Hell's Angel Read online

  Hell’s Angel

  Jackie Kessler

  Copyright

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement of the copyright of this work.

  HELL’S ANGEL

  28 Days of Heart Series

  Copyright © 2010 JACQUELINE H. KESSLER

  Cover art by Amanda Kelsey

  Edited by Nicole Bunting

  eBook conversion by jimandzetta.com

  All Romance eBooks, LLC

  Palm Harbor, Florida 34684

  www.allromanceebooks.com

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this 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 All Romance eBooks publication: February 2010

  Foreword

  “Nothing’s better than a healthy heart, which helps women endure the ailments of life—physical or romantic—and come out on top of it all. This anthology, with stories by some of the most talented romance writers in the market, will benefit hearts everywhere. It’s not often you can contribute to a worthy cause, one that may well affect you in your lifetime, and at the same time assure yourself of some excellent entertainment. Have a good time, and let your heart be your guide.”

  Charlaine Harris

  Hell’s Angel

  The banished angel stared at the gates of Paradise and let out a sigh that made the wind weep with sorrow. Like the wall that stretched around Heaven, the gates were silver, beautiful, and intricately—even intimately—designed. Looking at them filled the angel with both longing and hope; it was a pressing need to be within those gates, that wall, a rising desire to take part in the delights that awaited within the boundaries of the celestial city. It was a budding hope that she would feel happy once more. That she would feel bliss.

  That she would feel something other than the gnawing, insistent loneliness deep within her belly.

  But no. Such things were not to be. Not for one such as her. She was nameless. Homeless.

  Hopeless.

  The angel sighed again, forlorn. She could have taken to wing, of course, and flown far above the top of the wall to peer at the sites within. Like its nefarious counterpart in Hell, Heaven’s gates were neither to keep the blessed safe nor to exclude those unworthy. They simply were, because people—those wonderful, hideous, beautiful, surprising creatures—expected there to be gates surrounding Heaven, usually ornately adorned with pearls. What people expected tended to be; even if they didn’t believe that they believed, their faith of their perspective on reality was nothing short of miraculous. People expected there to be gates to Heaven, and so there were gates to Heaven.

  Thus the angel could have soared across the skies, over the gates, hovering above the place that had been her home for countless years. Nothing would have stopped her. It would not have occurred to the cherubim that she might be up to no good, and the seraphim had far more important duties than to keep watch for an errant angel attempting to return to the fold. The archangels would not have deigned to notice her. She could have flown above to peer below.

  But she didn’t have the heart to do so.

  Beneath her, the cloud was soft and somewhat damp. She allowed it to chill her skin, which was bare except for the gossamer shift that covered her from shoulders to thighs. Since being banished to Hell, she’d noticed things like temperature more than ever—the Pit was miserably hot, so she now took some small comfort from the feeling of the cloud against her legs, cooling her. The winds brushed her long hair, set it cascading down her back, her shoulders, dancing along the slopes of her breasts. She barely noticed the playful teasing of her hair against her body. The angel sat, rigid and proper, her legs tucked beneath her and her hands folded over her lap as she stared at the silver gates and despaired.

  “Little angel,” a deep voice said from behind her, “why do you sit outside of Paradise?”

  The angel froze, then forced herself to relax. Her brief time serving in Hell had taught her to be suspect of anyone, of anything. She needed to unlearn such paranoia when she was not serving demon kings or walking among the damned.

  Composing herself, the angel peered over her shoulder to see another angel smiling at her. He was large, and human in his appearance: dusky-skinned, clothed modestly, standing proudly on the wind as he loomed over her. He projected strength, from his well-formed arms and legs, from his broad shoulders. He wore an emerald toga, made of a material that looked both rough and smooth, unfinished and yet polished.

  For a moment, the angel found herself wondering if, beneath the toga, his torso was solid or soft. That thought made her cheeks burn with shame. Her time in Hell was certainly rubbing off on her, and not in a good way.

  The other angel’s smile broadened into something warmer. The wind tousled his dark curls, and his green eyes shone brightly. Yet there was a sadness to those eyes—they, like his toga, seemed fixed in contradiction: melancholy mirth, tempered joy. As she peered into his eyes, she saw glints of power deep within. That power both beckoned and repelled, and she swallowed, suddenly nervous. She wondered who—or what—he was. Clearly, he was no mere cherub, like herself. That power was greater than a simple creature like herself could ever know. Even the seraphim, with their halos and their names, didn’t ever dare to aspire to such greatness.

  An archangel, then, taking notice of her.

  With a gasp, she prostrated herself before him. All angels, cherubim and seraphim—whether or not they were banished—bowed before those who walked alongside the Almighty. How had she not sensed his power before now? Pressed against the cloud, she shivered.

  She heard a sound that might have been the wind, or perhaps it was the archangel sighing. “Please,” he said. “There is no need for that. Rise, angel. Let us speak as equals.”

  Equals? “But, my lord,” she squeaked, “we are not equals! I am just a banished angel, and you are—”

  “Equally banished. Which makes us peers. And I am no one’s lord. Please rise.”

  Stunned, she lifted her head and looked at him. He was still smiling at her, and now he was extending a hand. She took it, and he lifted her up until she was hovering next to him, her wings materializing as soon as her feet had left the cloud. Her garment shifted at the same time so that there were slits along her shoulder blades, allowing for the new appendages while still covering her form. Feathered and white, her wings beat against the wind.

  He used no wings. He simply floated.

  He looks so…human. But then his words sunk in. He, too, claimed to be banished. But archangels couldn’t be thrown out of Heaven, not unless the Almighty did so directly. And there were only two times in all the history of Creation that the Almighty had directed such creatures to leave the rapture of Heaven permanently. One of those archangels sat now on the throne of Hell; the new King of the Underworld was pale and terrible, radiating both beauty and horror, and the nefarious of the Pit cowered whenever he summoned them to his castle.

  The other archangel was a legend.

  It cannot be. She took in his features, his stance, his smile. The only other archangel had been the Almighty’s adversary, known as Satan, the only entity to have ever stood at the left hand of God. Millennia ago, Satan had convinced God of the necessity of Hell, for reasons that were beyond the angel’s comprehension.

  The beautiful creature holding her hand now could not be Satan, who once was the King of Evil and ruler of the Pit.

  “Lord Lucifer?” she whispered, knowing it could not be true.

  “The same.” His eye
s glowed amber for a moment, hinting of mischief and fire. But then they settled back to their steady green. Somberly, he said, “But I am the Light Bringer no longer. You may call me Samael.”

  Samael—the name of the Angel of Death. So she was no longer to think of him as Lucifer? It flummoxed the angel how other creatures could bandy about something as important as a name. “Yes, Lord Samael.”

  “As I said, little angel, I am no one’s lord. And certainly not yours,” he added with a bow of his head. “My fellow outcast, do you have a name?”

  The angel stuttered, “I am but a cherub.”

  Lucifer—no, Samael arched a dark brow. “I have always thought that to be a poor decision among the celestials. Why should cherubs be any less deserving of a name than humans?”

  For that she had no answer. But something about the look of Samael’s face, the way his eyes glinted and his mouth curled up into a sardonic smile, gave her the courage to blurt out, “I rather like being called ‘Angel’. I think it is pretty.”

  And then she clamped her lips shut. Whether he called himself Samael or Lucifer or Satan, he was still one of the most powerful creatures in all of existence. And here she was, blathering on about a pretty nickname! If he hadn’t still been holding her hand, she would have transported herself back to Hell.

  Now Samael’s smile was bemused. “Indeed. A pretty name for a pretty cherub.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks. “Thank you.”

  “You are one of the angels newly assigned to Hell?”

  “I have that honor,” she said. That was how the assignment had been presented to her, when the new King of Hell had taken office—it would honor Heaven for some of its children to go to Hell and do the work of demons. But she would never see it as anything other than banishment.

  If only her fellow Hell-bound angels saw it the same way, perhaps she would not feel so lonely, so lost. But they all seemed to accept their new role—most with good grace, as befitted the cherubim, and even those who were less than divine in attitude still performed their tasks to the best of their ability.

  She, however, could not perform well. The very notion of what she was supposed to do terrified her. She was meant to soar among the rings of Heaven, to inspire humans to strive for the Light. Hell sickened her.

  Samael asked, “What Sin were you given?”

  “Lust.”

  “Ah.” Dark humor sparkled in his eyes. “That must have been a difficult adjustment.”

  The word had yet to be invented to describe just how difficult it had been, and still was. “Angels are not meant for lust,” she said, her voice dulled by melancholy.

  “Have you experienced it yet? Taken a lover?”

  “No.” She shuddered delicately. While the notion of physical love was enticing, the concept of lust, of being controlled by passion, disturbed her. And to do so for the benefit of Hell disgusted her.

  A pause filled with the sound of her wings moving in the wind. As the moment stretched, she remembered who Samael truly was, and what he was, and she trembled. He was an archangel, and more. He had been the Lord of the Underworld for thousands of years. Who was she to complain about her fate to one such as him?

  Why was he still holding her hand?

  Samael was looking at her intently, his green gaze probing. “You did not answer my first question,” he said, his voice a low hum. “Why are you here, just outside of Paradise? What could bring you to hover outside of Heaven?”

  The angel’s throat constricted, and her chest felt too heavy. Her fear and awe of the archangel before her dimmed as her heartache surfaced once again. When she finally spoke, her answer came in a rough whisper. “I miss home.”

  Samael’s eyes softened. “Ah.”

  That small word, that acknowledgment of her pain, overwhelmed her, and the angel’s eyes stung with sudden tears. Overcome, she turned away, squeezing her eyes shut. She was three kinds of fool. She should leave, return to Hell and wait to do the bidding of the King of Lust. She should be anywhere but here, outside of Heaven, being held by one of the strongest archangels in all of Creation.

  Samael’s fingers brushed her cheek—gently, tenderly, wiping away her tears. “Why do you cry, Angel?”

  “I have no right to complain,” she said. “I am fortunate to have been chosen to serve in the Pit. I am…”

  “An angel told to play the succubus.” He laughed softly. It was a bitter sound, stark and humorless. “It is particularly cruel. You have known only Chastity, and now you are expected to know Lust. Virtues cannot change to vices with a simple command, cherub. Nor can one’s past be eradicated by a command, even from one sitting on a throne.”

  He stroked her cheek and squeezed her hand lightly, as if trying to communicate with more than mere words. But she was too heartsick to listen. “My past does not matter,” she said, morose. “Only the present matters.”

  “The present is ever shaped by the past.”

  Either his words or their tone coaxed her into opening her eyes, but she couldn’t bring herself to face the archangel. She replied, “The past is irrelevant.”

  That was what she had been told when she’d been given her last assignment from Heaven: The past is irrelevant. What you were, you no longer are. Child of Light, now you belong to Darkness. Serve Hell, and in this way, you serve Heaven. Those words, delivered by a seraph, had been beautiful, and precise, and so very cold.

  Now, to Samael the angel said, “I am supposed to ignore all that has come before, and instead concentrate fully on my new role.”

  His hand stilled on her cheek. Softly yet firmly, he said, “We cannot ignore what we are, no matter what others may expect of us.”

  “Us?” The question escaped her lips before she could clamp her mouth shut.

  “Yes, little cherub.” Though she was not looking at him, she could hear the smile in his voice. He squeezed her hand again, more playful this time. “Us. I, too, understand what it means to no longer be welcome in Heaven.”

  Of course he did. She wished she could disappear, flee to Earth or Hell or anyplace where he was not. How could she stand here before the former King of the Underworld and lament her loss of Paradise? She had been banished only for a handful of months; he had been away from the Sky for thousands upon thousands of years.

  “If it helps,” Samael said, “while the longing never ceases, the pain of it diminishes. In time.”

  Time. What did that mean to one who was eternal?

  She berated herself silently, trembled as regret washed over her. Who was she to feel any grief at all? The archangel’s loss must have been immeasurable.

  His hand dropped from her face for a moment, leaving her cheek cool. Then his fingers touched her chin, and he gently turned her head until she was facing him. Samael searched her face, his gaze probing, intimate, and she felt herself blush once again.

  “Tell me,” he said, “what do you miss about Heaven?”

  Unbidden, memories assaulted her, stole her away from the here and now:

  Her hands clasped in others’, dancing in a circle that expands and contracts with the world’s breath, laughing as the music of Creation plays along her skin; tears in her eyes, stirred from the powerful, poignant song of the seraphim as they worship the Almighty with their own celestial music; the Divine Presence itself, basking, caressing her and loving her and holding her so close, even as it does so to all the other children of Heaven—she is one of thousands, of hundreds of thousands, part of something far greater than she ever could be alone; she is enthralled, ecstatic; the Hand of God touches her, and she is lost to rapture…

  How to put that all into words?

  “I miss being part of something bigger than myself alone,” she said slowly, remembering the feeling of music—joyous, pious, tempered with quiet dignity—thrumming along her skin, begging her limbs to move, to react, to dance. “I miss the connection. The…” She fumbled, trying to find the word. “The bliss.” Looking into Samael’s dazzling eyes, the angel said
, “I miss holding onto something that completes me.”

  “I understand,” he said, and she knew that he, of all creatures, truly did understand. That was all too clear in his eyes.

  For an eternal moment, they floated outside of Heaven: a lonely cherub and a fallen archangel, both aching for something they’d lost, one recently, the other long ago.

  “There are other ways to feel such a connection, Angel.” His voice was a stirring rumble that she somehow felt inside of herself, in her chest, her belly, down lower. Samael’s mouth slowly curved into a smile that hinted of many things.

  Many things.

  She hadn’t remembered he was still holding her hand until he started moving his thumb along her palm—slowly, teasingly. Every stroke sent ripples of warmth along her hand, and those ripples lingered, lengthened, until her entire hand was awash in sensation.

  Pleasurable sensation.

  “What the celestials have,” he said, “safe in their silver walls, we can have right here, outside of Paradise.” Samael moved his hand from the angel’s chin, let his fingers trace the shape of her jaw, her cheek, the shell of her ear. “Even humans know how to feel bliss, Angel. I can help you feel that bliss again. We can feel it together.”

  Whether from his words or from the movement of his fingers along her form, she felt flushed, almost dizzy with…something. Anticipation?

  Desire?

  She swallowed. “My lord—”

  “I am no one’s lord,” he murmured, his hands moving. His fingers danced over the nape of her neck and teased the skin of her wrist.

  “Samael.” She tried to ignore the waves of pleasure stemming from his touch. “You wish us to have sex?”

  He smiled—and oh, how the knowledge in that smile, on those lips, unnerved her. “There is sex,” he said. “And that is enjoyable. But there is also making love.” Up moved his hand along her forearm; down moved his hand along her shoulder. “And that is heavenly.”