Phoenix Contract: Part One (Fallen Angel Watchers Book 1)

Phoenix Contract

Part One

by Melissa Thomas

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

PHOENIX CONTRACT Part One

Series: Fallen Angel Watchers

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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COPYRIGHT ©2015 by Melissa Thomas

Published in the United States of America.

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author respects trademarks and copyrighted material mentioned in this book by introducing such registered items in italics or with proper capitalization.

Genesis 6: 1-4

When human beings began to increase in number on the earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw that the daughters of humans were beautiful, and they married any of them they chose.

Then the Lord said, “My Spirit will not contend with humans forever, for they are mortal; their days will be a hundred and twenty years.”

The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—and also afterward—when the sons of God went to the daughters of humans and had children by them. They were the heroes of old, men of renown.

He’d always had the worst of luck, and the day he died was no different.

Thrash stared into the chasm of space between the building roof and city streets, contemplating the eighty-story drop. It was a long way down. The city’s lights glimmered against darkness, millions of fluorescent stars. Surrender did not come easily to him, and it tasted bitter in his mouth. He’d spent his life training to fight, but what could he do against an enemy that could shape shift at will?

Six-foot-six and muscular in the manner of body builders, Thorton David Aston III or Thrash to his friends, was an albino. He was born without skin or hair pigment, his skin perfectly pale, his hair white. He rivaled the city lightscape for its clean brightness. He disliked the attention his condition attracted, so he’d cropped his hair short and dyed it metallic blue.

Thrash’s athletic body thrummed with tension. Perspiration beaded on his pale forehead and made his palms clammy.

The Soul Eater was coming for him.

He ejected the empty, then shoved a new magazine into his Beretta and loaded a round into the chamber. The sleek semi-automatic firearm with a matte black finish had the capacity of fifteen. He’d unloaded the contents of the last clip into the demon chasing him, but the bullets hadn’t even slowed the creature down.

“If you had wings, you could fly away,” rasped a gravelly voice.

The demon’s malicious chuckle sent a bolt of pure fear through Thrash. He pivoted to face the ancient evil that had stalked him to the rooftop.

“If I had wings, I wouldn’t have taken the elevator.” Thrash’s features twisted into a grimace.

The demon’s taunt about lacking wings was insidious, a shot at Thrash’s divine heritage. Millennia ago, fallen angels had mated with human women, producing the Nephilim. Thrash, more than most, knew what it meant to be born damned.

“You could just have made this easy on yourself and given me the sword when I asked.” The Soul Eater spoke from a grotesque orifice which protruded from its gelatinous surface. The demon’s pitch-black body flowed toward Thrash as one continuous mass, a moving carpet of hell-born ichor.

“I’d rather die than betray my oath.” Thrash remained steadfast in his loyalty to his duty. Honor may have cost him his life, but it was a risk he’d accepted when he became an Alastor.

“Oh, that’s pretty much a given at this point.” The demon’s advance momentarily ceased as it savored its victory, indulging in gloating at the expense of expediency. “Poor, poor Nephilim, half human, half angel. Heaven won’t have you, and hell is your only certainty. Yet, you’re so anguished over the fate of your damned immortal soul.”

“Ramiel, I pray to you, protect me,” Thrash gasped beneath his breath.

The Soul Eater oozed closer, and Thrash made his impulsive decision. He didn’t have time to shove the Beretta into his mouth and fire a shot before the demon reached him.

“Ramiel can’t save you now. Even God can’t save you!” The Soul Eater’s black maw gaped wide. “You’ll spend the rest of eternity dissolving inside my belly, boy. Is that really so different from the hell that awaits you if you step off that ledge?”

“Better to burn in hell!” Thrash shouted.

He turned and sprinted for the edge of the building, gathering his athletic body for a powerful leap which propelled him into open space. The demon lunged for him, but the writhing black finger-tendrils passed through empty air.

Thrash plunged into the free fall, spreading his arms and legs wide, adopting the pose of a skydiver. Driven by the down rush, his trench coat whipped around his form, generating a steady beat in his eardrums. His rush into freedom empowered him with a consuming sense of elation. Having escaped the demon’s greedy grasp, vast relief filled his soul, and he had no worry for the certain death awaiting him at the end of his journey. He’d always known that death was inevitable. His concern resided with what followed.

The albino tumbled in a precise somersault, watching splashes and glimmers of light in countless colors flash past, creating an illusion of form and flow, symmetry and substance. He imagined himself a part of the greater design, a soul about to join the artistry of the night. Death was sweetness and safety. His salvation.

The white pavement rushed toward him, and Thrash greeted it with sorrowful resignation. Closer and closer, the concrete swelled in his vision, only to disappear beneath a sea of writhing blackness in the final seconds.

Horror widened his eyes, and his throat emitted a terrified screech, a shriek of rage and denial cut short as the demon’s shadow-claw rose up and snatched his helpless form from the air. Like a falling child, Thrash was caught and cradled and then engulfed in inky blackness.

He hadn’t escaped after all.

“Hell wasn’t an option,” the Soul Eater announced with a satisfied snicker.

The demon’s liquid form congealed and condensed into a humanoid shape, and he assumed the appearance of the albino he’d consumed. Once the transformation completed, the Soul Eater inspected his arms and torso, running an evaluative hand along the sleeve of Thrash’s battered old duster.

“Not much of a dresser, were we, my boy?” he said aloud. With a careless chuckle, the demon set off for a stroll into the night of shadows.

The doors of the silver subway train slammed open and disgorged their payload into the Anselm Street Station. The human cargo fled the confines of their metal prison, stampeding forward in a determined quest for the exits that would release them into the city’s sunbaked streets.

Troy exited the train and flowed along with the river of people toward the exit.

Katsue jogged beside him in order to keep up. The Japanese woman’s head only came to her gaijin partner’s bicep, her hip to his thigh. “I had Aiden check with the city morgue and go through the obits. The good news is that there’s no body, and it’s not like an albino’s corpse is going to get mixed in with your average John Doe.”

“If that’s the good news, then what’s the bad?” he demanded.

“That there’s no body,” Katsue quipped, earning a glare from Troy.

“Thrash will turn up. He always does,” Troy insisted with his jaw in a stubborn set. Ever the optimist, he remained hopeful and convinced himself that Katsue was too quick to assume the worst.

“We’ll see,” Katsue said. Her full lips compressed, and she flipped her long ebony hair over her shoulder. They hit the stairs leading up into sunlight where a haze of pollution and heat filled Newark’s crowded streets. “Thrash hasn’t gone home or answered his cell phone in the last seven days.”

“He’ll turn up,” Troy repeated because he deemed any other result unacceptable.

Katsue might be his partner, but Thrash was his best friend.

Troy and Katsue were in their early twenties, partners since their late teens. They were Nephilim—Of the Blood—those born of angelic
and human ancestry. They were also Alastors, part of an elite order of Nephilim warrior-avengers who served the Watchers, the elders of House Armaros.

A clumsy teenage boy plowed into Katsue from behind, jostling her enough to lose her footing. Without missing a beat, Troy caught her elbow and provided a second of support that allowed her to regain her balance. Katsue’s dark eyes narrowed into slits, and she shot the lumbering oaf a killing look.

Her small body tensed, and she delivered a hard punch with neat efficiency. Her fist connected with the boy’s gut, forcing the air from his lungs. She caused no serious damage, but the boy doubled over, clutching his abdomen. The crowd didn’t stop for the winded teen, but instead flowed around him like a river about a rock, leaving the boy behind. Neither Katsue nor Troy so much as glanced back or acknowledged what had transpired.

Katsue lifted damp strands off her nape to allow her skin to breathe. She wished she’d taken the time to braid it. Perspiration beaded her forehead. Her clinging black leather halter-top and pants weren’t suited to the heat any more than her stiletto heels were to walking.

She kept a dainty revolver tucked into the back of her pants and a pair of throwing knives strapped to her ankles. The weaponry created perceivable bulges in an outfit that otherwise fit like a second skin. Katsue took consolation in the fact that she looked damn good. She regarded discomfort as an acceptable price to satisfy the demands of her vanity. The Japanese woman took exacting pain with her appearance, and it showed in the shape of her precisely plucked eyebrows and the blood-red nails filed to sharp points.

Her glossy midnight hair fell to the middle of her back, framing a delicate oval face and coal eyes. She preferred clingy, revealing outfits which showed off her full breasts and svelte figure. A ruby glinted in her exposed navel, and she wore enough silver jewelry on her extremities to give a werewolf a heart attack.

The crowd dispersed as they left the subway station behind. Squat gray concrete buildings lined the street, making up a squalid slum that extended for miles inland. Five or six stories in height, the grimy structures contrasted with the sweeping towers of steel and glass that dominated the commercial districts.

Side by side, the pair strode along at a ground-eating pace, their respective moods sharing a rare moment of harmony. The lull in their usual incessant bickering was testament to their unease. Each dealt with it in his or her respective fashion. Katsue raged against authority and fate and everything else life happened to throw her way. Troy, determined and diligent, went about his duty with stubborn resolve.

“This whole thing is a wild goose chase,” Katsue said. The stilted comment accompanied a sly sideways glance as if she suspected him of keeping secrets. Troy’s considerable height forced her to look up, and she did so with narrow, slanted eyes in order to compensate for the glaring afternoon sun.

“What makes you say that?” Troy asked. A pair of black sunglasses shielded his mutable blue eyes, and his demeanor indicated only worry. His sunglasses were his only concession to the summer heat. His clothing was unseasonably heavy, including a lightweight windbreaker which concealed an arsenal of weapons.

Troy had the physical build of a linebacker, thickly muscled arms and legs, and he stood head and shoulders above most crowds. A halo of honey-blonde ringlets softened his chiseled features, and a thin white scar ran the length of his cheek. His tanned good looks were so stereotypically Californian that Katsue had never forgiven him for being from Los Angeles.

“Dude,” Katsue drawled, drawing out the word with practiced skill.

Troy scowled and pinned her with his undivided attention. “Don’t call me ‘dude’,” he snapped emphatically, predictably.

“Whatever.” Katsue shrugged carelessly as if her blunder had been no more than an unfortunate choice of words. “What I’m getting at is this. Thrash is the privileged eldest son of the head of House Ramiel—”

Troy interrupted. “So? Tell me something I don’t already know.”

“Shut up and I will,” Katsue snapped. She paused to make sure he would keep his mouth closed before she continued. “Thrash has elevated rebellion to an art. His hair, clothes, music and friends are all wrong. This is far from the first time that he’s disappeared for days on end without warning. My bet is that Thrash is shacked up with some chick he met in a club, and he’ll show as soon as he gets bored.” She didn’t believe it, but her partner did deep down so she said it for Troy’s benefit.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Troy deliberated. “I have a bad feeling that this time is different. Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”