Ashes of Angels

Constantly on guard was her normal MO, had been since she was a teen, so learning to let loose once in a while had become a necessity to her survival.

Flipping her long black hair over her shoulders, she toyed with the red-and-white ribbons her hairdresser braided within the strands every other month. She didn’t like the idea of dreads, so the ribbons added that something extra she wanted in the style.

Sashaying sideways, a gorgeous dancer with dark stubble that emphasized his square jaw followed her gyrations. They spun and bumped hips and shoulders in fun play. He had a sexy smile, but she’d seen him making out with a blonde earlier beneath a black steel nude bent over the archway that led to the private rooms. She couldn’t abide double-dipping.

The beat changed, relaxing, and the dance floor sighed as couples paired up, while lone figures swayed to their own design.

Not ready for a break, Cassandra danced closer to the edge of the floor where the lighted tiles flashed. It was cooler here, and she knew she’d worked up a good sheen of perspiration, because she could smell her spearmint body lotion.

Smiling, because she smelled like a stick of spearmint gum, Cassandra realized this particular let-loose night had been a long time coming. It felt amazing forgetting … everything.

There was so much to forget. Dark things. Evil things. Impossible things. But only for the night. After a decade of training, she’d never completely let down her guard.

Casting her gaze about the shadows lining the dance floor, she stopped herself from surveillance with a mental slap to her wrist. Just dance. Enjoy some mindless fun! But her vision landed on a man who stared at her.

The hungry look wasn’t new. She caught men staring at her all the time across the stacks or a research table in the library. So the Stevens sisters were hot—as she’d often heard men comment—so what? What she looked like on the outside was vastly different from her insides because, Glory Hallelujah, no one wanted to deal with her baggage.

Still, she’d never refuse interest. And tech guy would understand. Hell, Marcus was still nursing that vodka. And was that a bespectacled redhead with whom he was conversing animatedly?

“Ditched so soon?” It was difficult summoning irritation. They looked like a great couple. “Go for it, bloke.”

Moving along the dance floor, she noted her observer continued his intense task. The man gave new meaning to chiseled features. Every part of his face—square chin, straight long nose, smooth forehead, pale yet strong mouth—called for notice, and then combined to form an overall captivating result.

Sexual allure spilled from his pores like pheromones she could actually see. The melting look in his eyes oozed over Cassandra’s skin. All he was doing was standing there! Had to be a celebrity. The club was famous for them, though normally the celebs did not turn her head. She wasn’t into paparazzi or the materialistic lifestyle.

A crisp white dress shirt strained across the man’s chest like tight sheets on a bed. Cassandra imagined running her fingers across the white fabric and putting a few wrinkles in it for good measure. Wrinkled sheets sounded inviting tonight. Because seriously, she’d known she and Marcus wouldn’t mesh the moment he’d suggested the opera as his first choice for the evening.

Crooking her finger, she invited her mysterious observer to join her. He navigated the crowded dance floor with an ease that belonged to fictional characters, like the brooding vampire in a Gothic novel, and matched her slow, sensual dance moves as if trying to mirror her. A little awkward with the hips, but he was at least on the beat.

Obviously not a dancer, but she didn’t care. His focused attention shimmied over her skin, feeling like warm rain. And he was all hers. No one else in the room stood in their air.

Mercy, but she’d been too deeply enmeshed in her own projects and worries lately. The world was putting out men who resembled Hollywood warrior gods? She’d been missing out.

But not any longer.

Turning and swaying before him, she invited his hand to her hip and held it there with hers. He leaned in to smell her hair. Vanilla shampoo, combined with her spearmint body lotion, mixed a sensual combination. He stroked her hair and drew out his hand, trailing a red ribbon along his forefinger. A tilt of his head and a sweet smile displayed his wonder over the decoration.

Cassandra shrugged and winked. She wanted to nuzzle her nose against his neck, divine his scent and whisper an invitation, but she wasn’t pushy, and she wasn’t a tease.

All right, so maybe a bit of a tease. But she’d come here with another man; she would not ditch him. That was just plain rude.

Unless Marcus and the redhead developed plans of their own.

Suddenly itchy, Cassandra rubbed the heel of her palm over her wrist. This new dress was some kind of wool blend, though very thin. It exposed her back to midspine. The short skirt dropped mid-thigh, and her thigh-high boots were tied up the backs with red ribbons to match those in her hair.

She touched her sexy dancer’s forearm, clasping it. Too intimate, Cassandra. But she didn’t heed her intuition. The dancer’s arm was cool, and the difference in their temperatures increased his allure.

The music switched to a fast rocker beat, one of her favorite songs about dangerous beauty, snarled out by a sultry female singer. The guitar riff in this one was insane. Bouncing before him, she performed a sexy shimmy and hip shift while he observed. He’d catch the beat. He seemed to learn quickly.

“What’s your name?” she asked over the blast of music.

“Samandiriel.”

She hadn’t caught the last name—Darrel?—but the first had sounded like Sam. She loved that name. Had dreamed about it …

Shimmying close to him, she spread a palm up the front of his crisp shirt and leaned up on tiptoe so he could hear, “You in town for the convention across the street or sightseeing on the Spree?”

Please don’t be a mortician. There was a convention at the Radisson Blu across the street. She’d already talked to two body pokers since arriving at the Schwarz.

“I’m here for you, Cassandra.”

Her? Well. That was some kind of all right. It wasn’t every day a chick found her own personal—

Wait. She hadn’t given him her name.

“Rather a nice distraction,” he said over the din. “Hadn’t expected to meet you so quickly.”

Cassandra stopped dancing. She also stopped midscratch. She tugged up the dress sleeve, dreading what she would see. The sigil on her wrist, which was normally a reddish-brown color and shaped like a spiral, glowed blue.

It had never done that before—yet that didn’t mean she didn’t know exactly what it meant.

“Oh, hell, no.”

The sensual heat flushing Cassandra’s face chilled faster than it would’ve stepping outside into the freezing winter weather.

Shaking her head, she moved away but was rudely bumped by a dancer. The man’s eyes—Samandiriel, now she remembered his name from a dream—were bright and designed from many colors.

“Kaleidoscope,” she whispered, choking on her breath.

Years of preparation, of knowing what her destiny would bring, sent her into action.

The time had come. Here stood danger.

Fisting her hands, she assumed a defensive stance. “Come on, buddy, I am so ready for you.”

The man’s dark eyebrow quirked and his perfectly sculpted lips compressed.

Amidst the ruckus of dancers and ear-thrumming music, Cassandra realized she didn’t want this to go down in such a public place. Probably he didn’t care, and would use the crowd to his advantage.

Protect the innocents, Granny Stevens had always warned. At all costs.

Darting off the dance floor like a banshee called to the grave, she pushed through the crowd of dancers, lovers and chatterers. A swing of her elbow spilled a drink, and someone swore at her in hearty German. She couldn’t bother to apologize.

Without looking to see if the stranger would follow she headed down the dark hallway toward the back exit door. Pinpricks of light spattered the walls like a constellation, but did not serve illumination for any more than a careful stroll to find the restrooms.

She shoved a man out of the way. He called back, wondering if she was okay.

She’d worn her thigh-high boots today. The heels were only two inches, but slippery as hell on the tiled floor, which was wet from people entering with snow on their shoes. Grabbing the door, she swung it open and glanced back. The man followed.