The Seven Signs, Book 2
The Seven Signs, Book 2
Genre: paranormal romance, urban fantasy romance
Publisher: Berkley Sensation
Number of pages: 330
Cover Artist: Kris Keller
Japheth the Tainted is on the hunt for a mysterious demon vampire. But meeting her face-to-face might disarm his warrior spirit—and spark an unquenchable passion with apocalyptic consequences.
As a fallen angel, Japheth is determined to make his way back to heaven by staying pure and slaying hellspawn. With a new scourge of vampires unleashed by a blood-drinking demon, the Prince of Thirst, there’s plenty to be done. But Japheth is after one vampire in particular—the one they call the Angel Slayer.
Rose Harley never wanted to be a vampire, but the Prince of Thirst can turn even the kindest soul into a soldier of hell. Feeling abandoned by God, she stalks the West Village taking revenge on his angels—until she meets her match.
When Japheth and Rose encounter each other, the battle is fierce and charged with desire. But when they discover a common enemy—the Prince of Thirst himself—they form a dangerous alliance that could either cost them their eternal lives, or spark a love more powerful than heaven or hell.
EXCERPT: The angel crouched, glittering wings backswept. One hand outstretched for balance, the other leveling his sky-fire sword at her. He wore dark leather pants and a silver angel’s cuirass that sparked with electric blue rage. Blood spotted his feathers, slicked in his sweaty golden hair. A dark and angry warrior, primed for battle. His gaze stabbed her, poisoned with malice, frigid and greener than hatred.
“Angel Slayer,” he hissed. Barely audible, quivering . . . but not the passionate, reckless head rush of thirty seconds ago. Frosty, lethal rage, calculated to the last inch for the kill.
Jesus. Rose thought she had issues.
But her pulse raced, lacing her blood with heady fight or flight. She’d lost the surprise advantage that helped her make her previous kills. And the bastard was strong, agile. Big, too, those glistening muscles packed with power. She’d need all her wiles to win . . .
“Very good,” she mocked, circling to get better range. “What’s the matter, angel? Can’t fight properly with a hard-on?”
“I always fight with a hard-on, whore.” An ice-spiked laugh. His accent was elusive, mixed. “Maybe slitting your throat will get me off. Whaddaya say?”
“Have at me, then, sucker, you’re cutting into my feeding time—umph!”
Sizzling blue fire scythed past her nose. She swayed, dizzy. She’d ducked his blade by an inch. Fuck, he was fast.
But so was she. She dived into a handspring and rolled to her feet. He was already there and kicked her legs from under her.
Her flesh tingled. Fighting was dancing, but with sharp objects. She whiplashed, and jumped, aiming a backhanded slash at his face. He thrust up a wing to block her strike, and grabbed her wrist, flinging her off her feet.
Her skull cracked on the pavement. Groggy, she fought, but he straddled her, pinning her shoulders with his knees.
Wildly, Rose kicked, but connected only with a cushion of feathers. He slammed her wrist into the concrete. Skin sizzled on bare skin. Her knife dropped from numb fingers, and smoothly he aimed his burning blue sword point at her throat. “Don’t talk and fight. It makes you careless.”
Fuck! She wanted to scream in frustration. That was way too easy. She’d been too confident.
He was good, she’d give him that. He was breathing hard, and she couldn’t help noticing the bastard filled out his silver chest plate admirably. Blood stained his golden hair, and the big muscles in his arms gleamed with sweat. His shining feathers quivered taut with rage. His thighs strained inches from her nose—strong, hard-packed thighs, not one wasted curve—and as her gaze traveled upwards, treacherous heat rose in her belly. He hadn’t been bullshitting about the hard-on. She could smell him, heady, more chili espresso than angelstink, with a musky lash of hot male flesh. An impressive hunk of powerful masculine beauty.
And what a stupid fucking thing to be dwelling on, when he was about to send her screaming to hell.
Rose thrashed, and spat curses that blistered his fingers. She threw a spell, hellsmoke stinging, but he deflected it easily now he was on his guard, and ash exploded, raining harmlessly. His blade singed her neck. Her wrist sizzled where he crushed it. She didn’t care. “Spare me your preaching, godscum. I don’t want to be saved.”
“Oh, I won’t preach to you, bloodsucker.” His gaze glittered, icy. Impossibly green, this angel’s eyes. “I wouldn’t waste my time. You’re already damned.”
For a moment, she quailed. She didn’t want it to be true. She’d made a mistake, let herself be seduced. What happened to Bridie was an accident. She hadn’t wanted this stinking, disgusting life. The blood, the slaughter, a demon prince’s dirty urges, the endless threat of eternity in hell if she didn’t comply . . .
But too late. She’d crossed that bridge. Bridie was dead. No going back.
And this angel’s precious heaven didn’t care.
“Fine.” She tried to cover the crack in her voice with sass. “Then fuck your God, and fuck you.” And she spat, right into the angel’s face.
It hit his bloodstained cheek, and sizzled to steam, and she waited for the burning thrust of steel into her throat.
About the Author:
Erica Hayes was a law student, an air force officer, an editorial assistant and a musician, before finally landing her dream job: fantasy and romance writer.
She writes dark paranormal and urban fantasy romance, and her books feature tough, smart heroines and colourful heroes with dark secrets.
She hails from Australia, where she drifts from city to city, leaving a trail of chaos behind her. Currently, she's terrorizing the wilds of Northumberland.