An Angel Lost: The Complete Series

By Odette C. Bell

The complete An Angel Lost series. Follow Misa and Farley on their gritty fight for answers in this four-episode box set.
She must feed off sinners to survive. But to feed is to sin, and to sin, is to be punished.
Misa is a detective in the screwed-up city of Saint Helios. She has a secret she’s kept since birth. A secret that haunts her every step and breath.
She’s an Arc Angelus, a top-tier predator who must feed off sinners to survive. If the Government found her, they’d kidnap her and brainwash her for their Arc Program.
Every day, she battles with her hunger as she hides among the police, using her contacts to find sinning Angelus to consume. She has no option but to kill – she must keep her niece alive, and this is the cost of survival in this tortured world.
Her partner is Farley Jones, a man living behind a mask. One who lost his humanity the day Arcs killed his family attack. He’s dedicated his life to tracking those monsters down, and he’s never given an Angelus quarter.
Until now. For when two people need each other, no matter what separates them, destiny will find a path to draw them together.
....
An Angel Lost follows a forbidden angel and a brooding detective fighting through a dark city for answers. If you love your urban fantasies with grit, punch, and a smattering of romance, grab An Angel: The Complete Series today and soar free with an Odette C. Bell series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Odette C. Bell
• Release date: Oct 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005268121

Book preview

An Angel Lost: The Complete Series

Odette C. Bell

Odette C Bell

www.odettecbell.com

Copyright

All characters in this publication are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

An Angel Lost: The Complete Series

Copyright © 2020 Odette C Bell

Cover art stock photos licensed from Depositphotos.

Odette C Bell

www.odettecbell.com

An Angel Lost: The Complete Series Blurb

The complete An Angel Lost series. Follow Misa and Farley on their gritty fight for answers in this four-episode box set.

She must feed off sinners to survive. But to feed is to sin, and to sin, is to be punished.

Misa is a detective in the screwed-up city of Saint Helios. She has a secret she's kept since birth. A secret that haunts her every step and breath.

She's an Arc Angelus, a top-tier predator who must feed off sinners to survive. If the Government found her, they'd kidnap her and brainwash her for their Arc Program.

Every day, she battles with her hunger as she hides among the police, using her contacts to find sinning Angelus to consume. She has no option but to kill – she must keep her niece alive, and this is the cost of survival in this tortured world.

Her partner is Farley Jones, a man living behind a mask. One who lost his humanity the day Arcs killed his family attack. He's dedicated his life to tracking those monsters down, and he's never given an Angelus quarter.

Until now. For when two people need each other, no matter what separates them, destiny will find a path to draw them together.

….

An Angel Lost follows a forbidden angel and a brooding detective fighting through a dark city for answers. If you love your urban fantasies with grit, punch, and a smattering of romance, grab An Angel: The Complete Series today and soar free with an Odette C. Bell boxset.

An Angel Lost: The Complete Series

Title Page

Copyright

Blurb

Table of Contents

An Angel Lost Episode One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

An Angel Lost Episode Two

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

An Angel Lost Episode Three

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

An Angel Lost Episode Four

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

Sample

Newsletter

About The Author

Reading Order

Guide

Front Matter

Start of Content

Back Matter

An Angel Lost Episode One

Chapter 1

I stare dead ahead as the scent of death fills me. All the way up.

Hey, get over here. I need you to take notes, Farley says as he brings up a hand, cups his strong chin, and drums his fingers on his stubble. His bright green eyes are fixed on the body draped over the bed. From the way the arms are hanging limply over the mattress, to the dead, lifeless look in the poor son of a bitch’s eyes, the corpse looks arranged. Like he’s a well-placed dead rose in a bunch of flowers.

I’m still standing outside the main room, and I can only catch a glimpse of both Farley and the corpse through a gap in the bloodstained velvet curtain.

Misa, get over here already, Farley snaps. I know you don’t like murder scenes, his tone drops with momentary compassion before arcing right back up to the level V hurricane I’m used to, but the corpse is still fresh, and we need to figure this out now.

I don’t rush to his side. I stand there, arms held loosely by my sides, fingers brushing against my ill-fitting pants. No matter where I shop, nothing ever suits me without being taken in, and I don’t have the money to waste on getting anything tailored. I’m too short, tiny if you believe Farley. Ultimately, too small for the job.

A liability who just gets in the way.

Just before Farley can hit boiling point, I half close my eyes and as surreptitiously as I can, I breathe in the scent of death. Though my senses are more than sophisticated enough to pick up the smell of flesh starting to rot and blood congealing, that’s not what I’m interested in. What ignites the hunger within me is those last drops of light.

The last fragments of a soul ebbing away from the dead man only to be recycled through nature.

Misa! Farley loses his cool, jerks over with the sound of rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the carpet, and grabs the velvet curtain in a white-knuckled hand. He yanks it to the side and locks his fiery gaze on me. I know you don’t like murder scenes, kid, again his anger is stymied by a moment of compassion – but it’s one that can’t last as his jaw hardens and his eyes pound wide, but that Angelus bitch is still out there, and we need to find her before she can strike again.

Farley isn’t usually the kind to cuss. He’s one of those irritating upright men who got taught a set of behavioral rules from his daddy or some other trusted father figure. Act like a man, never show emotion other than anger, for God’s sake never hit a woman, and keep your nerve.

But the straitlaced, handsome, usually clean-shaven Farley has one complication. One thorn sticking out of his otherwise perfectly crafted persona.

His sister and mother were killed by an Arc. He never told me this – but you don’t work for the police department in Saint Helios without learning that. Farley is the best Angelus crime detective the police have. Singular minded, driven, and the kind of gritty bastard to track an Angelus down no matter how long it takes him and how far he has to descend into the cesspit that’s Saint Helios.

He has a little book on his desk that he writes in every day. The name of every registered Angelus in town is in it. If they commit a crime or are suspected of doing one, he writes a mark against their name.

You know who’s missing from that book? My niece and me. But if Farley ever found out what we are, he wouldn’t be the one to deal with us. They’d send in a full contingent of the Security Forces to capture us.

Misa, come on, get your pad and pen out, for God’s sake. He shrugs his shoulder toward the boudoir, his well-proportioned body catching the beading along the velvet curtain and making it jangle. I’ll do the investigating. You just write down the notes. Okay?

I catch it again. Just a glimpse of the compassionate Farley. A man who existed before he lost his family. But a man who is now under the tight control of the obsessive, dictatorial, driven detective.

Okay, sir, I say, voice small.

There are other detectives in the room, and not a single one pays attention to me other than to shoot me the kind of looks that tell me I don’t belong. It’s not because I’m a woman; it’s because I’m small and I act even smaller.

There’s a purpose behind that. Arc Angelus – especially those who haven’t been found by the Army – are extremely rare. It’s critical for us to hide our power. No one expects someone as small and apparently pathetic as me to have strength, so they don’t look for it.

I’m hidden in plain sight, right underneath my colleagues’ noses.

I cram a hand into my pocket, pull out the thick, bent legal pad, grab my pen from my other pocket, and pause, looking up at Farley.

His gaze ticks toward the body on the bed. His face is all hard, angled, stiff with tension and barely concealed anger. I watch his lips pull back against his teeth, catching a glimmer of white enamel.

Once upon a time, Detective Farley Jones was on a career path right to the top. His life was magazine-perfect. A happy family, a gorgeous fiancé who was the daughter of a local senator, and a meteoric rise it looked as if nothing could stop. Then Farley’s family was murdered, and finally they found something that could stop his ambitions. The man himself. Though he’s been offered promotions, he never takes them. Farley wants to be out in the field – needs to be out in the field, physically running down Angelus, dealing with them with his own damn hands and seeing them get their just desserts with his own damn eyes.

That right there is all you need to know about my partner.

The body’s been sucked dry, Farley begins his assessment, walking over to the dead corpse and getting carefully down on one knee as he avoids the blood splatters covering the plush black carpet. He leans close to the victim’s face. Definitely an Angelus attack.

It’s gotta be the proprietor. She’s a registered Succubus. Why are we even bothering with this investigation? One of the younger detectives, Jason Wolf, pops up from the opposite side of the room, a brush in one hand as he dusts for fingerprints. This is a waste of damn time. The bitch is out front. Why don’t we just go capture her now?

Because without evidence, she’ll just walk free, Farley growls in reply. He remains exactly where he is, his body held at an uncomfortable angle as he locks his knees on the only patch of floor that isn’t covered in blood. He leans as close to the dead man’s face as he can without touching the corpse.

The case is already cut and dried in Farley’s head.

Problem is, he’s wrong.

I smell the air, the movement controlled so no one can guess what I’m doing. There, shifting around with the air currents, laced between the almost overpowering scent of death, I pick up the taste of a Necro Angelus.

There are many varieties of Angelus. The Arc Angelus are at the top of the food chain. We’re the only Angelus who can feed off our own kind. Below us are the Necros and Succubuses, the Majes and the Gills. All feed on varying stages of human life energy. A Necro must consume the blood and life force of a recently deceased corpse. A Succubus consumes sexual energy. A Majes partakes in emotional energy, and Gills consume the flesh of the living. And so the cycle continues.

Misa, why have you stopped writing? Farley snaps.

I lock my gaze back on the point of my pen as I scribble down Farley’s inaccurate conclusion.

I can smell the scent of a Necro all over the scene. In those plush velvet curtains, trapped in the tread of the carpet, laced along the walls, and more than anything, embedded in the bedsheets. If I had to guess, the victim died of a heart attack. The Necro was lucky enough to be nearby, smelled it, and came to feed.

Which is an illegal act.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t follow the strict laws that regulate Angelus. If I did, I’d crawl into the local Army barracks, offering myself up to a life of being used as a heartless weapon.

But while Arc Angelus are strictly dealt with by the Army, the other four classes get to remain in society. If they’re registered, and if they accept to play by the rules. The rules, as you can imagine, dictate that an Angelus cannot feed without permission. A Gill can’t stop someone on the street and take a bite out of their neck. They can, however, work for hospitals, eating limbs that need to be amputated or flesh that’s gone necrotic. A Necro can work for the local funeral parlors, consuming the bodies of people who die without family and without money – a cheaper alternative to the State burying them. Majes work alongside trained psychiatrists, feeding off the emotions of those who can’t control them. And Succubus? Yeah, boudoirs. They say sex with a Succubus is out of this world, and a hell of a lot of people are more than willing to pay for that pleasure.

None of that explains what happened here. Some Necros can’t control their urges. Plus, extremely fresh corpses are their preference, tasting 100 times better than the old stale shit they have to suck down at the local funeral parlors. My guess is the asshole was walking past and couldn’t resist.

Why do you think she cut him up so badly? Jason asks.

To hide her tracks – to make it look like the guy was murdered. My guess is she took it too far and stole his life energy, Farley spits, darkness lapping at each word.

I pause, pen on my pad once more, gaze locked on the middle distance as I throw my attention into the scents I’m picking up.

Beyond the thousands of different smells that have penetrated this room – from the dirt on Farley’s shoes from when he jogged this morning, to the scent of cigarette smoke on Jason’s breath, to the thousands of different colognes that have impregnated the mattress of the bed – I catch something. A scent unique to the Necro.

Orange spice, coffee, sulfur, and blood. A mix of all four. A unique tag. With one more breath, I draw it deep into my lungs and lock it in place, capturing it for later.

I haven’t fed in at least a month. My last catch, I gave to Mischa, my niece. She’s growing, after all.

She needs more than I do.

As it is, I can only find us barely enough to scrape by.

If we joined the Army? They’d keep us well fed. The more an Arc feeds, the stronger they get. And the Army needs their weapons to be as sharp as they can be.

Misa, did you catch that? Farley snaps.

I jump, pretending he caught me by surprise. As I let the pad of paper tumble from my hand, it strikes the floor, splashing into a puddle of blood.

Goddammit, Farley spits, pivoting on his knee, standing, scooping up the pad, and staring at the blood. Still grumbling, he grabs a tissue from his pocket, wipes it off, then shoves the pad back at me. I catch a glimmer of compassion in his eyes, but this time it can’t even last a second as he snarls, Keep it together. You look like a fool. You’ve seen worse murder scenes than this, Misa, he adds, voice lightening a touch.

Yes. Yes, I have. So many. My whole damn life.

You see, I’ve been fending for myself since I was a child. Since that time, I followed one golden rule to stay alive. I don’t consume humans. Unless they’re the worst of the worst. Serial killers, rapists, the scum who keep kids locked up in their basements. Human traffickers, torturers. I’ve seen them all, and yeah, I’ve taken their lives.

It’s the same with Angelus. I only consume the worst of the worst. But unlike a human, taking the life force of an Angelus will help me last longer. They’re richer in energy than a human, even if said human has dedicated their entire life to brutality.

An Arc Angelus technically consumes sins. We partake in twisted life force. The chaotic energy of those who would destroy for pleasure.

If you believe some of the esoteric conspiracy crap you get on the Net about my kind, we were God’s original soldiers. A force to keep humanity in place, to ensure it never lost sight of its innocence. For if it did, the life force – the soul – it had been given, would be taken back.

Me, I don’t believe in any of that trash. It’s just a fancy justification for something that doesn’t need it. Arc Angelus are predators, top-tier carnivores. You see the same theme replicated throughout the rest of the animal kingdom, from sharks to big cats to birds of prey. Creatures who keep the rest of the food chain in check, ensuring they can never grow beyond their food source.

But none of this is the point. The point is that tonight I’ll feed. On the Necro who perpetrated this crime, to be precise. It’s by specifically targeting Angelus who have committed crimes that I’ve managed to stay under the radar this long.

Farley gets back to assessing the crime scene, but not after a lingering look my way. I say lingering – it lasts several seconds, but for the quick Farley, that’s practically an eternity. I wonder what’s ticking through his mind. I don’t for a second think he’s suspicious of me. No, just disappointed that he brought a weak little woman like me along to this case.

Well, tonight, this weak little woman will solve it.

Chapter 2

How was your day? Did you catch any crims? Did you solve any cases? Mischa barrels into me as soon as I unlock the door and walk through into our tiny apartment.

She tilts her head up to me, her smile infectious. It momentarily wipes away the drudge of the day as I lean down, clap a hand on her head, and ruffle her hair. It was okay. I didn’t catch any crims, though, I say, voice dipping down low.

There’s something about my tone, and Mischa catches my subtext instantly. Her smile stiffens. You mean… you’ve got a target?

I walk past her, unbutton my jacket, and place it neatly on the small, old, rickety coat rack by the door. At the same time, I close the door carefully with the toe of my shoe, a meaningful expression on my face as I press my lips tightly closed.

Mischa wilts like a flower, staring at the door nervously until I can lock it. Even then, I take a step toward it, focus my attention, press my ear against it, and wait. When I conclusively pick up that no one was in earshot, I cross my arms, lean against the door, and arch an eyebrow.

Before I can tell her off for almost sharing our secret in public, she brings her hands up. Sorry, sis, she says. She’s always called me sister, even though I’m technically her auntie. I’m all she’s got. And she’s all I’ve got, too.

So I shrug it off as I walk past, tap her on the head tenderly once more, and head over to the kitchen.

I pour a glass of water and force myself to drink it.

I don’t need water or food to survive. I can consume them, however. I don’t have an ordinary digestive tract. They’re simply burned up by the same system that would prefer to run on life force.

You’re probably wondering why I’m bothering to drink in the privacy of my own home, then. The answer is simple. Extreme paranoia. If the utility providers realized that there was lower than usual water consumption coming from this apartment, it might tip them off that the inhabitants aren’t quite human.

Maybe you think I’m going overboard, but maybe you haven’t had to scrounge to survive like I have.

I thrust those uncomfortable thoughts away as I slam the glass down on the bench without breaking it, lean back, stretch my shoulders, and smile at Mischa. Learn anything interesting at school today?

Just the usual subjects. Math and science and English. I’m killing in all of them, Mischa says as she proudly skips around in a circle.

Good girl, I mutter gruffly as I walk over to the table and glance at the mail. Just as long as you don’t actually kill, I add.

We both share a chuckle.

It’s the kind of chuckle that, if Farley were here to listen to, would make the detective explode with rage. Like I said, he lost his sister and mother to an Arc attack. But we’re different. Plenty of Arc Angelus get driven mad by hunger and kill any sinner they can find.

Not me. And not Mischa.

So yeah, it’s funny. And excuse me for trying to find humor in this dark goddamn world.

We also had an Angelus awareness class, Mischa adds, all hints of levity gone from her tone.

I’m halfway through scratching my neck. I pause, darting my gaze over to her. Learn anything illuminating?

Just that it’s the duty of every loyal citizen to report anyone they suspect of being an unregistered Angelus.

I snort. Well, I imagine you’d get top marks in your class if you told them you knew of not one, but two unregistered Arcs.

This joke is harsher, and Mischa can’t even manage a smile. She pats her arms uncomfortably, looking this way and that, eventually catching hold of the hem of her top and twisting it around and around one crooked finger.

I look up from the bills I’m sorting through to glance first at her hand, then at her ashen face. What happened?

You know Mandy?

The girl you said you’ve been making friends with? The one who invited you to her party next week?

Mischa nods, the move tight, her jet-black hair bouncing around her ears. Even though she’s only my niece, we look alike. I have a bob cut of perfectly straight, thick, glossy black hair that hugs my face and sways around my jawline whenever I make a fast move. I have a blunt fringe that skims the top of my eyes. Farley’s always barking at me, telling me to cut it so I can see better. I’m never going to do that. A fringe as long and thick as this helps to hide your expressions. No one can see your brow furrow. No one can catch your eyebrows whenever they descend and harden over your eyes.

And it’s little things like that that have helped me stay hidden.

Yeah, that girl, Mischa continues as she brings a hand up, latches it on the back of her neck, and presses her fingers into the muscles. You’d be an idiot not to see her tension.

I drop the bill I’m halfway through looking at, place it on the table, and twist around in my chair, the legs grating over the marked linoleum. What happened?

She said her grandparents were killed by an Arc. We went around the whole class, and most kids had similar stories.

I press my lips together. I stand. I walk over to her, I get down on one knee, and I look right up into my niece’s eyes. Most of those… incidents would’ve been before the Angelus laws came in. Back when… our kind was more unregulated, I say the word unregulated carefully. "Plus, you can’t judge yourself by their actions," I say, voice spitting on the word their. I don’t explain who I’m talking about, and I don’t need to. I mean the other Angelus.

Mischa fixes her wide, dark, dark brown eyes on me.

We’re different, I say, voice dropping to a specific pitch. A certain rhythm. I’ve said this so many times, it’s practically a mantra for me. We’re different, I repeat once more, voice pitching up louder.

We’re different, Mischa manages in a quiet tone.

We feed on those society won’t miss. We hand out justice, not death, I add, gaze fixed. I wouldn’t blink even if someone slapped me. Mischa needs to understand this.

Because it’s something I never understood. Back when I was her age, I had no one until I was reunited with my sister. Though that meant surviving on my own and scrounging food and shelter with no help, that wasn’t the worst part. The torture was having no one to tell me that I was okay. That I wasn’t a twisted monster who didn’t deserve to live.

So I can barely swallow, my throat as stiff as a tightly clenched fist. I force my mouth to open as I repeat, We are different. Never lose track of that, Mischa. We’re not monsters. Somehow I keep it together long enough that my voice doesn’t waver. We hold the natural order. We predate upon those Angelus who break the rules. And if too many Angelus break the rules—

She looks right up at me, her eyes widening until I can see the whites surrounding her irises. Then there’ll be a war, and we’ll all be wiped out.

I reach a hand forward, clamp it on her shoulder, and nod. Silently, I stand.

I can feel Mischa’s eyes on the back of my head as I walk over to the table, glance down at the bills, and start rifling through them again to figure out which ones I can afford not to pay.

She doesn’t go back to what she was doing – rugged up on the couch watching TV – she continues to stand there and stare at me. She’s running her thumbs over and over each other, a sure sign of stress.

I turn over my shoulder. I smile. If you want me to come to Mandy’s party, I’ll change my shift, and I’ll be there.

I go back to sorting through the bills. I don’t need to jerk my gaze back up to Mischa to see that her mouth has exploded into a grin. I can hear her muscles moving from here. I can feel the change in blood flow, sense the increase in muscular tension.

The senses of an Arc are some of the most powerful predatory faculties in the animal kingdom. Once I’ve got hold of someone’s scent, they can cover themselves in bleach, and it won’t matter. They can head down into a volcano, and I’d still be able to catch their scent. The only thing that dulls my senses is air travel. Get a sufficient distance from me, and I might lose your scent. For a little. But once I’ve caught hold of a target, I don’t let go.

Mischa goes back to watching TV, and I hear the couch groan under her weight as she takes a standing jump onto it. She buries down under her blanket, pulling it over her head as she focuses her attention on the box.

Once I can feel that she’s fully distracted again, I walk over to the window behind the table, pretending to stare at the view. Quietly, I push a hand into my pocket. The legal pad from the case this morning is still there.

More importantly than that, the blood. Though Farley tried to wipe it off with a tissue, the paper is still stained.

I run my finger back and forth over it, scratching it with my nail. I pull my hand out, stare at the minute flecks of blood on my fingertip, and push it into my mouth. I wrap my warm, wet lips around it and catch hold of the unique taste like a man grabbing hold of a dog’s leash.

I lock my gaze on the city, I turn, and I get ready to hunt.

Chapter 3

Farley Jones

You’ve got to be kidding me, I manage as I roll to the side, thrusting an arm out of my covers. I grope around in the dark, fingers sliding over the polished wood of my bedside table until I catch hold of my phone.

I wince against the bright light of the screen, swiping to accept the call as I flop back against my pillow. What is it? It’s 3 o’clock in the morning, I grumble.

You know that Succubus we brought in this afternoon? The suspect in that murder case?

What happened? I bolt upright, moving so fast my bed head smacks against the wall.

Dead.

Sorry?

She’s been killed.

But she was in custody.

I know that, sir. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m now staring at a dead Angelus.

Shit. I throw my covers off and launch out of bed, my bare feet slapping against my worn floorboards with two thumps. Keeping the phone pinned against my ear, I muscle into the pants thrown over the chair by my door and loop on a shirt. I’m on my way. I switch ears as I finish buttoning my shirt and tuck it into my pants with a smooth, practiced move.

No need. We’ve got this. Just thought you need to know. You are on call, after all.

I’m still coming, I grumble as I shove my shoes on. I tie them and stand, dressing in record time.

I kick open my bedroom door, jerking a hand out and scooping my keys up from the hallway table beside me, even though it’s pitch dark out here.

There’s nothing you can do. Internal Affairs is already onto it. Like I said, I was just informing you because you are technically on call.

Internal Affairs? I stop, palm on the handle, keys tucked under two fingers. Why have they been called? Wasn’t this a revenge attack?

There’s no evidence of entry.

What the hell? My fingers twitch, my keys jingling as they bang against the old, chipped brass of the door handle.

It’s the early stages of the investigation so far, but the Succubus’ cell was internal. No windows. Only one door. And there’s no evidence of damage to the door. Looks like someone used the key and code. And if someone used a key—

Then it’s one of our people who did this.

That’s what Internal Affairs is saying.

I stand there, reeling as I let that fact strike me. I shake my head. "That doesn’t mean shit. It just means we’re dealing with a sophisticated Angelus. One with a real grudge. You know how it works – if too many Angelus break the rules and attract the attention of the law, they self-regulate," I really spit that phrase out as if I’m worried I’ll choke on it.

That’s the official term. The unofficial term is retribution. Angelus don’t give a shit who they kill – humans or their own. But though they prefer humans, Angelus are smart. They know that if too many Angelus break the rules, it could sway public opinion, get people thinking that the so-called laws and regulations and registration system that are meant to hold the Angelus in check don’t do anything. If that happens, there could be an all-out war.

So when too many Angelus step out of line, the more powerful, senior members of the community act.

Usually brutally to make their point crystal clear.

The cell was in the center of the police station, sir. For an Angelus to get in there, they would’ve had to go through multiple security points. Plus, there was no sign that somebody screwed with that door. We checked the logs, and the correct code was entered. The lock looks fine, too. Which means whoever killed that Succubus had a key and knew what the code was.

That’s a guess. It could’ve been an Arc. I can’t hold my voice even as I say that. Never can. You won’t catch me showing emotion most days, but when I mention those cold, heartless abominations, then I show it. I can’t stop myself. Visions of my sister and mother covered in blood, lying dead in front of our house always flood back in.

I clutch the door handle, grinding the keys against it, not caring as the metal teeth of my house key digs into my palm.

There’s a significant pause. There aren’t any Arcs left in the city. You know that, sir. You think if the Army even caught a whiff of an unregistered Arc, they wouldn’t tear this city apart to find them?

I stiffen my jaw and force myself to breathe. Arcs are wily.

Sure. But they've got to feed. And you know how valuable they are to the Army – heck, you used to be in the Army yourself, didn’t you?

I pause. I’m still holding the handle, grinding the keys against it. Yeah.

So you know the length the Army is willing to go to to capture an Arc. And though, yeah, maybe an Arc could have gotten into that cell, stolen a key, figured out the code, and killed the Succubus without anyone else hearing, that’s pretty far-fetched. Internal Affairs think it’s an inside job. Somebody out for revenge.

I open my mouth to spit back that that’s supposition once more, but I pause.

I have a reputation, a deserved one. There’s no other man or woman in Saint Helios who hunts Angelus like I do. There’s no one willing to go through as much to serve justice.

So it isn’t outside the realms of possibility that Internal Affairs would suspect me.

Internal Affairs is taking the investigation from here. Just wanted to give you a heads-up for tomorrow.

… Right. You sure you don’t need me? I let my hand drop from the door, the keys scratching the paint as I let them drag down the wood.

There’s not much to see. They’ve already cleaned the body and taken it away. I’ll have a report on your desk by the morning. Goodnight, sir.

Goodnight.

It takes me a few seconds to pull the phone away from my ear. I let it drop by my side as I stare dead-eyed at my door.

I turn, dump my keys back onto the hall table with a jangling thump, and head back to bed.

I don’t sleep.

I can’t.

…

Misa

I follow the scent of the Necro to the city morgue.

It makes sense that the Necro needs another feed. That’s what satiating your appetite will do for you. If you haven’t fed for a long time and you catch a windfall, most Angelus won’t be able to stop themselves from hunting down another meal.

Rather than head in the front door, I’ve climbed up the side of the building. It wasn’t hard to pry open a window, and now I sit there in the shadows, hands pressed against the floor as I wait.

From further into the building, I can hear the characteristic clangs and thumps of the Necro breaking in. He’s already disabled the security alarm and the guard. Not permanently. Necros rarely kill. You’d think they would; they’re primed to feed on the flesh of the recently deceased. But they’re primarily scavengers and always have been. Don’t get me wrong, you find the right Necro, and the bastard will kill. Your average, run-of-the-mill guy will much prefer to find rather than hunt.

My nostrils flare as I remain there, poised on the floor, ready to act.

I’m in the main room of the morgue, and behind me are the cold beds stashed in the wall. I’m hyper-aware of every smell. From disinfectants to cold flesh.

It’s not the prospect of dead humans that sees a lick of saliva trail across my tongue.

It’s the Necro’s scent.

I can taste it in the air. Burned oranges, sulfur, and flesh.

But beyond that, sins.

You wouldn’t think you could smell sins, and for an ordinary human, that’s true. For me… they smell dense. Like pockets of concentrated perfume. The nasal equivalent of coming across a sugar cube while you’re eating sawdust.

There’s a bang from just outside the door.

I crouch further back against the wall, my tensed shoulders hard against the cold metal.

I make no sound. And unlike the Necro, I don’t smell of anything. It’s not just that I forgo using perfume or any soaps or detergents, it’s that us Arcs can deliberately mask our scent.

Even Succubus, who are primed to pick up pheromones and can smell a potential lover half a city away, can’t detect an Arc. Not if we don’t want to be known.

Come on, come on, I hear the Necro chatter to himself like a neurotic bird as he kicks open the door, falls onto all fours, and scurries forward with the frantic, uncontrolled movements of a starved dog after a bone.

The guy doesn’t stay on all fours but pushes up to his feet. The soles of his shoes squeak against the clean floor as he throws himself toward the nearest body cupboard. Just as his sweaty fingers slide across the polished, reflective metal, saliva pooling down his open mouth, he pauses. He tilts back, leans his head to the side, and sniffs. His nostrils flare wide as if they’re buckets he’s using to gather air.

I don’t bother to shrink further back into the shadows. He hasn’t smelled me.

Fresher. Something fresher. Just a few hours old, he says, yanking his hand back from the metal, leaving a sweaty, glistening trail across the polished surface. He steeples his fingers together, stiffly drumming them back and forth as he follows his nose to a body shelf several meters away.

He latches hold of the handle, giggles like a junkie about to receive their last hit, and yanks the cupboard open. The move is so violent that the body inside almost tumbles out. Before it can strike the floor, the Necro darts in, shoving a hand forward.

The corpse is a young woman, and the Necro catches her head in one hand. I can see the side of his face. Even if I couldn’t, I’d still be able to feel how wide his eyes pulse as he brings his face down to the dead woman’s, and he sniffs. His nostrils grow even wider than before, so large the skin is close to splitting.

He opens his lips, he lets out a sigh, and he reveals his teeth.

He snaps in to rip the woman’s jugular out. I move. As quick as a flash. A blur of muscles, my hair flattening against my face and neck.

I reach him, latch a hand on his shoulder, and pull him back. He’s strong, but I’m much, much stronger.

There’s the crack of strained joints and muscle as I tug his head all the way back until I stare into his eyes.

My expression is impassive.

His eyes bolt open wide and bulge with fear. If you want your own feed, pick one of the other corpses. I sniffed this one out first. Rule of the jungle, he spits.

He goes to shrug me off.

I let him.

In other words, I let the bastard momentarily think he’s stronger than me.

He snarls, grabs the collar of his jacket, neatens it with a violent tug, then shoves out a hand and locks it on the dead woman’s neck protectively. Still baring his teeth at me, he rounds his shoulder and uses it to motion toward the body drawer to our left. If you want to feed, you’re going to have to leave the freshest to me.

I’m standing there, hands held loosely at my sides, expression as blank and unreadable as an empty book. How many times have you done this?

He’s leaning down, glistening, saliva-covered teeth about to wrap around the woman’s jugular again, but he darts his gaze to me. Why, want some tips? I ain’t going to share them. This city isn’t big enough for two uncontrolled Necros. You start feeding on the same flock I do, and you’re gonna bring too much attention. So I’m gonna be real kind to you and allow you one snack, he gestures at the body shelf to his left once more with a tense arch of his shoulder, before I chase you out of town. If I catch you feeding on my flock again and drawing too much attention to us, I’ll kill you myself. He goes back to opening his mouth, his lips white, his teeth poised.

Aren’t you already drawing too much attention? Didn’t you already feed today?

You could justifiably ask why I’m playing with this guy. My hunger has reached a fever pitch. My natural Arc senses are screaming at me to kill this guy and consume his soul. But I hold back. Because I’m different. Just as I made Mischa repeat tonight, we’re different. We’re not the kind of Arc Angelus to feed indiscriminately. We only partake of the worst of the worst. So I need to establish this guy’s full guilt before I can snap his neck.

He shoots me a real peeved look, his gaze narrowed and his eyes blazing. With a hand locked protectively on the neck of the woman as her head dangles off the cold, silver metal bed, he growls at me. Yeah, I fed this morning. How do you know that? Suspicion flares deep in his soulless black eyes.

I can smell it on you.

Never removing his hand from the woman’s neck, the guy yanks his shirt collar, snapping it up to his nose as he takes in several deep, rattling sniffs. I thought I washed, he mutters to himself. His gaze darts back to me, his suspicion deepening. You’ve got good senses to pick that up. You must be well fed to have that kind of acuity.

I gently arch my head to the side and shrug. It’s been a while, actually.

Where have you been feeding? he demands, now trying to smell me, his nostrils rattling as he sucks in deep breaths. How come you’ve flown under the radar for so long? Come to think of it, I’ve never seen you in the funeral parlors around town. You new here?

Maybe.

Where’d you come from? Ah, heck, I don’t care. All you need to know, he takes a threatening step toward me, and as he’s a good foot taller than me, he easily looms over me, is that you’re not gonna mess with me.

I let my gaze slowly flick up his chest and lock on his eyes. Why is that?

Because I’m part of the Arcadus Brotherhood, he says with finality as he slaps his free hand on his chest. He does it with enough force that there’s a resounding thump that echoes around the room.

A member of the Brotherhood, ha? Figures.

The Brotherhood didn’t start in Saint Helios. It started in some of the more fucked up cities down the coast. A lot of the regulated Angelus have never forgiven the humans for the brutal crackdowns of the previous decade. The witch hunts, the murder. You might think that’s two-faced. Angelus hunt humans. But in the years before humanity found out Angelus existed, we self-regulated. We controlled our population, feeding on those who deserved it.

When humanity discovered what we were, it led to 20 years of instability. 20 years of murders and crackdowns. The government would concentrate on Angelus children. Catch them early. Experiment on them. Use them to lure in their parents. The things done to Angelus kids were unspeakable. To the humans, we weren’t anything other than animals. Which is funny, because to the Angelus, humans are animals, too.

The only thing you need to know is that