Dark Surrender

Kyriel shifted his gaze across the mirror to look at her. “You have a funny way of sweetening the deal.”

Neriel winked. “And it worked, because you’re going to do what Gabriel wants.”

“Yeah.” Kyriel resigned himself to the fact. “I’ll do it.”

“I knew we could count on you.” Neriel faded out, disappearing as quickly as she’d arrived.

Her sugary sweet angel scent lingered in the air.

“That was enlightening,” he said to his reflection in the mirror.

Kyriel ran the water in the sink, swiped some shaving foam onto his face, and dragged his razor over his stubbly beard. After he rinsed his smooth face and patted on some aftershave, he ditched his towel for a gray silk robe and walked down the hall to his library.

He headed across the dark wood floor towards the bar in the back corner and poured a generous glass of the oldest scotch he had on hand. He threw back the entire drink, then quickly poured another.

He didn’t get drunk like the humans. Since he was an angel, but in physical form, it took him three times the amount of alcohol to feel the effects. He poured a third full glass and brought it with him to his desk, where he sat in the high-backed leather chair and kicked his feet up on the dark mahogany desk.

He sipped his scotch as he gazed around the room at the many Holy relics in his collection of Holy relics. Golden swords he’d found buried in the rubble of great battles in which God had ordered the angels to take out an entire city of sinners. An original manuscript of Paradise Lost, signed by the poet Milton as a gift for telling him tales about fallen angels.

The mind is its own place, and can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.

Kyriel’s favorite piece was the golden shield hanging on the wall above the fireplace. On it was the image of a rearing horse, one leg held high in the air. Centuries ago he’d helped the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse out of a jam. The Horseman War had damaged his shield in the fight, and after the five of them were standing on the leveled battlefield, victorious, War had given it to him for his bravery and skill.

The shield was a reminder of what he’d once been.

The stack of mail centered on the desk stared at him as he took another sip of his drink. His butler, James, had left it out for him before going to bed. Kyriel didn’t care about the mail. He cared about redemption.

On the other hand, he’d lived on Earth for a long time, and there were many luxuries he’d gotten used to having that he would no longer find in Heaven. No more enormous feasts or aged scotch. No naked women in his bed. No Egyptian cotton sheets or silk suits. What about his Corvette? It was custom built, the only one of its kind.

And what about his collection?

He couldn’t dream of leaving his Holy relics behind. He’d spent centuries traveling and bargaining—and in some cases stealing—to gather it all together. He’d done it because he wanted to feel close to Heaven, and now that he had the chance to go back, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Kyriel didn’t know what he wanted.

He threw back the rest of his drink and set the empty glass on his desk. Tomorrow he had to get the ring from Jillian Whitmore. The first step to keeping her safe was making sure she didn’t have the ring in her possession.

He wondered what she would think of his collection. His home held more lost treasures of the Bible than her little museum. For once, he’d met a woman who could understand and appreciate the work he’d put into procuring every piece. It wouldn’t be stuff or old junk to a woman who shared his same dedication to art and history. A woman who was hosting an exhibit full of Holy relics in her museum.

And that’s when he got the idea. He knew exactly how to get the ring away from Jillian Whitmore.

Chapter 5 (#ulink_d07d0c71-db2b-5c9b-83fd-de8d0d6c8327)

Downtown New York

The Next Morning

The Twelfth Precinct was probably the safest place in the world for her to be, and Jillian couldn’t stop her hands from shaking.

Too many bad memories.

Or maybe too much coffee at work earlier that morning.

She had gotten a call from Detective Steve O’Malley, telling her the police had recovered the items stolen from her grandparent’s house. Their home was still in escrow after Jonathon had put it up for sale, and she’d been forced to go through a lifetime of cherished memories and belongings in only a few short weeks. She’d been keeping the ring from him on purpose, saying she hadn’t found it among their things when, wouldn’t you know it, someone broke into the house and stole the ring along with the other jewelry and the television.

Now there was a good possibility the ring was somewhere in this police station.

She got into the elevator and pushed the button for the third floor. Her first visit to a police station happened when she was six-years-old. She was brought there after she and her parents had been in a car accident on the George Washington Bridge. The engine caught on fire, and a stranger had pulled her from the backseat before the car plunged over the side. Her parents both died. She’d been sent to live with her grandparents.

Even though twenty years had passed, she mourned her parents every single day. As a young girl growing up, she’d felt robbed, cheated out of a normal, happy life by an unfortunate accident. Part of the reason her grandfather had brought her along on his travels was to help alleviate some of her grief. Over time, her grief had faded, until her grandparents’ accident had left her with no family whatsoever.

She hadn’t been prepared to feel so alone.

So lost.

Her more recent trips to the police station had been to get a restraining order filed against her ex-fiancé, who had thankfully decided to show his true nature before the wedding when he turned psychotic and violent. Dr. Weber said Kevin was a sociopath. Jillian agreed.

To this day she was still learning a tough lesson. All a restraining order accomplished was pissing Kevin off even more. It didn’t stop him from calling her, or following her, showing up at her house or, worse, the museum. The police always got to the scene long after he’d done his damage. At best, she could ball up the piece of paper and throw it at him.

She’d spent over a year in and out of the police station and court rooms because Kevin wanted the restraining order lifted. She’d gotten so afraid of being alone that she moved in with her grandparents and stayed with them until almost a year ago. She finally got her own apartment five miles from the museum. Kevin’s harassment had slowed down but he still reared his ugly head from time to time, coming out of the woodwork with the rest of the lunatics when the pull of the moon was just right, usually when she least expected the attack.

Jillian thought he’d get over her leaving him eventually but Dr. Weber said he was fixated on her and, until something else came along to capture his attention, his sociopathic behavior would continue.

And she was the one seeing a therapist.

How crazy was that?

The elevator dinged as it stopped on the third floor. Jillian stepped out into the busy work area where most of the detectives had desks and offices. She didn’t have to wait long before Detective O’Malley came up beside her, a cup of coffee in his hand.

“It’s good to see you, Jillian.”

She’d forgotten how handsome the detective was, with his dark brooding brows and that Boston-Irish accent.

“You too, Detective.”

“Would you like some coffee, or water?” he offered.

“No, thank you.” She smiled politely, while her stomach fluttered with anxiety.

She was too nervous to eat or drink anything until she learned whether they had recovered the ring or not.

“I’m glad I had good news for you this time.”

Detective O’Malley had been the one to arrive at her apartment in the middle of the night to tell her that her grandparents had died in a car wreck.

“It’s a nice change,” she said.

She should have taken more than one of her pills down in the parking lot.