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

dark, dark eyes. They were bottomless, absent of color. She remembered seeing them on music videos here and there. Despite their lack of vibrancy, she recalled thinking that except for the Masked One’s piercing gold gaze, the guitarist had the starkest, most stunning stare.
    She’d been right.
    Uro looked as though he were peering into her soul. It felt a little like being looked at by Azrael. She found her throat going dry as Uro stepped around his seat and came forward. She had no idea how tall he was; she didn’t check. She had no idea what he was wearing—she couldn’t look. She was trapped in that gaze until he pulled it away himself and bowed low. “Sophie,” he said softly, nearly whispering her name with tender respect. “It is wonderful to meet you.” He was the only one of the four who had spoken her first name. It sounded like a prayer on his tongue.
    Now that he wasn’t looking at her, Sophie was able to take in the rest of his appearance. He was tall, just as everyone she met lately seemed to be. She’d place him at about Uriel’s height, somewhere in the range of six feet two or three. He wore dark jeans, black boots, and a crisp white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up at the wrists. Around those wrists were several leather bracelets, some bearing what looked like silver beads carved with intricate designs. Around his neck was a gold pendant on a leather string. Sophie recognized the design: an ankh—the Egyptian symbol of life.
    Uro straightened slowly, gracefully, and Sophie found herself watching him with a sense of fascination. His skin was the color of honey or melted caramel and seemed to glow under the suite’s lights. His hair was black, like Devran’s, and it fell to his shoulders in very gentle waves that he now ran a hand through to push it back from his beautiful face.
    Sophie felt devastatingly sorry for the women of the world in that moment. They had men like this to fall in love with. But so many of them actually wound up with short, fat, balding men. And some of those threw beer bottles at the television during football games and then went after their foster daughters in a drunken rage. . . .
    Sophie blinked when Azrael suddenly moved around her, his arm sliding along her shoulders. His closeness was at once all-encompassing. Instinct demanded that she step back, give herself room to breathe, to think. But his arm around her prevented the retreat, and when she looked up, she was caught in the pull of a pair of eyes so powerful, she felt as if she were staring into the sun. She would go blind.
    “Sophie,” he whispered, his voice thrumming through her like magic. She shivered once violently. Her breath caught when his forefinger curled beneath her chin to hold her in place as he peered down at her, something like concern etched in his painfully perfect features. All thoughts of foster fathers melted away.
    “Are you all right?” he asked.
    No,
she thought.
You’re killing me.
But it was a pleasant death, and one she would suffer a thousand times.
And how fitting,
she thought next,
considering what you used to be.
    “I’m fine,” she croaked.
    Azrael smiled. Again, she caught sight of the tiny hint of fangs that tantalized her imagination. “Why don’t you come and sit down with us?” he asked. “There are plenty of seats.”
    Sophie stared up at him for several more long moments and then, realizing that she was staring, she blinked and yanked her gaze away. It actually hurt. It was like the sun had stopped shining on her world. She shook the feeling off, steadying her breath. “Okay,” she said. “That sounds nice.” She was proud of the fact that her voice shook only a little.
    You’re being an utter idiot,
she told herself.
What the hell? Cut it out. Grow up and get over it. They’re just people.
    With that punishing thought, she squared her shoulders and pulled out of Azrael’s comforting embrace. He let her go, but instead of allowing her to pull