Angels of Flesh

By Clea Kinderton

The war between Heaven and Hell is heating up. At stake: the soul of every man and woman on Earth. The battlefield: their corruptible bodies.

 

The flesh is willing, but the spirit is weak.

 

Basar is no ordinary angel. Before he Ascended, he was an ordinary man and the worst of philanderers. Now that he's reformed, he takes his duties very seriously. Which is why he doesn't take kindly to the attempt on Angela's life by a mysterious assailant in a hoodie.

 

Granted, Angela shouldn't have been walking alone through a parking garage in the middle of the night, but nobody's perfect, least of all the woman whose commitment to work has already cost her a marriage and any hope she had of becoming a mother.

 

But this not-so-chance encounter is about to take Angela's life in a new and surprising direction, introducing her to a world of angels and devils, in which down is up, black is white, and it's not always easy to tell the saints from the sinners.

 

The world's supernatural underbelly — invisible to all but the most sensitive humans — is filled with demons, dream worlds, and occult powers. But it's no fairytale: twisted perversions and bone-chilling terror are all a part of life for the spiritually blighted. Angela's would-be guardian angel is about to have a real fight on his hands.

 

Is Angela strong enough to accept the conditions of Basar's unusual proposal, or will she return to the safe, soulless conformity of her dreary previous life, blissfully sheltered from the growing metaphysical chaos surrounding her?

 

Angela's about to discover just how persuasive an angel badboy can be…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Lamp Press
• Release date: Dec 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9798201693657

Clea Kinderton

I've always had a wild imagination. I love fat fantasy novels, B movies, comic books, and scifi. But I also love romance and sex and you'll find plenty of both along with heaps of humor, mystery, and suspense jampacked into some of the hottest, hardest, kinkiest stories you may ever read. Strap yourself in, it's going to be a wild ride. I'm always interested in hearing what you have to say and welcome suggestions. You can contact me at [e-mail] and follow me on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CleaKinderton/ and Twitter: https://twitter.com/CleaKinderton.

Book preview

Chapter One

Basarel bought a pack of cigarettes at the 24-hour convenience shop on the corner and made his way toward the parking garage elevators.

The flesh is willing, but the spirit is weak, he mused, opening the door to the foyer. The Devil’s got the whole world standing on its head.

Basarel always smoked when he felt The Call. It calmed his nerves, which were as human as the rest of his body. The Call was happening more often lately, and that worried him. He was damn glad he didn’t have to worry about cancer.

The elevator doors opened and he stepped inside the cab. He pressed a button, the doors closed, and the elevator lurched up beneath his feet. He listened to Muzak while the elevator climbed toward the top floor of the garage. He liked to smoke in the open air, with a good breeze, up above the noise and commotion and fumes of the streets. He was sad that it was so hard to see stars inside the city. He missed walking the walls of Jericho. Then again, they didn’t have cigarettes back then.

You take the bad with the good.

Basarel felt an impulse and pressed the button for the second to last floor. The elevator stopped abruptly and the doors opened. He stepped out and scanned the parking lot. Dim fluorescent bulbs illuminated concrete made shiny by the constant friction of tires. The lot was almost empty; there were maybe a half-dozen cars left. It was close to midnight. He could smell rain on the wind. It hadn’t arrived yet, but it would. A gust blew a piece of newspaper across the lot near his foot.

He heard her footsteps before he saw her. The unmistakable clopping of heels. She was walking fast; quick and nervous. He could practically feel her fear vibrating to him through the concrete.

He started to walk. His cigarette would have to wait.

It wasn’t long before he heard the second set of footsteps. They were quiet, stealthy, the faint patter of sneakers. They were moving quickly as well, purposefully, gaining ground on their quarry.

He heard the sound of keys hitting the concrete and passed a concrete pillar just in time to see a woman in a white skirt suit bending to pick her keys up off the ground. Her hands had been shaking so badly she’d dropped them. There hadn’t been a beep. She hadn’t yet unlocked her car, but there was only one car she could have been headed toward. A white Honda Fit.

Stupid woman. What are you doing walking alone in a parking garage in the middle of the night?

He heard the second set of footsteps moving more rapidly now. The predator saw an opportunity and was seizing it. Basarel glanced over and saw the man. He was wearing a plain gray hoodie with the hood drawn up, jeans, and black sneakers. He was holding something in his hand. Basarel saw a glint of metal.

A knife.

The woman looked up, her face pale and drawn with fear. She’d seen the man. She must have heard his footsteps behind her earlier. That’s why she’d been moving so quickly. But until that moment she’d held onto the hope that he wasn’t following her. Now there was no doubt in her mind. She knew. She knew he was coming for her. She knew she wasn’t going to come out of this in one piece.

Neither of them had seen Basarel yet. They were too distracted by their own little drama, as humans always were. And in any case, Basarel was too good at what he did.

The woman leaped to her feet and started to run. She thought she could make it to her car and get inside before the man caught her. Basarel knew better. The man had longer legs; he was wearing sneakers, not high heels; and Basarel could tell by his build and the way he moved that he was in very good shape. He was a professional predator, someone who trained for this kind of thing, like an athlete. Someone who got off on the chase. She didn’t have a chance. If Basarel didn’t intervene, she was as good as dead.

But Basarel was trained for this kind of thing, too.

The man sprinted. He closed the distance frighteningly fast. The woman was screaming now, terrified out of her mind, running blindly.

Basarel started to sprint.

The man caught the woman by the hair, jerking her back with a strangled cry of pain. He held the knife to her throat.

Listen carefully bitch— he started to say. Then he heard Basarel running.

The man turned, snarling like a dog, and slashed at Basarel with the knife.

Basarel caught the man’s wrist with one hand, and his fist connected with the other man’s nose, breaking it. Basarel held on and the woman fell. The other man had been forced to let her go so that he’d have a hand to fight Basarel with. The man was strong, but Basarel was stronger.

Basarel jammed his elbow against the man’s neck and forced him back against the short concrete wall separating the parking lot from open space. The man’s back slammed into the concrete, making him grunt. He lost his grip on the knife and it fell on the floor of the parking lot with a clatter. They were on the eighth floor.

You made a mistake tonight, Basarel said in a low voice.

The man stared back at him, frightened, but not as frightened as he should have been. Blood was streaming down his face, getting all over the sleeve of Basarel’s jacket.

Who the fuck are you? said the man, forcing the words out in spite of the pressure Basarel was applying to his windpipe.

I’m the guy who makes sure people like you regret your choices.

The man smiled. He was badly in need of a shave, but his teeth were immaculately white.

"And I’m the guy who fucks your wife while you’re at work. To make sure people like you regret your choices," he said, spitting.

Basarel shut his eyes, sighing with irritation, as the other man’s saliva dripped down his face. Basarel thought about Esther. He could imagine exactly what this animal would have done to her.

But of course he was thinking about it. That’s what the other man wanted him to think about.

I should kill you, said Basarel, lifting the man up and sliding him halfway over the concrete rail. Mad dogs like you don’t deserve to live.

The man grabbed Basarel’s arm with both hands, clinging. His blue eyes were wide, and he was gasping for breath. For all his bravado, Basarel could clearly see now that the man was terrified.

You won’t, said the man, perhaps trying to convince himself.

Basarel debated. It would be so easy to give the man a little shove. How many women had he hurt? How many had he murdered? How many more would he kill? He didn’t know. Only God knew.

But it wasn’t his place to judge. Basarel was a protector, not an executioner.

With a growl, Basarel jerked the man back into the parking lot and gave him a shove. The man tripped and stumbled, landing on his side. He stared up at Basarel, smiling, like he’d just thought of a good joke.

Get out of here before I change my mind, said Basarel, bending to pick up the man’s knife.

The other man pushed himself to his feet and backed away slowly, grinning like an idiot.

Maybe we’ll meet again, said the man, wiping his nose. Maybe next time I’ll catch your wife.

If I see you again, I’ll introduce you to her myself, said Basarel.

The man stared at him, confused by his response.

My wife’s dead, Basarel explained.

The man’s smile faded and a tight pinch of fear took over his features. He scowled and ran for the elevator.

Basarel turned and looked at the woman, who was standing shellshocked a dozen paces away. Her mouth was hanging open, her eyes wide and dark. She looked at him. He looked at her.

You can relax. I’m not going to hurt you, said Basarel.

She nodded, still speechless.

My name’s Basar.

Chapter Two

You saved my life, said Angela.

She looked at the man named Basar. He was just over six feet tall, broad shouldered, and probably the most beautiful man she’d ever seen in her life. His name sounded foreign, but it was hard to tell what his background was. He looked like he could have come from almost anywhere. Mediterranean? Middle Eastern? European? Hispanic? She couldn’t tell. He was wearing a dark, wrinkled suit that looked black in the dim lighting, a white collared shirt without a tie, and it looked like he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. His thick hair was so dark brown it was almost black and a little on the long side, hanging disheveled over his forehead. She couldn’t tell what color his eyes were in the dim light of the garage at that distance, but his eyebrows were furrowed in a way that was irresistibly appealing to her. His straight angular nose, strong, square jaw, and exquisitely curved lips completed a picture that would remain with her for the rest of her life. This moment would never be forgotten.

What are you doing out here in the middle of the night? said Basar. He spoke with an unusual and intriguing accent, but his voice was a little harsh, as if he were angry at her. Angela felt like she was being scolded by her father.

I had a meeting, she said, feeling a need to defend herself. It ran late.

It was reckless, said the man. This city isn’t safe enough for someone like you to behave like that.

Angela was suddenly angry. Just because he’d saved her life didn’t mean he could tell her how to live it.

I shouldn’t be afraid to use a parking lot, she said.

No, you shouldn’t. In an ideal world, you wouldn’t be. But here in the real world, political equality doesn’t make you any stronger or faster. In here, everyone is an animal.

Angela didn’t know what to say to that. She knew he was right, practically speaking, and she didn’t want to get into an argument about equal rights with a man who’d just saved her life. She knew she should be grateful.

I’m sorry, she said. I’ll be more careful next time.

The man’s face softened. I’m sorry, he said. I’m not angry at you. You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s that pig who should be apologizing, not you.

He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

Well ... thank you, said Angela.

The man shrugged and lit his cigarette.

She hesitated. She didn’t know if that signaled that their conversation was over. Should she just drive home? ‘Thanks, see you later’? It didn’t seem right somehow. He’d saved her life. He’d put his own life in danger. She felt a strong need to make it up to him somehow.

Do you need a ride somewhere? she said.

The moment she said it, she realized how stupid it was. Good Samaritan or not, he was a complete stranger. For all she knew he was worse than the guy with the knife. He must think she was a complete idiot.

The man shook his head wearily, taking a drag from his cigarette.

I ... okay, I guess I’ll go then, she said, turning back toward her car. She took a couple of steps and then stopped, hesitating. She didn’t want it to end. She wasn’t ready to leave him yet. She’d only just met him. She couldn’t walk away from a man like Basar without a backward glance. She’d regret it for the rest of her life.

She turned back. Say, can I borrow a cigarette?

She hadn’t smoked in years. Not since her clubbing days.

The man looked at her with smoldering eyes. She felt completely exposed to him, like he could see right through her clothing, right inside of her chest. Like he could see the furious beating of her heart. There was something about him that drew her like a moth to a flame.

If I give you a cigarette, will you tell me your name? he said finally.

Oh, that’s right. She hadn’t. She’d been so smitten she’d forgotten to introduce herself.

I’ll tell you my name whether you give me a cigarette or not. It’s Angela.

Angela, said the man, rolling the name around in his head thoughtfully, as if he were looking at it from different angles. He reached back into his suit jacket and pulled out the cigarettes. He tapped one out on his finger and extended it to her.

Angela took it from him.

I suppose you need a light, too, he said, pulling a Zippo out of his pant pocket.

She nodded, placing the cigarette between her lips and looking at him expectantly.

He flicked the lighter, creating a brilliant flame in the palm of his hand and she bent to light her cigarette.

So what do you do, Angela? he said, putting his lighter away.

I’m a marketing manager, she said, taking a drag from her cigarette. She started to cough.

The man was watching her with amusement, a twinkle in his eye.

It’s been a while, she said, blushing. She covered her mouth, still coughing.

That’s probably a good thing. What does a marketing manager do?

I make sure the products our clients bring us sell.

"What were you