mad dash across the street, the fight to save the victim’s life.
    She remembered passing out—and looking up at an angel’s face right before she had done so. She sat up a little straighter, ran a nervous hand over her hair, and glanced around at the bed and the room. It must be his , she thought, and she wondered how she had gotten there.
    The gentle knock came again. Eleanore cleared her throat and called, “Come in.”
    The door opened, swinging slowly inward. Filling its frame was indeed the impossibly beautiful angelic rider. “Good evening,” he said. His voice was so perfect that it sent shivers through Eleanore’s body. She hastily suppressed the moan that threatened, absolutely forbidding herself to give this total stranger the satisfaction.
    His dark eyes were glittering with secrets and his lips were curled in a gorgeous, incredibly sexy smile. He easily strode across