Fallen. Michele Hauf

a network of tunnels. The medieval and rococo centuries had been a time of necessity for secret escape tunnels thanks to the political maneuvers that tested the resilience of kings and their subjects.

      During evening hours he lived aboveground, but when daylight reigned, he was forced below-ground.

      Vampires could walk in the sun. Ninety-five percent of them. But the rare ones who had descended from an angelic race could not, only because their bloodline had not been rejuvenated with their ancestors’ blood for millennia.

      Antonio was going to change that, for him, and for his entire tribe Anakim. He wanted the daylight, and he would not stop at anything until he had it.

      Behind him he was flanked by Bruce Westing and Stellan the Pale. Bruce was Anakim’s Fallen hunter, and Stellan’s expertise had uncovered half a dozen angel halos over the past year. As well, Bruce had secured the eight paintings lined along the north wall in the dungeon, each of them depicting a different Fallen angel, complete with sigil.

      Yet Antonio had no names to match to those sigils.

      “You’re sure it was a Sinistari with the Fallen?” he asked as he entered his underground office. The cave walls were hung with medieval tapestries depicting scaled dragons and knights with bloody spears. “I thought you said he was with a female?”

      Bruce shoved his hands in his front jeans pocket. He and Stellan stopped before Antonio’s marble-topped desk. “It was a woman,” Bruce said, “and I’m pretty sure she was Sinistari. She was strong, as strong as the angel.”

      “But Sinistari are male,” Antonio said. Though, honestly, he hadn’t a proper description for the demon breed, only that they exclusively hunted the Fallen. “And why wouldn’t she have slain the angel?”

      “Still missing a key ingredient,” Stellan offered.

      “The muse,” Bruce said.

      Antonio rocked backward in the richly padded office chair and put up his feet on the desktop. He eyed the painting Bruce had carried in from the dungeon weeks earlier. It featured an angel fashioned from blue glass with a sigil impressed upon its abdomen. The name to match the angel—Juphiel—had come courtesy of Zaqiel, a Fallen Bruce had encountered months earlier. Antonio had summoned Juphiel two weeks ago. It surprised him the Sinistari had only now shown on the scene. Though certainly, if the Sinistari were slacking, that would make his efforts all the easier.

      “You’ve been following Juphiel, Bruce?”

      “Yes. He hasn’t run into his muse yet. Doesn’t seem as if he’s looking for her, actually. Spends a lot of time in nightclubs, and during the day he wanders the Louvre.”

      Bruce was not Anakim blood, thus, his ability to walk in daylight. Antonio trusted and needed him to be his eyes during the day.

      “Stay on him.”

      “I will. You know I never lose a mark.”

      Bruce did like to go after the Fallen. Even though the angels were much stronger than a vampire, Bruce was wily and took pride in his daring. He was also warded to the hilt against angels and their associated ilk. Thanks to a blood grimoire, Antonio had all he needed to protect himself and his closest allies from the Fallen and Sinistari.

      “You keep an eye on the Sinistari,” he said, glancing at Stellan. “She’s the greatest deterrent to our final goal.”

      Stellan nodded and turned to leave, always aware of when he was no longer needed.

      Bruce wasn’t so quick on the draw. He turned to study the painting of Juphiel. It had been painted using a computer, or so Bruce had explained to Antonio. Eden Campbell was the artist—as well as a muse. She was living with a former Sinistari now. Antonio kept her on his radar, but he didn’t want to approach her with a demon standing close by, former or not.

      “Why are you lingering?”

      Bruce shot him a gape. “Er, sorry, monsieur. It’s just the Fallen. I don’t know that he is the key to what we want to accomplish.”

      “And what is?”

      “Well, the muse.”

      “Tell me more.”

       Chapter 3

      Pyx suspected the vampires were following the Fallen for a specific purpose.

      When a Fallen one successfully impregnated a muse—meaning a Sinistari had not done their job—the resulting child was a nephilim. The nephilim grew to maturity in less than a week, and began to feed. On everything. Including people. The abominable creature gave new meaning to the term blood hungry.

      It ached in her chest when she thought about it. She had been responsible for allowing a nephilim to walk this earth so many millennia ago. You failed.

      Never again.

      Could the vampires be after the resulting nephilim? What the vampires planned to do with the creature once they had it was beyond Pyx. But any creature that fed on blood must be of interest to vampires.

      Flicking at the dried blood on her scalp, she dusted off the black crust. The wound had healed, but not her pride. She really wanted to lay some vampire ass flat for no other reason than that they had pissed her off. And she’d probably get a chance since they seemed very interested in Cooper.

      “Cooper Truhart.” She snorted and settled on the steps out front of his building. “Stupid name.”

      Like Pyxion was any better. The Other, even. Man, had that been a joke on her.

      Beneath had been no ball of fun. An empty void of darkness run through by a mercury sea roiling with wickedness. Pyx had wandered aimlessly, never finding anything but sea and darkness. The few times she had met another of her breed they’d recognized each other by name. It was simply a knowing.

      Her fellow Sinistari had sneered and berated her. They had somehow known she was different, ineffectual, though their true demonic forms were all similar and sexless.

      Well, she could do the woman thing. Just watch!

      Her feminine wiles seemed to have an incredible effect on the Fallen. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her in the club. And when she’d pressed against him on the Metro she had felt his exhale against her cheek. And though she knew an angel’s glass heart did not beat, she had felt something throbbing against her thigh.

      “Wiles,” she muttered. “Whatever that means. I got lucky. But I’m going to start paying attention from here on out. I’ll be the best damn woman demon my Sinistari brethren have ever seen. No more sneers for me.”

      Perhaps she could use her female status to her advantage. It was apparent Cooper was in no hurry to locate his muse.

      That had to change.

      She didn’t look forward to tracking him all over the world until he decided when was a good time to switch into Fallen-claims-his-muse mode. She had to prove herself.

      But she couldn’t sleep out on the steps hoping Cooper would trip over her in the morning. Not that she needed sleep, nor did the angel.

      Scanning her sight about the dark neighborhood, Pyx roamed up and down the brick-fronted three-and four-storied buildings. A residential neighborhood with narrow, cobbled streets and steel poles to prevent cars from parking on an even narrower sidewalk. It was charming, if she were to label it.

      Though charm meant as little to her as experiencing touch for the first time—it was a nuisance.

      Closeness to the mark meant everything.

      She spied a sign with red writing, loger disponible. “Room available.” It sat across the street and around the corner from where she had determined Cooper’s apartment must be. Perfect.

      Striding across the street, she approached the building. The foyer opened without a code, but she hesitated punching a