Chapter Four
It turned out that Jedda Brighton had some damned
impressive credentials in the fields of gemology and mineralogy. According to
Razr’s cursory research on the wealthy recluse, she’d gone to the best schools,
she owned her own business in the form of an outlandishly upscale London
jewelry store that dealt exclusively in rare and exotic gemstones, and she was
world-renowned for her uncanny ability to locate pockets of valuable minerals
deep in the earth.
All of that information was public
knowledge. What wasn’t public knowledge—at least, human public knowledge—was
that her human-realm jewelry store was a front for the underworld trade of
cursed and enchanted gems.
Which meant that she was, almost certainly, a demon.
Maybe even one of the very demons responsible for the Enoch
gems’ loss.
A deep growl rumbled in his chest as he made his way across
the polished stone floor of the building where he expected to find his target.
Mozart’s symphonies wafted softly in the background, lending a bizarre normalcy
to the attending crowd of assorted demons, werewolves, vampires, and even a few
humans who reeked of evil or greed. The massive castle, high in the mountains
of Austria, was apparently the setting for this year’s annual Underworld
Sorcery Event, at which Jedda had been promoted as a guest speaker.
Razr had missed her presentation, but he’d arrived in time
for the awards dinner. People were mingling, their hands and claws full of
appetizers and cocktails, or in a few cases, mugs of blood. The stone in his
ring vibrated, needlessly warning him of his proximity to demons. The constant
buzz kept him checking to make sure it didn’t start glowing. One of Azagoth’s sons, Hawkyn, a Memitim
skilled in alchemy, temporarily altered the surface properties of the diamond
to conceal the color and the glow. He didn’t want to take any chances that
Jedda would recognize that the gemstone in his ring had been cut from the one
she’d left with the Wardens.
As he searched the crowd, the
vibration grew stronger. Abruptly, the energy shifted, going from a buzz to a
pulse, and excitement shot through him.
The stone in his ring only pulsed
like that in the presence of its mate. Jedda must have it with her.
There was another alternative though, one he didn’t want to
think about. If she’d bonded with it, he’d have to kill her. That wasn’t the
sucky part, though. The sucky part was that, after her death, the the stone would need to be purified in the blood of a dying
angel.
Which meant waiting like some kind of Heavenly vulture for a
fellow angel to die.
Shit.
He swiped a glass of sparkling wine off a passing server’s
tray and cursed this stupid event. He hated parties. He especially hated demon
parties. And this one was crawling with the suckers.
Suck it up, cupcake. You are, perhaps, only mere minutes
away from being reinstated as a full-fledged battle angel.
Fresh enthusiasm sent a shiver of anticipation through him,
even as his ring pulsed more feverishly. He looked around, seeking the source,
and there, in the corner near the punch bowl, was Jedda.
And damn...she was...extraordinary. His breath clogged his
throat as he took her in, because although he had known the greatest beauties
to ever have existed both in the Heavenly realm and the human one, she was
unique.
At least a foot shorter than he was and dressed in a
stunning sapphire sheath that blurred the line between business-chic and
cocktail dress, she was peering into her own glass of pink bubbly, her long,
silver-blue hair framing a delicate face. As in the image he’d seen of her in
his mind, her creamy skin glittered almost imperceptibly, and when she looked
up, eyes that matched her hair glowed like twin gems.
Amazing.
She was a demon for sure, but what kind? He’d never seen
anything like her.
He’d just started toward her when a hand came down on his
shoulder from behind. Instinct kicked in, and he spun around, prepared to
defend himself from whatever malevolent scumbag was trying to accost him.
Instead, he found himself staring into a familiar face. A familiar dead
face.
“Lexi? Is that...you?”
The pretty lion shapeshifter grinned and did a little twirl
in her strapless red evening gown. “It’s me,” she said in her sing-songy Irish lilt. “In the flesh. Again.”
Again was right. “I
thought you died.” He looked her up and down as if to
reassure himself that she wasn’t a ghost. He hadn’t known her well, had only
met her because her shifter pride had helped him follow a dead-end lead about
his Enoch gem a while back. “I was told you’d been killed in a dance club
explosion or something.”
“Yeah,” she sighed. “Thirst blew up and sort of dismembered
me. But it turns out I have nine lives. And not because I’m a cat.” She
shrugged, her long brunette curls bouncing around her bare shoulders. “Evil
witch, ancient curse, you know the drill.”
“Sure, sure,” he said absently, his gaze locking on Jedda
again. Excitement surged through him now that his prey was nearby. “Excuse me,”
he said. “I need to see someone before I go.” He gave her a brief hug. “It was
good seeing you. Glad you’re alive.”
“Me too.” She clanked her glass against his.
“Enjoy your evening.”
He moved toward Jedda, his pulse inexplicably growing faster
as he neared her. He’d been in the presence of blindingly gorgeous females with
unimaginable power in his centuries of life, and none of them had affected him
like this. No, this was different, a mix of attraction and anticipation he
would almost compare to battle lust.
The thought made him slow his approach, his mind tripping
over the implications of that. Was he hoping she was one of the demons
responsible for the theft of his property and the deaths of his friends, in
which case he’d kill her, or was he hoping she wasn’t involved? And which was
worse? Oh, he had no problems with killing demons—it was what he’d been bred
for. But it seemed like such a shame to slaughter someone so unique. Or so
attractive.
Idiot. You never drooled over demons when you were a
full-fledged angel.
No, he hadn’t. There had been a clear separation of class
and species back then. But ever since he’d had his wings bound and his powers
muted and had been tossed into Sheoul-gra to serve Azagoth, he’d relaxed his standards. Not intentionally, but
he had to admit that living life on the other side of the tracks had given him
new perspective.
He just wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad one.
Jedda looked up as he stopped in front of her. This close,
she was even more beautiful, with full, pouty lips made to stir up some wicked
male fantasies. Her fine, perfect features made her seem delicate, fragile,
even, but something told him she was stronger than she looked. Which made him
wonder how that strength would play in bed.
Down, boy. Get what you want and get back to Heaven and
females suited to your status. And species.
“Hello, Ms. Brighton. I’m Razr.”
Cocking her head slightly, she gave him a long, assessing
once-over before saying with just a hint of an English accent, “Razr? That’s
not a common human name, is it?”
Either she couldn’t sense his species or she was testing
him. Either way, he didn’t see any reason to lie. “It’s my fallen angel name. A take on my given name. Razriel.”
“Ah.” She gave him another long, measuring look, taking in
the expensive suit Azagoth had given him for the
event, and he wondered what she was thinking. “Until tonight, I’d never met a
fallen angel, and now I’ve met two, including you.”
“Tonight? Is the other one here?”
She nodded. “Shrike, the event organizer. He owns this
place.”
Well, that was mildly alarming. Fallen angels reveled in
power and status, which meant that this shindig had probably been arranged for
a purpose. An evil purpose.
“Huh,” he said casually. “Never met him.”
“I hadn’t either until I agreed to speak at the conference.
He seems...very intense.” She paused to wave at someone near the grand piano.
“Are all fallen angels like that?”
“There’s a saying in Heaven,” he said lightly. “Angels keep
their humor in their wings.”
“So when they get cut off...”
“So does their humor.” He shrugged. “Of course, fallen
angels do grow wings eventually.”
“But their sense of humor doesn’t grow back?”
“Oh, it does,” he said, thinking of Azagoth
and his pitch-black sense of humor. “You just don’t want to be on the funny
side of it.”
She reached up and toyed with the multicolored choker around
her slender neck, the dozens of rings on her fingers glinting in the light from
the chandelier overhead. There were even little gemstones decorating her nails.
She must be wearing a freaking fortune in jewels.
“Well, what about you?” she asked. “You seem to be a little
less on the intense side.”
He narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion, figuring that
flirting might help get him what he wanted. Plus, as he’d already established,
she was hot—for a demon. Especially for a demon.
“Is ‘intense’ code for ‘asshole’?”
She laughed, a delicate sound that was almost...musical.
What kind of demon was she? A succubus, maybe? That would explain why he was
picturing her tangled in bedsheets and why his cock was throbbing against the
fabric of his pants. He wouldn’t complain, though. The expensive pants felt
much better on his sensitive skin than the scratchy monk garb he was sure had
been fashioned from nettles.
“I say we change the subject.” Still smiling, she took a sip
of her drink. “So what brings you to the conference?
Did you catch any of the panels?”
Panels? He could only imagine the topics at a place like
this. Plague Spells 101: The Pros and Cons of Magically-Enhanced
Viruses. Warlocks and Witches and Sorcerers, Oh, My! Human Sacrifice: Yea or
Nay?
“No,” he said, clearing his throat. “I just arrived. I came
to see you, actually. Glad I tracked you down.”
Instantly, she lost the impish smile, and he cursed his