Wicked Kiss (Nightwatchers) - By Michelle Rowen Page 0,1

last.”

The memory of the eternal optimism of Carly Kessler made my throat too thick to swallow down another gulp of my ginger ale. I returned my full focus to scanning the club, the entrance, the dance floor.

We’d been here for an hour. An hour to consume a plate of nachos, chat with a couple girls who generously tolerated my company, watch a couple hundred kids having a good time on a Saturday night, remembering that I used to be one of them, and to realize that this wasn’t getting me anywhere.

The scent in the air was intense and it made it increasingly hard to think. Not sweat or perfume—something else. Something deeper that slithered around me like a boa constrictor, squeezing painfully tight.

While I might look like a normal seventeen-year-old girl to anyone who didn’t know otherwise, without my soul I was now a “gray,” someone that had the ability to steal someone else’s soul through a kiss.

It was a mistake to come here. It’s only getting worse.

“Relax,” I commanded myself.

But it was hard to relax when you couldn’t let yourself breathe deeply. Shallow breathing was the best way to maintain control in a busy place like this. I’d come here to find a missing person, not to pick out a potential victim.

Finally, desperately needing to keep my mind off my unnatural but growing hunger, I pushed away from the booth and moved toward the brass railing that surrounded the dance floor and separated it from the seating area. I gripped the smooth, cold metal hard enough to make my knuckles turn white. After a few moments, my aching hunger finally eased off.

And then it spiked back up to maximum.

“Why are you here, Samantha?” His deep voice, edged with displeasure, came from right behind me.

I clutched the railing tighter and squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to breathe at all, but that was kind of impossible. Even soulless, voracious monsters like me needed oxygen.

When I inhaled this time, his familiar scent—warm, spicy and totally devastating—slid over me.

Finally, I forced myself to face him.

Bishop’s dark brows were drawn tightly over intense cobalt-blue eyes. He towered over me—a full foot taller than my short five-two. Broad shoulders. Sinewy muscle rippled down his arms under his long-sleeve black T-shirt, which was drawn tight across his chest. His mahogany-colored hair was messy tonight. I had a sudden urge to slide my fingers through it and push it off his forehead. I clenched my hands into fists at my sides to keep from automatically reaching toward him.

“Why am I here?” I forced myself to say it casually. “Why wouldn’t I be? Crave’s a great place to hang out with friends.”

“You’re looking for Stephen.”

I shrugged a shoulder, tore my gaze away from his and studied the dance floor.

“Samantha.”

The way he said my name always made me shiver. Still, this time my gaze shot back to his with more annoyance than nonchalance. “I know you want me to stay home every night with the door locked, but I can’t do that. Besides, I haven’t heard from you in a few days. I figured I was on my own again.”

Bishop’s expression remained frustratingly neutral. “I’ve been looking for him.”

“Found him yet?”

His jaw tensed. “Believe me, you’d be the first to know if I had.”

“Well, if you haven’t found him, then it sounds like you need help. That’s why I’m here.”

He hissed out a sigh. “Seriously, Samantha. You need to go home and let me handle this.”

Hot anger ignited inside of me, helping me resist my automatic pull toward him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Bishop’s brows were drawn together, but a smile now tugged at the corner of his lips. “Feisty tonight, aren’t we?”

“Define feisty.”

“Samantha Day. Seventeen years old. Normally a realist who knows right from wrong, but is currently glaring at me like she wants to punch me in the stomach.”

“Good definition.” Something suddenly clicked for me. “You seem strangely okay tonight. What happened?”

The smile fell from his lips completely. “I’m not okay. But I’ve found another way to deal with my problem when I have to.”

“How? I didn’t think your particular problem came with a multiple choice solution.”

“Neither did I.”

He might look like a gorgeous eighteen-year-old boy, but Bishop was actually an angel who’d been sent here to Trinity to take care of the gray problem. But something went horribly wrong when he left Heaven. Another angel who wanted to sabotage his mission had made him a “fallen” angel—one with a soul. The soul was a punishment to