Soul Stealer (3 page)

“To hot-ass bitches with tongue rings and ink, man.”

Claudia laughed, nodding. “I’ll give you that.”

They had a moment of comfortable quiet. Then he cleared his throat. “Is that all that’s wrong?”

She sighed. “Basically. She left me a letter in my mailbox. It’s better than a text message I guess.”

“Ouch, that’s tough,
Chica
.”

“I’m getting too old to be dating. Maybe it’s just time to get a dozen cats and start collecting souvenir spoons. Or something. Shit. I don’t know.”

The gym doors swing open and the next student walked in, a tall, darkly-tanned guy with short-cropped hair and a hawk-like nose. Those were the first two things she noticed. Then she noticed he must have been almost six and a half feet tall, and his strong neck was plugged in to wide shoulders that bunched under his tank top. His delts were insanely developed, veins stood out along his cannon-ball like biceps. His eyes were a dark brown, likely. It was hard to tell if he was of Middle-Eastern descent or Latino. Either way, he was incredibly handsome and built dangerous, although nothing about him seemed threatening. His dark eyes were downright warm.

Claudia looked down at her hands, realizing her pulse had quickened at the sight of him. His lips were well-formed and heavy. Sensual. A lot like a guy she used to know. And that same man also had the identical proud posture of a thick chest and wide wing span.

She got to her feet quickly and Jimenez was looking at her with worry.

“Don’t want to make you late for your next student.”

He stood too, that face too knowing and too concerned. She didn’t want his pity. She forced a brilliant smile at him. “I’m working in a couple hours anyway. Don’t worry about it.”

Jimenez squeezed her arm, nodding. “It’s a good thing to want to talk. I’m here.”

“I know. And thanks.”

She gathered up her bag and stepped out of the ring as the next student crossed the training centre. He ducked his head politely in greeting, and she responded with a rapid, “Hi,” before rushing through the doors to the women’s showers as through she was in a terrible hurry.

On the other side of the doors she stopped, a cold calm making its way up her legs from her feet, washing up her torso and calming her heart, hopefully getting rid of any color in her cheeks.

That wasn’t Damien,
she told herself over and over.
Just some guy you don’t know.

No, Damien Talon was dead. She had thought him to be a murderer and it turned out he wasn’t. He wasn’t a sadistic rapist killer. He hadn’t come from anywhere, a ghost really.

Almost six months ago she’d let him into her bed. He’d been kind and generous as a lover, and from the dreams she’d been having lately, she’d become more and more certain he’d killed himself to save her and her darling neighbor Iola from some kind of nasty that she couldn’t remember.

Claudia remembered Iola’s coworker, Jasper MacKay, trying to rape and kill her though. That was clear. He’d been arrested and was now languishing in a mental institution. She’d filed charges but there was no trial. Jasper MacKay said that a ward of the devil had told him to do those terrible things. Everyone had agreed he was crazy, so did Claudia. She’d looked him right in the eye and knew that he was undoubtedly insane.

Then there was Charles Goodwin. She knew very damn well
he
was crazy. Claudia had seen his handiwork up close a couple times. And he’d tried a few times to kill her, too. The one murder she thought was Damien’s work was linked through DNA to Charles Goodwin. So Damien wasn’t a killer. Wasn’t anything. No past history, no social security. A ghost.

That had been a rough patch for Claudia. She’d sustained more beatings than ever before. The bruises she could take, she had no part in those healing really: her body did its thing and then the cuts and marks were gone. Her own paranoia and confusion almost sent her around the bend right behind Jasper and Charles.

These two men had seemed completely separate but Charles Goodwin had spooked her. He was talking about the devil speaking to him, telling him that he would be a God if he did what the voice told him to. Jasper had the same story, but Jasper could see this diabolical puppet-master.

They both called this mystical demon Essum. And as far as Claudia could tell, the two of them had nothing else in common but this master, this Essum character.

The only thing she remembered with certainty was that Damien had killed himself in Jasper’s shitty apartment, and that had been the end of
something
. It felt like the end. But what the hell had happened before that?

None of them could remember. Iola and Claudia couldn’t put it together, and they’d both pointedly not spoken to Jasper since the incident. Until Claudia’s dreams got worse and went to demand answers from Jasper at the psyche ward.

That had been a waste of her time. Jasper was so far round the bend his taillights were completely faded.

Claudia rubbed her temples, trying to push it all away. The line that almost made sense was that she, Iola, Vinnie and Jasper were kidnapped, Damien couldn’t stand the guilt so he killed himself, and they all forgot what happened because of traumatic stress. But why in the world were they anywhere near Jasper? He’d already tried to kill Claudia by that point. What would make them take shelter with him? His story hadn’t cleared anything up. He was a lunatic.

Every time she tried to recall what happened she got a headache. Over time she could recall Damien distracting someone, Jasper, so that she could crack him across the back of the head with a ceramic bowl.

The scars were there. She’d seen him in the emergency room. So if Damien wanted them all dead, why did he help her take out a fellow prisoner? Had Jasper been the kidnapper?

Screw thinking about it anymore. She really needed another shower. She was coated in sweat and now she was giving herself another headache. If she kept this up she’d make herself nauseous.

Chapter Three

Megan Priestley eased her back against the glossy hallway of the club, giggling at the guy’s reaction as the buttons on her blouse strained across her chest. His hands were hot and heavy as he palmed her over the blouse, then he pressed his mouth back to hers in an aggressive and undoubtedly masculine way.

Sure, she was drunk. She wouldn’t normally be this blitzed but she’d been dry the few months she’d been with Claudia. Her tolerance had really dropped but she certainly wasn’t an alcoholic. The trouble with alcoholics was they thought everyone
else
also had a problem.

And Megan loved her mother dearly, but she wasn’t interested in sleeping with her, that was for fucking sure. As time had marched on Claudia had become more and more like a Mom.

The guy – Mark? Ethan? Who the hell was this anyway? – had his hand under the fabric of her shirt now, kneading her breast with a sure and strong hand. And he pinched at her nipple through her bra she moaned, leaning her head further back as he kissed her throat.

He mumbled something she didn’t understand, and she was reminded of his weird accent. It could have been Russian. What the hell did she know from accents anyway?

Didn’t matter. He could kiss like a nasty motherfucker, and he wasn’t shy about it in the least. He’d yanked her right against himself on the dance floor, seeming quite proud of the erection he was pressing in to her stomach. And his grey eyes were a total knock-out, almost the color of glaciers. He looked Egyptian or something; shaved head, golden skin, dark eyes, proud nose and brow.

He looked like class, even now as he was using his mouth to rip the buttons off her shirt in order to taste the skin between her aching breasts.

Megan pressed her forehead to the top of his shaved head, moaning as his tongue cleverly slipped into one bra cup and came so close to tasting her nipple.

Maybe alcohol wasn’t her problem after all. Maybe she was addicted to fucking; the alcohol just took away her inhibitions.

His hands were each on an ass cheek, rubbing and squeezing. His tongue and mouth were all over her skin like he wanted to taste every part of her.

Megan knew she couldn’t do him against a wall in a hallway, in public. But then his mouth did capture a nipple and her back jacked violently with the thrill of it.

His tongue teased a jolt of white-hot desire out of her, she felt it shoot right down her body to nestle between her legs. He growled like he could smell it, and she was looking for a door with a lock on it.

There was a door between the men’s’ and ladies’ rooms marked as “employees only.” Bingo.

She shoved him back, and he moved off her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His head was tilted downward slightly so it looked like he was glowering at her.

“Not here,” she breathed, then looked to the door.

Without missing a beat he moved down the hall and she watched the way his shoulders rolled under his shirt. It was slightly see-through she realized. It had been harder to see in the club. But she caught sight of his thin musculature and felt herself salivate in a couple ways.

The doorknob turned in his hand, and he looked back at her with that same odd and intimidating stare. She followed without question.

Inside he didn’t turn the light on. He pulled her flush against his chest, one hand winding up in her hair so she couldn’t have backed away if she wanted to.

She loved it. She clutched the front of his shirt with desperation, moaning as his tongue pushed in to her mouth, capturing her.

He backed her against a porcelain sink and she raised one leg to wrap around his waist. His erection was right on the part of her that was aching, and as his hand returned to working her ass he ground himself right against her, which made her cry out even though his mouth had sealed hers off.

Her shirt was gone in an instant, and before she knew it his hand was under her skirt, pushing under her underwear to grasp the bare skin of one cheek. He growled again, let go of her for a moment, and when he was back against her she was surprised to feel his  bare skin on hers, warm. Damp. Smelling of soap.

He worked her bra off easily, her nipples coming against his skin pointed, relishing the contact. She was realizing this was as out of control as she’d ever been, completely out of her mind. All she knew was she needed him inside her as soon he could manage it.

Of course he felt the same. He turned her around to face the sink, keeping one hand on her breast as his other hand shoved her skirt up over her hips, then pushed the thin fabric out of the way between her legs, making forceful contact with the wetness he’d caused.

She realized she was moaning, “Yes, God, please, yes.”

His hand left her crotch, long enough for her to hear the zipper of his jeans, and after some more shuffling she felt the blunt head of him nudge against her.

That’s when her brain kicked in. Condom? Disease? Even on the pill she could still get preg-

Too late. He was inside her, and her hands clutched the edge of the cold sink and she cried out.

“I’m clean,” he muttered, then started thrusting.

She believed him, and then she rode out the first orgasm he gave her.

His motion was relentless. It was fucking, pure and simple. Using him, using her. Megan had missed this violence. The invasion. How primal it was.

Who knows how long it took. When her knees were weak, her legs shaking, too exhausted to even gasp as one more shock waved rolled out from her bellybutton down to her toes, she felt him stiffen, and with a couple short shoves he grunted before collapsing on her back, breathing hard, making the most fantastically male sounds of satisfaction.

Megan was smiling with immense contentment, even though this nasty backroom sex with a stranger had likely left her with a few mementos that would require antibiotics; hopefully only antibiotics.

When her mystery man had withdrawn, he pulled her skirt back into place while slapping her hip with an open hand. Megan gave a gasp and then reveled in the amused sound of his low chuckle. Even that laugh made her warm inside.

He found a light switch and turned it on, making Meghan blink in the light of the overhead fluorescents. They were both topless, and suddenly she felt completely ashamed.

He trolled those grey eyes over her again, and she had the mad urge to put her shirt back on and get out of the room now.

She looked down, found her bra and shirt, and then straightened, not meeting his gaze. When she did look up, struggling to get back in to her top, he was still staring at her. And then his shadow …
jumped
around him. Towards her.

Megan screamed and that was all she knew.

Anael might be the only angel who suffered from night terrors. In the past she’d asked her colleagues about them but they had looked at her strangely, wondering if it was even possible for angels to have overactive imaginations.

Then she would explain that she dreamt of the terrible thing that had happened to her and they would nod, understanding. Some even mused why she saw it as a curse. Some angels were desperate to know what making love was like. “You blame yourself, when there’s nothing to be forgiven for. You’re remembering because you haven’t let go of the past yet.”

Anael couldn’t let go of the past. She was the only one of her kind to have suffered the way she did.

Angel of passion and romantic love. That was her official title. Call her Venus or Athena if you like.

The dreams were always the same. It was a distant memory, not too far in the past when you really thought about it. Not when you realized how long she’d actually been around for.

She cursed herself every time she let her mind wander back to strong hands on her skin, owning, possessing and thrilling her, even though she pushed at him and fought. She knew she couldn’t resist forever. Even though he wouldn’t force her they both knew that at some point
someday he would have her.

Deep green eyes that delighted at her strength and resolve, tracing over her body like a forceful touch. His guttural, deep tone growling her name like it was something erotic and filthy, her body betraying her by enjoying the thought that a man wanted her.

And of all men, she had to feel such things for the one kind of being that could actually handle physical contact with her. Humans couldn’t, but a Sin Eater could.

The dreams were alarmingly realistic. In her sleep she relived the feeling of his mouth on her skin, teeth scraping along her collarbone, his hands spanning her back, making her feel so small and him so large in comparison.  She had been terrified of him, and he had seemed to know it. When he removed her clothing he was careful, respectful. Muttering sweet things about her body, how lovely she was. How it humbled him.

The act itself surprised her. Anael had been ready to hate it. But her Sin Eater had been so adept at making her hungry for him with just his touch alone that when the time had come and he’d claimed her body, she had been desperate and wanting. Not afraid in the least.

Of course, no one had judged her for such transgressions. Angels didn’t judge anyone for anything.

The dreams had started up when Raphael had tricked that bastard, Voro, into saving his
frustro
. It wasn’t the size and maleness of the Sin Eater; it was the charisma and charm he had that was so similar to a man she’d known so long ago that she’d given everything to, her one misdemeanor. The kind of man that could smile and dampen thighs with the slightest touch.

The first time she’d seen Voro it had made her stop in the middle of a hallway, her breath nearly knocked from her just from the sight of him. Beyond being handsome, her reaction to him was far too familiar, bringing up old humiliation. He hadn’t noticed her yet, thankfully.

Anael wanted to slay Voro every time she saw him, but that wasn’t entirely fair, either. He couldn’t know what happened to her in her past, and none of the fall out was his fault. But the width of those heavy shoulders and the strong jaw he sported sent her into a quivering rage nonetheless.

Now, as she was leaving a bladed weapon training session with Douma, her breathing strained, her skin damp with perspiration, she was once again stuck still and mute by the vision of the Sin Eater approaching with Raphael.

He was dressed as the humans were in casual moments; blue jeans and a T-shirt, she believed they were called. The fabric of the shirt strained to wrap around his biceps. It was also stressed in the centre of his chest, and she could clearly see the musculature of his torso as his arms swung easily with his stride. He always looked like a prowling cat. Her heart skipped, remembering her own green-eyed lover from those years ago.  She knew well what men looked like under their clothes. The first time she’d seen Onis shirtless she had been completely mesmerized by a dark trail of hair that ran from his bellybutton downward, her nails had ran through it seemingly without her agreement or cooperation. The sound he’d made as she did it had sent a chill down her back when she realized the power she could have over someone who made her feel so perfectly defenseless.

Anael forced herself to snap back to her senses. Raphael looked to be carrying an anger to match her own as he led his ward in her direction. Feeling an irrational panic, Anael pointedly turned on her heel and decided that her intended target was down a completely different hallway.

“What does this mean exactly?” Voro repeated for about the twelfth time in the short span of walking from Peter’s office to his quarters.

It was wearing on Raphael terribly. He’d never any headaches before meeting Voro, come to think of it.

“This means I have to train you,” Raphael said without disguising his irritation. “It means I need to train you how to help us and it also means I am directly responsible for you.”

Voro paused, taken aback by his tone. “Really?”

“Yeah. It means I’m your damn babysitter.”

Voro seemed to mull that over, reaching his room. At his door Raphael kept walking past him.

Voro paused as though he’d been expecting Raphael to come in for a visit. But at that moment Raphael was so not interested.

A
ll this work and service … For what? This was like taking a step back in ranks. He’d never get to live as a human at this rate; he’d never know the miracles that Michael was experiencing.

That was the point. He was envying his brother, his comrade. He coveted mor
e for himself and that was so unbecoming of an angel. Better that he appreciate the chances and status he had. Better that he made the most of whatever this assignment was to be.

That was a laugh. Voro was all the lusty abomination of a human without the mortality. Unbearable, really; a bull in a china shop in many ways.

Raphael reached the end of the residential corridor and passed through the entryway into the courtyard. It was always the ideal temperature, the yard was always green, the plants always in full bloom. Perfection. The sight of it calmed him completely.

It was so hard for someone like Voro to understand his need to be just like a human. He used them, mocked them, and thought them inferior in all ways.