Fallen. Michele Hauf

This mortal costume provided pain and sensation the demon had never felt while in its adamant demonic form. But nothing was going to make this demon flinch.

      When the tattoo artist finished and rubbed a cool ointment over the elaborate design, Pyx refused a bandage.

      “You should keep it covered for twenty-four hours,” the artist explained in French. “It will not heal properly.”

      Pyx ran a finger through the ointment, and then wiped it on the artist’s shirtsleeve. “It’ll be healed by the time I step outside your fine establishment. Now, how much? I’ve got places to go, things to see, angels to slay.”

      The artist said it would be five hundred euros.

      Pyx gazed into the artist’s eyes. “Paid.”

      The man nodded. “Thanks. Hey, honey, you come back to Spider if you want another tat.”

      “Honey?”

      Pyx sneered and wondered briefly if the man was one of those homosexuals. He paid the demon no mind as he went about cleaning his work area.

      Swinging about to study the tattoo in the mirror on the bathroom door, the Sinistari demon hissed at the image staring back.

      A tall redheaded person with hair down to the elbows cast a startled look in the mirror. Curves rounded in at torso and out at hips and stretched the shirt across the chest. The clothing fit well, but it was disconcerting because the style was made for men. And what Pyx saw …

      “A female? No freakin’ way.”

      What in all of Beneath? Was this some kind of joke? The Sinistari demon always manifested as male once summoned from Beneath. As far as Pyx knew.

      Pyx turned sideways and clamped both palms over the breasts stretching the cotton shirt. The tattoo artist gave her a questioning look.

      “Yep, they’re real.” Her lips pouted a little too femininely when she made a face. Upon arriving, he—or rather she—had assumed the clothing so quickly, he—she—hadn’t noticed the extra curves.

      “Problem?” the artist asked as he cleaned his tattoo gun with an alcohol swab.

      Pyx swung and hooked a hand at her hip. “You think I’m a girl?”

      “You got a problem with your sexuality, pretty demoiselle?” He smirked, revealing the tip of a gold incisor. “There is a group that meets down the street every so often. They talk about how they’re trapped in the wrong body.”

      “I am not trapped. I am …” She looked in the mirror. Pretty, as far as mortal women went, she had to admit. She wouldn’t turn away from such a sexy looker, that was for sure. She? “… a chick?”

      What, in the black sea Beneath, kind of joke was this?

      Rolling her head and huffing, Pyx kicked the door open and stomped out from the small studio. The gyro vendor smiled and cocked his head toward her. She was still hungry—she’d never be full—but now her appetite waned.

      She, she, she!

      She’d been saddled with a chick body while here on earth to track a renegade Fallen who would be hot to track his muse and put a nephilim child in her belly.

      Well, she wouldn’t let appearance keep her from being the best Sinistari ever. She could do this. She would do this. Didn’t want to risk being sent back Beneath because she wasn’t doing the job properly.

      She’d have to accept the fact she may be a female for her duration on earth.

      “Ugg.”

      Tromping down the sidewalk in her shitkickers, Pyx now mused about the name the other Sinistari had given her while serving time Beneath: Pyxion the Other.

      Apparently they had known something she had not.

      “Joke’s on you, Pyx. Deal with it.”

       Chapter 1

      The dance floor thundered with hyped-up, sexually charged adrenaline. Cooper danced in the center, surrounded by hundreds of bodies that gave off a variety of scents from soft and powdery, to baby-can-we-do-it-right-now?

      The sensory world was new to him, and he couldn’t get enough of it. The women in their slithery clothing and dangly jewels tantalized him like sweet treats as they bumped and slid up next to his skin. The mortal skin he wore felt it all; sexy fabric with beads and metal, human heat, sweat, muscle and hard nipples.

      Promises of a good time flashed in the women’s eyes. Cooper took it in with a confident grin.

      All the sensations he’d been denied for millennia were now his to dive into headfirst.

      He couldn’t remember when he’d unbuttoned the white dress shirt to let it hang on his shoulders and expose his abs. The kilt was freeing. The combat boots were not so easy to dance in—but he was no twinkle-toes to begin with.

      Didn’t matter. The women weren’t eyeing his dance moves; their blatant focus was from Cooper’s head to just about crotch level. Look all you like, ladies. He’d never been admired before. Vanity, thy name is Cooper Truhart.

      The DJ had announced the song blasting over the speakers was called “Welcome to The World,” and Cooper appreciated the welcome, indeed. He intended to enjoy his stay here on earth. Everything about it was amazing.

      Most of all, he intended to make this stay permanent.

      This mortal costume he wore served him well. It had muscles in all the right places, and put him inches in height above everyone else. His hair was dark and spiky with some bits hanging over his forehead. The women loved it, and many had run their fingers through it, sparking an erotic sensation down his spine he wanted to feel again and again.

      Despite the earthbound costume, he hadn’t lost all his supernatural strength. He could toss a car across the street if he found the need to do so. A fist to a mortal’s jaw could tear it off, so he held back from fighting for the thrill of it. It was a difficult urge to quell. The fight ran through his blood, but he wanted to change—to gain humanity.

      Since falling, he’d not lost all his angelic abilities. He could flash across the world, landing in one city or the next in an instant. He possessed sensory skills that would blow the mortals off their feet—literally, and his vision was only now beginning to take on color after a long confinement parasongs away from this vivid realm.

      He never wanted to return to the Ninth Void. It had been a drag.

      The beat increased and he danced closer to the blonde whose short red skirt fought to draw his eyes up from the fuck-me pumps. He knew that was the slang term for the shoes because a few weeks ago when he’d arrived on earth, he’d walked the world, taking in knowledge of it all.

      That night he’d assimilated the world, the mortal society, their economy, their travails and triumphs. He could speak all languages and understood most of what he’d learned—though the mathematics and daily-life accounting stuff gave him problems. It was a good thing he didn’t need to keep a checkbook.

      He had experienced women across the world, in all shapes, sizes, colors and ages—and levels of sexual desire. Women wanted him, and he was no man to deny them.

      Kissing. Ah, kissing! Was there anything finer? He’d kissed dozens in his fortnight upon earth, and had no intention of slowing down his quest for sensory exploration and fulfillment. There were so many varieties of kisses that he felt sure he’d never tire of trying new ways to make a woman squirm and giggle with delight.

      He liked the blonde ones with the big breasts. But he also preferred the smart ones who could hold a conversation about something beyond the color of their nail polish or which celebrity was screwing whom.

      This one shaking her red-spangled skirt before him looked a bit vacuous and maybe … stoned. He couldn’t understand those who chose to dull the