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  Raphael tried to tempt him with a luxurious condominium, but Blade wasn’t fooled. Raphael wasn’t his decorator. He wasn’t his friend. He was his jailor.

  As he wolfed down his omelet, he read a hand-written note with Raphael's elegant script—

  Buffalo Mountain Treatment Center –101 Granite Street. Don’t be late.

  Next to the note was a leather wallet, and inside was fifty dollars. He smiled.

  Blade grabbed the note, crumpled it, and threw it in the trash. He jammed the wallet into his back pocket, grabbed a long, black leather dust jacket out of the coat closet, and headed out the front door.

  An hour and a half later, he clutched a Ouija board close to his side as he climbed the wooden stairs two at a time to his second story condominium.

  Correction.

  Raphael’s condominium.

  Blade unlocked the door and headed over to a square oak coffee table in the center of the living room. He ripped open the package, placed the black board onto the coffee table, and sat on the hardwood floor. It didn’t matter if the board was cheap. It only mattered that humans played the Ouija board and asked their questions. Asking questions was an open invitation for Balthazar to possess their souls.

  He grinned. Balthazar would answer. His boss could never resist any human calling him by name. He’d get Blade out of here. Restore his powers.

  Screw Raphael.

  Taking a deep breath, he stared at the simple Ouija board with black alphabet letters and numbers zero through nine. In the left corner was the word yes and in the right corner, the word no. He put the heart-shaped planchette on the space between the letters and the numbers and lightly pressed his fingers on it. “Balthazar, can you hear me?”

  The refrigerator buzzed in the background, and he tuned it out, straining to hear Balthazar’s voice.

  As he lowered his head, he closed his eyes. “Balthazar, please answer me.”

  He waited.

  The planchette trembled beneath his fingers. Blade sucked in his gut. This was it. He’d soon be out of this lavish prison, but the planchette jerked toward the right corner of the board. He frowned and removed his fingers. “No? What the hell? I asked for Balthazar. Not some lower class demon.”

  He cracked his knuckles and set his fingers back onto the planchette. The planchette rocked back and forth like a bucking bronco. It circled the board; the speed increasing faster and faster. His fingers nearly slipped off. Perspiration dripped down his temples, sliding down his neck. His shirt stuck to his stomach. “Balthazar, answer me, damn it.”

  He thought for sure Balthazar would answer with the anger dripping from his loud voice. Balthazar didn’t like anyone speaking to him in a negative tone.

  Suddenly, the planchette soared off the board and smashed into the marble fireplace. Tiny plastic fragments flew into the air. Blade sucked in his breath. Chills ran down his back and he shivered. “Shit.”

  “What did I tell you about my punishments?”

  Blade whirled around. Raphael stood behind the couch with his arms folded across his chest. “You didn’t show up for work today.” His voice was low and menacing. He pointed at the Ouija board. “Now, you’re using that blasted thing to contact a demon. Not any demon, but Balthazar.”

  Blade opened his mouth to protest, but what could he say? He was caught red-handed.

  Raphael lifted his hands in the air. “It seems to me starving to death wasn’t enough of a warning for you. Seems you need to learn another lesson.”

  “Raphael, wait.”

  His plea fell on deaf angelic ears. Raphael opened his palm, a red ball of fire formed. He blew on it. Blade vaulted off the floor, but he wasn’t fast enough. The ball divided into two, swirled around in the air, and dived on to his hands. Screaming, he threw his head back, shaking his hands.

  The flames died. His eyes watered from the stench of his own burnt flesh. Flesh charcoaled with white smoke slowly dissipating. His nails blackened; his fingers curled into a brittle ball. Crackled skin split and peeled.

  Blade fell onto his knees and stretched out his arms toward Raphael. “Damn it, heal me. Please.” His voice was a harsh whisper.

  “No, I have a better idea.” Raphael smiled. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”

  “What? You jerk…”

  A strong wind lifted Blade into the air and spun him around, his legs and arms thrashing. Waves of pain pulsed through his hands, and he couldn’t breathe.

  He landed with a thud in front of two double glass doors surrounded by brown and white stones. White painted letters said Saint Anthony Summit Medical Emergency Room. He staggered to his feet and held his shaking hands in front of him. Tears pushed on the back of his eyelids. He’d never cried before.

  Never.

  Gritting his teeth, he willed himself not to pass out. He took a wobbling step and the doors opened. He wanted to run in and ask for help, but if he opened his mouth, he’d release a curdling scream. A gray-haired woman, staring at a computer screen, stood behind the counter. He stumbled toward her, keeping his jaw clamped.

  “Oh, my Lord!” She picked up a phone. “Code one, code one.”

  Ignoring the pain, Blade focused on the woman. She’d get him help.

  Someone ran over to him. Strong arms grabbed his bicep and wrapped around his waist. “Buddy, what the hell happened?"

  Stupid question. Blade faltered and swayed toward the deep voice. He put his weight on someone.

  It must have been a man straining and grunting to hold him up because he was a big man and would crush a woman.

  “I need a wheelchair!”

  The man’s loud, desperate voice hurt Blade's ear. Wheel chair? Yeah, I need one.

  Brown, white, and blue colors blurred Blade’s vision. The room swirled around and his stomach flip-flopped.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. His legs buckled. Strong hands gripped each bicep. He didn’t know who was holding him up. Grunts and groans sputtered around him. He shook his head. Maybe there was more than one person steadying him. Voices sounded different. An accent? Spanish?

  “Help me, damn it,” the strained voice said. “This guy is huge.”

  Blade slowly slipped to the floor. Footsteps ran around him. Someone knelt next to him, and soft fingers clasped his chin. “He’s going into shock.”

  He inhaled a soft flowery scent that reminded him of the heavenly gardens he used to stroll along to forget about his missions. The pain lessened, but why? He wasn’t in heaven, but he wanted to drown in the fragrance. What was it? “Mimosa,” he mumbled. “Sweet mimosa.”

  Someone cradled his head, but he wasn’t sure who. He shook his head and opened his eyes. Dressed in white, a woman with flaming red hair peered down at him. She had green, no emerald eyes—cat eyes. She pushed together her lush lips. Through the anguish, he had an urge to kiss her to forget his damn hands. Was he in heaven? “You’re an angel.”

  She pushed away his hair. “I promise I can help you. Remain calm.”

  Chapter 2

  Abigail Malcolm cradled the injured man’s head in her lap and wiped the beads of sweat off his brow with a cloth. His spicy breath sent chills down her back. Before he passed out, his dark eyes had held secrets, piercing her soul. His long, thick, black braid brushed her arm. The stench of his burned and blistered hands permeated the air. His reddish brown skin was pale. He was definitely going into shock.

  She wondered if he was Native American. Was that a dimple in the middle of his chin? He was beautiful.

  She swept his strands of loose hair off his sweating forehead. She wanted to trace her finger over his high cheekbones and chiseled chin but restrained herself. She was a nurse, not an ogling teenager.

  Keep your cool. Do your job.

  But the man was a sinful temptation with his angelic looks.

  Two orderlies rushed a gurney toward her. Jose Padilla pushed the gurney alongside the unconscious man. He shook his head. “Man, that is one tall dude.”

  Abigail and
Jose usually worked the same swing shift together. She scooted out from underneath the man’s shoulders and Jose slid his hands underneath.

  Jose tilted his head. “Okay, Abby, we got him.”

  The other orderly clutched the man’s ankles. “On three,” Jose said. “One, two, three.” Jose’s face contorted and turned red as he lifted the man’s shoulders. He groaned. “Son of a bitch.”

  Jose worked out and stood at least six foot tall, but this man made him look like a dwarf.

  The other orderly groaned and gritted his teeth. “Damn, it’s like lifting the Incredible Hulk.”

  The patient’s jacket opened, his black T-shirt outlined a wide chest and flat abdomen as they lifted the man to the gurney inches away. The man’s jean clad calves hung over the lower end of the gurney.

  Abigail hurried next to them as they pushed the gurney to the emergency room.

  The man groaned, his eyes fluttering open. He winced.

  “I know it hurts,” Abigail said.

  Sweat trickled down the side of his face, and his breath came out in short gasps. “Raphael, damn…you.”

  “Raphael? Who’s that?” Abigail urged. “Is he a relative? Someone we should call?”

  “He…he…did this to me,” he muttered. “The bastard.”

  “What?” Abigail stared at his burnt hands. Nausea swirled in her stomach. Someone had done this to him? Someone forced him to put his hands into a raging inferno. What kind of person does this to another person?

  “Jezeez.” Jose shook his head.

  She frowned. “We have to alert the police.”

  Abigail stared at the sleeping man. She inhaled his scent—leather. Even without his jacket, he still smelled like the tanning and oil. While removing his T-shirt earlier, she had run her hand over his smooth skin, marveling at his muscles hidden beneath. His wallet said his name was Blade Angel. Interesting name. Parents never failed to surprise her with the names they chose for their children.

  How could a man have such ridiculously long eyelashes? With each deep breath, his chest rose up and down. Her mouth watered with devious thoughts of kissing his tempting lips, skimming her hands over his sculpted muscles again, or running her fingers through his thick hair. She imagined bringing him pleasure. But then she pushed her wayward thoughts away. What was wrong with her? She never had sinful ideas about her patients.

  She shook her head and stared at Blade again. His beauty blocked out the ugliness from her nightmare. Sleep was impossible for her. She just wished she could forget what happened to her all those years ago.

  Asleep, Blade looked young and innocent, but looks could be deceiving. She’d learned that the hard way. His motorcycle license said he was thirty. Maybe he rode in a motorcycle gang, and a rival gang member had punished him?

  She didn’t know of any motorcycle gangs in Frisco, although the Hell’s Angels had visited Frisco many years ago. They had camped out at Officer’s Gulch but kept to themselves, and as far as she knew, they never hurt anybody.

  Blade sighed heavily, bringing her out of her thoughts. His hands were neatly bandaged, and he’d been given morphine. A lump of pity formed in her gut. His hands were badly scarred and would require endless surgeries for even the minimalist movement. Human cruelty never failed to amaze her. The police had left since the man had been given a sedative and now rested peacefully. There would be time for questions later.

  She wanted to heal him, use her power, but she couldn’t unless he gave her his consent. She was willing to risk it even though her supervisor had warned her not to promise healing.

  “Where am I?” a drowsy voice asked.

  Abigail blinked. She hadn’t noticed those half hooded dark brown eyes watching her, studying her. Her cheeks heated. Had he noticed that she’d been staring at him? Lusting over him? She cleared her throat. “You’re at St. Anthony Medical Center.”

  He glanced down. “My hands? They’re numb. My mind’s fuzzy,” he slurred.

  She gave him a small smile. “Morphine. You had third-degree burns. The doctor will review your prognosis.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “My prognosis. Shit, that doesn’t sound good.”

  She did a double take. Most patients drugged on morphine were disoriented, sometimes hallucinating, barely able to focus, but Blade was able to follow their conversation and didn’t appear to have any other symptoms except for his voice slurring and glossy eyes.

  “I should warn you, the police want to talk with you.”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  “Because when asked what happened, you said Raphael did this to you. Do you remember?”

  “I was out of it.” Suspicion flashed in his glassy eyes. “You didn’t take me seriously, did you?”

  She tilted her chin. “Why, yes. Why wouldn’t I?”

  He gritted his teeth. His nostrils flared and the skin around his eyes tightened. “Because I was in incredible pain.”

  She put her hand over her thundering heart and took a step back. “You don’t want to talk to the police?”

  “Got that, Ginger.” He cast his gaze over her, undressing her with his eyes.

  She bristled. “Why are you calling me Ginger?”

  The anger in his eyes faded, and he flashed her a smile, warming her racing heart. “Because you look like Ginger Grant on Gilligan’s Island.”

  She glared and tugged at her turtleneck, then straightened her shirt underneath her smock. Why did she bother wearing modest clothes if men treated her as if she were nothing more than a pair of boobs? She snorted and met his smoldering gaze, refusing to come under his spell. “What happened to your hands?”

  He remained silent for a moment. “I tripped on my rug and fell into my fireplace.”

  A lie. No doubt. He wasn’t fooling her. “How did you get here?”

  He shrugged and looked to the left. “I don’t remember.”

  Why was he lying? “Did someone drive you? Raphael?”

  His face darkened. “I said I don’t remember.” His sharp tone put her dander up.

  In her best Nurse Ratched tone, she said, “Well, I’m afraid you don’t have a choice but to talk to the police.”

  “Thanks to you, Ginger.”

  She whipped the clipboard off his bed. “Quit calling me that.”

  He flicked his gaze over her. “I don’t see your badge. Tell me your name. Don’t nurses usually tell patients their names or wear badges?”

  “What?” She glanced down at her chest and put her hand over her right breast. “Damn, it fell off again."

  He chuckled.

  She pinched her lips together. “If you must know, my name’s Abigail. Abigail Malcolm.”

  He smiled. “Abby, huh?”

  “I prefer Abigail.”

  “Okay, Red.” His voice drifted off.

  He sighed, and his long eyelashes fluttered shut. His breathing slowed. Abigail bit her lip. What was wrong with her? Why did she get so testy with him? He was doped up on morphine and not responsible for his behavior, probably wouldn’t even remember this conversation.

  Or at least she hoped so.

  She left to check her other patients. A couple of hours later, she checked in on him and found Blade sitting up, watching television. He didn’t even look her way. The sheet was curled at the bottom of his waist, exposing his naked chest. Desire stirred inside her gut. She had never seen such massive pecs on a real person, only on models.

  Be professional. Be professional. Be professional.

  She scanned his bed. “Where is your gown?”

  He shrugged. “Took it off.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “You need to put your gown back on.”

  Before she did something really stupid.

  “Not happening.”

  The coiled cobra on his chest watched her with its red eyes. A slight flush rushed over her cheeks, running down her neck. She glanced away from the snake; the tattoo unnerved her somehow, like any minute the serpent would strike, punishing her for
admiring its master’s body. She had been right about him being beautiful naked. Sculpted chest and abs, the man could compete with the next Mr. Universe competition.

  Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. Lord, she was doing it again. Blade glanced at her but returned his gaze to the television.

  She walked around his bed, wiping her clammy hands on her smock. The green gown was balled up on the floor. He was completely naked under the thin blanket. Wicked temptation made her fingers twitch. She itched to rip off the sheet to reveal all his glory. Forcing her desire back, she softened her voice. “How are you feeling?”

  He shrugged. “Not good, Red.”

  She checked his vital signs. The heart monitor beat steady. She scanned his face. “Are you in pain?”

  His jaw tight, he stared straight ahead. A reality show of some criminal investigation blared on the television.

  Abigail waited patiently.

  He looked down at his bandage hands that were crossed over his thighs. “No. Still numb.”

  She moistened her lip. “I take it Dr. Morrow has been to see you.”

  “Yup.”

  “From one to five, five being the highest pain, can you tell me where your pain is?”

  He finally tore his gaze away from the television and gave her a hard stare. She shifted on her feet uneasily and her throat ran dry.

  “Pain? I just discovered I won’t have the use of my hands.” His bitterness made her feel like she was two inches tall.

  He lifted his bandage hands in the air. “I’ll have to have skin grafts in order to have some kind of crappy movement.” He folded his wrists across his lap. “As a human, I get to be crippled. Fucking great.”

  Her eyes widened. “Human?”

  He mumbled under his breath. She thought she heard the name Raphael but couldn’t make out anything else.

  He met her curious look. “It’s the morphine. Yeah, give me another hit. I’m at a point five.”

  She nodded and quickly left to prepare another shot of morphine. She reentered Blade’s room. He lay perfectly still on his bed with his eyes closed. Were those tears glistening down the side of his cheeks?