I'm so happy that you're reading Archangel! However, I must warn you that is EXTREMELY personal work and I will NOT tolerate any kind of flaming. If you don't like it, keep it to yourself. Please respect me and my writing. However, critique and comments are very appreciated! There are some parts that I'm not happy with, so any help is appreciated! =)

Please Note: This is the UPDATED version! This is not the same as it was when Archangel was first published onto ! So, please take some time to re-read chapters 1&2 before launching into 3!

Thanks again! Enjoy!

N.C.


Eraser crumbs littered the old oak desk and the dark carpet was polka-dotted with balled up pieces of paper – failed ideas. The pencil clattered to the desktop and rolled onto the floor. The writer, who was all too distressed about her work, took a deep breath and sat back in her chair. She was a fair thing, with a pretty, youthful face and full lips, and eyes a strange colour that was such a clear blue that it appeared almost violet. She heaved a sigh and ran a hand through her dark blonde curls. Her muse was gone and therefore, she couldn't write. It frustrated her to no end.

"What are you doing wrong?" she asked herself, leaning her elbows on the desk. The blank pages and eraser crumbs gave her neither clues nor inspiration. Thinking that she needed a distraction, she heaved herself from the chair and took a few slow steps toward the large bay window. The sun was almost finished setting and only a few orange rays lingered, caught in the wispy grasp of slate-coloured December clouds that hung near the purple mountains.

The view was amazing from up in the tall building – she felt as if she could see the whole city and then some. The Mojave Desert beckoned to her as it always did when she gazed at it from her window - a strange calling that drew her body as well as her heart. She never knew why she wanted the desert, but she did. The girl pressed her hand against the glass, wishing that she could run away and explore the wastes that rolled on beyond the outskirts of Los Angeles.

Suddenly, there was a rapid knock at the door and the woman quickly spun. The violet eyes, which had been deep and melted as she gazed upon the desert, became cold and guarded. Her boots clip-clopped on the metal floor as she swept to the door quickly and confidently. Whoever was interrupting her should prepare themselves to face her wrath - interruption was not something she took lightly.

She placed her hand delicately on the keypad and the door slid open with a fluid, swift motion. Behind the door stood a tall man, with tan skin and dark hair. He had a goatee that matched his hair and a pair of ruby eyes that glowed like a jaguar's in the half-light. He took a step back, motioning with two fingers for the girl to follow him.

"Kruger, I'm busy," she said, a hint of annoyance in her smooth voice, "How long are you going to keep me?"

"A while," he replied shortly. His deep voice held traces of a British accent – an accent that also could be heard in the girl's voice. Though time had weathered most of their accents away, the remnants were audible and a reminder of who Kruger and the girl had been once upon a time.

The girl made an unhappy noise, but had little choice – Kruger was the coven leader. His word was law. She looked back at the oak desk as the door slid closed and then followed the tall man down a series of short hallways into the coven's archive room.

A steel table sat at the centre of the room, ringed by a herd of little silver stools, with a single light hanging over it. Shelves sat behind the table, extending deep into the room, where there was no light. The air was still and cool and smelled of ancient paper. Before the girl could examine the newest discoveries, which were displayed on a little shelf near the door, Kruger cleared his throat and pulled out one of the stools with his foot. He motioned for her to sit. She complied, however begrudgingly, and waited. Kruger retrieved something from the pocket of his black slacks and reached forward to place it on the table.

"What's this?" she asked, peering first at the old scroll. It was four of five inches long and not very thick. The paper had been wrapped around a thick silver rod with strange markings engraved into it. Beside it, Kruger had placed a folded piece of paper.

"Read the paper first, Diaga." Kruger remained just behind her, undoubtedly so that he could grab her should she grow bold and try to escape reading the page.

She reached across the table lazily, letting her silver nails drag across the steel table as she did so. She took the paper, immediately seeing the words Police Report written in bold block lettering at the top of the page. It was an incident report, in which two officers were shot by an unknown, heavily-armed assailant. The perpetrator was male, roughly 6' 3", and had apparently stolen the officers' car (according to witnesses). After she finished reading the entire account, Diaga leaned back against Kruger's stomach and whistled.

"Rogue?" she said, tossing the page back onto the table. A rogue vampire would usually be the only reason that law enforcement would contact Kruger with an incident report. Even though half the city government was in his pocket, he usually didn't get random reports.

"No, this wasn't anyone from our coven. I'm not even sure it's a vampire. The G-Track didn't show anyone in that area last night. But good news is that the vehicle was recently outfitted with a GPS device, so we can track it."

"We?" Diaga said, raising a brow.

"You know there is no one in this coven or in this world that I trust more than you, Diaga. You're good at getting answers and you're good at solving problems. This is a big problem. I can't put this in anyone else's hands."

Diaga jumped up and turned to walk back to her room. She was not a Chaser and was not about to become one – Chasers got dead more than they got their fugitives. As she took a step away, she felt Kruger's strong hand on her wrist.

"Don't make me order you," he whispered in her ear, "You know I will."

She spun, teeth bared. Her overdeveloped canine teeth gleamed dangerously in the bright halogen light.

"Look at the scroll," he said, releasing her wrist. She growled, low in her throat, but returned to her seat and unfurled the scroll. The heavy silver rod glittered with a hint of magic at her touch, but that wasn't the strangest part.

The long parchment had no words. Instead, several images decorated the ancient paper, drawn in the style of 15th century British artwork. They depicted humans and lambs being slaughtered by the hands of –

"What are these? Demons?" Diaga had never seen something so strange. They looked like humans with mouths full of pointed teeth and huge black wings. They seemed to claw at the eyes of the humans and slice open the throats of the lambs. What monsters, Diaga thought, could commit these crimes?

"I wish. That would make things much more clear cut. According to the prophet who made this, those are angels."