One
Rowen Black leaned against the brick wall, taking in the formidable building across the street.
Shadowguard Security Services, LLC.
The sign hung on a massive Gothic mansion that had somehow been restored to its former grandeur without drawing attention to itself. Typical. Even in an old railroad town like Clifton, the Shadowguard was carefully under the radar.
Established in the 1980s, Shadowguard Security Services had grown to over two hundred offices worldwide, all of them populated with angelic descendants tasked with addressing potential threats from the demons of the Legion.
Sure, the Treaty was in effect, but that didn’t mean they could afford to be lazy.
To the outside world, Shadowguard was a profitable, privately held firm specializing in physical and digital security, counter-measures, and surveillance. To the descendants of the Alliance and the demons of the Legion, it was ground zero for enforcement of a Treaty that had insured a balance between the forces of good and evil for eons—and the war for the souls of humanity that would start if it wasn’t honored.
It was also home to Ambrose Montgomery, head of the Shadowguard and Rowen’s newest babysitter, thanks to his most recent run-in with the London police.
It was one hell of a last resort. He’d expected to be kicked out of the Corp of Assassins, not promoted to Ambrose’s elite Shadowguard. But even that bizarre turn of events couldn’t mask the truth; the Alliance was out of patience. If Rowen didn’t get a handle on his notorious temper, he’d be kicked out for good.
He pushed off the wall, one hand on the glaive at his waist, the pendant that channeled his ability to work the weapon snug beneath his shirt. He hardly noticed the women who turned to stare as he stalked across the street. It was nothing new. Women—mortal, descendants, and even the occasional member of the Legion were drawn to him like bees to honey, despite his frigid demeanor. Too bad they only interested him as a release for his insatiable sexual urges. He’d accepted the truth a long time ago; he was broken, defective, completely lacking the gene that required love and companionship.
Fine with him. Life was simpler when you were loyal only to yourself.
Crossing the street, he turned his attention to the building in front of him. His eyes roamed the exterior, marking the points on the roof and under the eaves where cameras were likely. Hell, they’d probably been watching him the whole time.
The idea made him square his shoulders. Don’t be a pussy, Rowen.
He took the porch steps two at a time, black jeans straining against his muscular thighs, his body taut with anticipation. He’d never met Ambrose’s men, but they served the same cause, united in their mission to hold the demons of the Legion accountable for any and all breaches of the Treaty. And while none of them had wings or the other accouterments that literature and art attributed to angels, they shared DNA that could be traced back to mankind’s earliest angelic ancestors.
The door knocker was bronze, twisted into a familiar symbol: the Flower of Life, hallmark of the descendants and the Akashic records—a recording of all earthly events; past, present and future that they protected.
He hit the heavy knocker against the plate and waited.
A moment later the door opened to reveal a delicate blonde, her eyes so light green they resembled the sea foam that gathered in the shallow water back home in Scotland. She smiled, and for a moment, Rowen had the impression she was actually happy to see him.
“May I help you?” she asked softly.
“I’m Rowen Black.” He unconsciously lowered his voice. The little blonde seemed fragile, as if a harsh word might knock her backward.
She stepped forward, crushing him in a spontaneous embrace. He stood there awkwardly, pressed against the silk of her coral blouse, wondering who the strange creature had mistaken him for.
Finally, she stepped, back, smiling
Rowen Black leaned against the brick wall, taking in the formidable building across the street.
Shadowguard Security Services, LLC.
The sign hung on a massive Gothic mansion that had somehow been restored to its former grandeur without drawing attention to itself. Typical. Even in an old railroad town like Clifton, the Shadowguard was carefully under the radar.
Established in the 1980s, Shadowguard Security Services had grown to over two hundred offices worldwide, all of them populated with angelic descendants tasked with addressing potential threats from the demons of the Legion.
Sure, the Treaty was in effect, but that didn’t mean they could afford to be lazy.
To the outside world, Shadowguard was a profitable, privately held firm specializing in physical and digital security, counter-measures, and surveillance. To the descendants of the Alliance and the demons of the Legion, it was ground zero for enforcement of a Treaty that had insured a balance between the forces of good and evil for eons—and the war for the souls of humanity that would start if it wasn’t honored.
It was also home to Ambrose Montgomery, head of the Shadowguard and Rowen’s newest babysitter, thanks to his most recent run-in with the London police.
It was one hell of a last resort. He’d expected to be kicked out of the Corp of Assassins, not promoted to Ambrose’s elite Shadowguard. But even that bizarre turn of events couldn’t mask the truth; the Alliance was out of patience. If Rowen didn’t get a handle on his notorious temper, he’d be kicked out for good.
He pushed off the wall, one hand on the glaive at his waist, the pendant that channeled his ability to work the weapon snug beneath his shirt. He hardly noticed the women who turned to stare as he stalked across the street. It was nothing new. Women—mortal, descendants, and even the occasional member of the Legion were drawn to him like bees to honey, despite his frigid demeanor. Too bad they only interested him as a release for his insatiable sexual urges. He’d accepted the truth a long time ago; he was broken, defective, completely lacking the gene that required love and companionship.
Fine with him. Life was simpler when you were loyal only to yourself.
Crossing the street, he turned his attention to the building in front of him. His eyes roamed the exterior, marking the points on the roof and under the eaves where cameras were likely. Hell, they’d probably been watching him the whole time.
The idea made him square his shoulders. Don’t be a pussy, Rowen.
He took the porch steps two at a time, black jeans straining against his muscular thighs, his body taut with anticipation. He’d never met Ambrose’s men, but they served the same cause, united in their mission to hold the demons of the Legion accountable for any and all breaches of the Treaty. And while none of them had wings or the other accouterments that literature and art attributed to angels, they shared DNA that could be traced back to mankind’s earliest angelic ancestors.
The door knocker was bronze, twisted into a familiar symbol: the Flower of Life, hallmark of the descendants and the Akashic records—a recording of all earthly events; past, present and future that they protected.
He hit the heavy knocker against the plate and waited.
A moment later the door opened to reveal a delicate blonde, her eyes so light green they resembled the sea foam that gathered in the shallow water back home in Scotland. She smiled, and for a moment, Rowen had the impression she was actually happy to see him.
“May I help you?” she asked softly.
“I’m Rowen Black.” He unconsciously lowered his voice. The little blonde seemed fragile, as if a harsh word might knock her backward.
She stepped forward, crushing him in a spontaneous embrace. He stood there awkwardly, pressed against the silk of her coral blouse, wondering who the strange creature had mistaken him for.
Finally, she stepped, back, smiling
Similar Books
