Wystan (24 page)

Reluctant allies; dangerous lovers.

The Death Skull

© 2014 Cassiel Knight

Relic Defender, Book 2

Fallen angel Marisol Asheni Fell when she unwisely chose to follow Lucifer. Unlike many of her fellow angels, she has no desire for redemption. Instead, she prefers fighting the followers of the Dark when they step over the line. Except, in the deepest part of her soul, she longs for a reason to stop fighting.

Jackson's only loyalty is to himself and his mother, but even he has boundaries he won't cross. When his last job threatened the life of a young woman, he tossed aside the lucrative pay, and finds himself fighting evil. He's attracted to Mari despite her hard, seemingly emotionless edge. And while Mari finds the tall human reluctantly appealing, she has no intention of finding herself in a relationship with a human.

Brought together by the Archangel Michael, they must find and destroy the crystal Mayan Death Skull before the son of Lucifer uses the skull to destroy the world's leaders and throw the world into chaos to begin Hell on Earth.

Their search for the Death Skull takes them from Chicago to Central America to the lost city of Lubaantun in Belize, the heart of the Mayan civilization, and into a battle for their souls.

Warning: This title contains a kick-ass fallen angel with only one weakness: a man who makes her crazy in the best—and worst—possible ways. The hero? Picture Indiana Jones, even sexier, who isn't going to let a little hellfire get in his way.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
The Death Skull:

Jackson leaned against the gymnasium door. He flexed his right knee, which was still sore and tender from his near-death slide down a mountain a couple of weeks ago. Once off the slopes and in the hillside city of Nagarkot, he'd been pronounced fine by the local doctor. The little joyride down the mountainside had left Jackson with a banged up kneecap and strained and bruised neck and shoulder muscles. Not much more severe than the normal scrapes and cuts he'd gotten over the last six months since he'd turned over a new leaf and joined a band of do-gooders to save the world.

How had his life changed so fast from the neatly roped-and-tied, orderly affair to the messy, knotted circle it had become? Six months for a complete turnaround was fast for a man who had been perfectly content as an unscrupulous mercenary working for the rich and powerful.

Especially the rich.

Now, instead of traveling the world to work for men willing to part with their ill-gotten money, he lived in a goddamn huge mansion with an angel who turned down Heaven, an ex-exotic dancer with a sassy mouth and a destiny to save mankind, a shape-shifting rock with aspirations to be a 1920s mobster, a cocky tech expert and—

Her.

The woman currently kicking the crap out of the poor punching bag.

Correction. Not a woman. Fallen angel. Demon, actually.

Christ.
Jackson swept a hand through his hair. When he found trouble, he went all the way. Said woman, Marisol Asheni—a flowery name for a hard-ass demon—struck the bag, the force of her blow rocking the heavy sack violently. He half expected the damn thing to crash to the floor.

Even as she pounded the hell out of the bag, her body flowed in lovely symmetry. Much like the woman herself, each of her movements was precise, effortless and made with minimum motions. And a helluva lot of grace.

Her taut ass flexed and smoothed under the formfitting tight shorts women—God love them—seemed to favor. Long legs, tanned and straight, looked silky under the soft lights. Her waist was bare, and when she moved he thought he caught a glimpse of something flashing at her navel.

Holy hell, the woman had a belly-button piercing. When had she gotten the damn thing? He sure hadn't noticed it the last time he'd seen her work out. His appreciative gaze tracked a path up her body, flowing past her curved hips to her uptilted breasts, up the smooth column of her throat. Despite her features being too austere for true beauty and marred only slightly by the iron determination in her square chin, she possessed a wildness he found fascinating.

Her auburn hair, woven into a tight braid, swayed back and forth as she moved. The glowing strands flickered with fire—filled with gold, rich coppers and hot reds.

Any adjective used to describe fire fit Marisol Asheni to a T. As in trouble.

His momma used to say hell hath no fury like a woman with red hair. What she didn't say was that he'd be drawn to said woman as a moth is to light. Frighteningly tempted to reach out and touch the fire. Maybe that's why he'd always gone for blondes. Safety in the cool, calm shades. Aw hell, might as well get this posse on the trail. They had a job to do. He and the demon.

Jackson strode over to Marisol. The closer he got, the more his groin tightened. He swallowed as a glistening bead of sweat traveled down the sensual lines of her neck, past the soft curves of her breasts to drop into the deep, shaded valley. His tongue ached to follow the path.

Before the mere thought of what he was doing crossed his mind, Jackson touched Mari on the shoulder. To get her attention. And that's exactly what he got.

Like viewing a slow-motion train wreck, he watched her spin around, grab his wrist and haul him forward. Goddamn, he had barely time to think again—the woman was Conan the Barbarian strong.

She pulled him around, yanking him off his feet. He crashed to the floor in front of her. His back hit hard and his breath exploded from his lips. While Mari held his arm up, she knelt on his chest, further pushing air out of his lungs. Red eyes flared. Moist pink lips stretched into a snarl. Her eyeteeth, the honking long ones, peeked through.

He should be terrified. Hell, he wanted to be terrified. Ought to be quaking in his Ariat boots. Instead, his blasted body completely found his situation a turn-on. A cock-swelling, balls-tightening turn-on.

When those red eyes widened, he figured she'd noticed his body's betraying reaction. A shadow of annoyance crossed her face. Then a low sound rumbled from her chest. Christ, was that a growl?

“Honey,” he drawled, “if you wanted to get me on my back, all you had to do was ask.”

This time, he not only heard the growl, he felt it purring through his body.
Shit.

“Human, you play a dangerous game.” Her throaty voice also hummed through him.

Merciful saints. At this rate, he'd never be able to move.

“What are you doing?” she continued, the weight of her knee easing off his chest.

He inhaled deeply, at first thankful for the cool, fresh air. When the scent of female musk and heady spices teased his nostrils, he stopped breathing. At least he stopped breathing out of his nose.

Marisol's freaky red eye color faded, replaced with the lovely amethyst shade she normally spelled her eyes to be. Only when she lost control of her emotions, let anger rule, did the red show. With her head tilted, she studied him.

Her grip on his arm changed from hard to soft, and she let go of his wrist. After slowly lowering his arm to his side, he froze as a slow smile curved her lips. His stomach did a leisurely roll. What was the hot-tempered fury planning now? He didn't believe she'd harm him. She'd had ample opportunity many times before and hadn't. But there were other things she could do to torture him. From the wicked glint in her eyes, he wondered if several such things had crossed her devious mind.

Her head bent and she leaned in closer, her heated scent increasing until every breath he took drew her in. As she neared, the pupils of her eyes—now dark violet—widened further. She licked her lips and bent to his neck.

Jackson stiffened and, again, stopped breathing. But he still didn't move to throw her off. Shit, was this what the stories always said about vampires? Their ability to mesmerize their prey so they didn't know what was happening until it was too late? Even though she'd said she was not a vampire, he imagined he'd feel the same confronted by one.

If so, what a way to go.

She inhaled deeply, swinging her nose up along the edge of his neck until just under his jawline. Her breath was warm and moist. The rasp of her nose against his skin made him shiver. By this time, her damp chest pressed against his, the fullness of her breasts making his fingers itch to cup their softness.

He drank in her nearness, entranced by the feelings her touch evoked. Afraid that any movement on his part would frighten her, send her bolting like an unbroken filly, he remained still. Silent. Waiting.

This was a side to the fiery demon he'd never expected. She pulled back, her eyes so wide and dark they filled her face. Jackson sucked in a breath, staring at her pink, full lips as she moved in.

A door slammed. He jerked at the sound. Above him, Mari stopped moving, her body rigid.

“Um, Mari? Jackson? You two okay?” Lexi's smooth, velvet-edged voice cut in.

Ah hell.

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

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Wystan

Copyright © 2014 by Allison Merritt

ISBN: 978-1-61922-289-2

Edited by Holly Atkinson

Cover by Kanaxa

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: October 2014

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