Demon Angel

Chapter 1

Death was close. She could taste it on the gentle breeze that wafted through her hair and caressed her over-heated face. Spring might be in the air with its promise of life but that was not what she felt. She saw only death. Hers and the men she hunted.

No matter how hard she tried, she could not block out the call of life that beckoned her. She wanted to see and absorb the beauty of the day, yet that was not what flickered through her mind. Robin saw the murder of her mother and heard her own graveside cries as she vowed to avenge her death. Within days, that promise would be fulfilled.

Damien Whittermann would die first, then she would put an end to his puppeteer, Sir Walter Fletcher, the man responsible for her maman's death. Le Petit Moineauwould finally be able to fly free, all those who had conspired to destroy her having paid for their crimes with their lives.

"Est-ce lui, ma sœur ?"

"English," she whispered harshly. "We do not want to give anyone a reason to look closely at us.

Her companion––her closest friend since the age of twelve––rolled his eyes and huffed, as he did whenever he thought she was being unreasonable. Which was most of the time lately.

"Fine. Is that him, sister?" he repeated in English, then snapped, "But, Robin, I am French. People cannot help but know this when they see me. I look French, I sound French, I secrete all things that are French.”

Robin Antoinette St. Pierre glared at the man who was closer than a brother––or sister––to her. Other than her daughter, Andy was the only family she had left in the world. And if he messed this up for her, she would strangle him.

"I don't give a bloody damn if the whole of England knows you are French, mon frère, I just don't want them knowing I have French blood as well.

Andy's lips puckered as he stuck his nose in the air as if he'd just smelled something foul. Or like the English noblewomen walking past them. Of course, that was the point of her wearing pounds of makeup, dressing in old, smelly rags, and wearing a matted grey wig––she didn't want any of these noble pigs looking directly at her.

When her brother finally looked at her again, he shuddered as if a cold winter wind had blown past him and not the warm breeze of spring. "You, my," he glanced around quickly, "sister, look like a proper English hag. No one would suspect you of being French –"

"Only half," she cut in.

His eyes narrowed at the interruption. "––with you looking like you are ninety if a day." He sniffed. “And for all that is gloriously France, what is that awful odor about you?"

Robin fluttered her eyes at him. "Spoiled milk and," she reached into the pocket of her greasy skirt and withdrew the wad of wrapped garbage she'd gathered that morning, "week-old, spoiled fruit if I am not mistaken."

Andy gagged, as she knew he would, and covered his nose and mouth. "Merde, put that away, you evil creature."

Robin smiled as she slipped the putrid wad back into her pocket. To those walking passed them, she looked like a beggar offering to sell apples to a servant. A servant from a moderate household, as it wouldn't do for Andy to look as if he worked for one of the hated nobles.

"What have you seen?" she demanded under her breath while holding the smile she was giving him.

"Your quarry left his house and is on the way," Andy replied. "He should arrive within minutes."

Robin nodded and looked away. "Go. I do not want either of them to see you. Even in passing."

Andy returned her nod and waved his hand as if refusing what she was offering to sell. He then hurried off, blending into the busy Bond Street’s foot traffic. If her plan worked, then the two Englishmen responsible for her mother's death would be arriving shortly. She couldn't kill them here, but she could finally get a look at the two men.

One man, Damien Whittermann, she'd seen a number of times. But always from a distance. And always when she was trying to avoid him. This would be the first time she would have a chance to closely observe the other man, the one who had been hunting her for five long years. The man who was directly responsible for her mother’s death.

Sir Walter Fletcher was the man. The man who would die, even if it cost her own life. Killing him was all that had kept her alive during the worst days after her maman’smurder.

Her melancholy thoughts were vanquished by the arrival of four men on horseback. They were dressed in ordinary clothes and hats. To the untrained, they appeared no different than the dozens of other men on the streets of London. Yet to her, she saw them for what they were, soldiers. Heavily armed soldiers who were on the alert for any danger.

Two of the men disappeared into the Knight's Cross Hotel across the street. The other two scanned the street, looking for obvious threats, their eyes passing over Robin several times without stopping.

Placing the apple cart she'd borrowed this morning between her and the men, she raised an apple in the air and cried out in a crackly cockney, "Apples! A'esh apples!"

As she waited, one of the two men who'd gone inside the hotel emerged and said something to the one now standing guard outside. He nodded and remounted his horse and rode off. Robin's heartbeat sped up and her breathing became labored. In a few minutes, she would finally see the man who ordered the murder.

Months of waiting, weeks of planning for this moment. Six years if she counted the day her mamanhad been killed. As a part of his job with the English War Department, Sir Walter Fletcher was responsible for countless deaths. Yet the war was not why he'd had her mother killed.

The clatter of hooves and carriage wheels pulled her attention back to the street. The plain-dressed guard was returning, leading the way for a coach and four. Two men sat on the box, both obvious soldiers judging by their bearing. Another two livered soldiers stood on the back of the coach. And eight livered soldiers on horseback surrounded the coach, front and back.

Robin breathed out a curse in both French and English. A year ago, someone had tried to kill Sir Walter Fletcher. A Frenchman, if the rumors were to be believed. It was a shame they hadn't succeeded as she would then only have one man to make pay for her maman'sdeath.

Unfortunately, their failure meant she still had to kill the man. It also meant that she had to figure out how to get past all the security Sir Walter now traveled with. That was, on the rare occasions that he left his house or office. Both were virtual fortresses now, thanks to the attempted assassination.

It was why she had devised this insane plan––as Andy called it––to draw both Sir Walter and Damien Whittermann out into the open. And the first phase of her plan appeared to be working as the evasive head of the English spies had taken the bait she had dangled before him.

The coach and four pulled to a halt in front of the Knight's Cross. As hotels went, it wasn't a bad one. Nor was it one of the better ones in London. Yet it served Robin's needs as it had a rear entrance that could not be seen from any of the streets around it, allowing her to come and go without being observed.

Her heart pounded painfully beneath her breasts as she clutched her mother's dagger, the only thing she had left that had belonged to her. It would be the one that she plunged into the heart of Sir Walter Fletcher.

The eight guards took up positions around the coach and waited. After an eternity, the coach shuddered as the occupant moved around. From her vantage point across the street, she could not see who was disembarking onto the now empty sidewalk.

Breath held, Robin waited–and waited–until finally her patience was rewarded; a portly man emerged from behind the coach and walked toward the hotel doors. He was bald, save for a wreath of grey-white hair that was long enough to flutter in the breeze. From several feet away his clothes looked of a better quality than those around her. Yet they looked too large even for his rotund frame and appeared rumpled as if he'd slept in them. On his nose he wore gold-rimmed glasses that he paused to push up as he stopped and turned to survey the street around his entourage.

His eyes skimmed over Robin, causing her to inhale sharply. The hilt of her blade bit into the palm of her hand hard enough to leave a red mark, even through the cheap half gloves she donned as a part of her disguise. Yet his eyes did no more than pass over her as he took in the rest of the street, crowded with finely dressed men and women openly gawking at the spectacle taking place in front of the Knight's Cross.

Sir Walter swept the street one more time, this time pausing for a beat longer on the apple cart woman selling her wares on the street across from the hotel. He then glanced at one of the guards and nodded. Four of the huge guards preceded him into the hotel, leaving a buzz of speculations from the shoppers on the sidewalk around Robin.

Those that she could hear hazarded guesses that ran the gambit from prince to pirate. Robin knew he was neither. Just a murderer that ordered others to do his dirty work.

The hum on the street died down as the people went about the business of shopping. Robin went back to waiting. Waiting for her next target, Damien Whittermann. The man's friends and enemies alike called him The Demon. She knew that his arrival would not be as extravagant. If anything, he would arrive like a shadow. One moment not there, and then the next, there as if he'd been all along. Robin knew this as she had witnessed him arrive in just that way a number of times. Usually when he was searching for her and she was doing everything in her power and abilities to avoid him. Well, no more.

This time she'd invited the devil to the dance, and she had every intention of dancing with him. Just not in the way he expected. A movement in the Knight's Cross window drew her attention. Sir Walter was taking a seat near the window as she had hoped and planned. On the other side of the glass was the hotel's restaurant. Its reputation for good food was the establishment's main claim to fame in the area. It was where she'd told Sir Walter she wanted to meet him. The dish she'd offered was herself. Or more accurately, information on the French spy known as Le Petit Moineau, the Little Sparrow. And for this ruse, she would be doing something she had not done in five years, appearing in public as herself, Robin St. Pierre.

The stage was set for this, her last performance as the infamous French spy. The actors were gathering and once everyone and everything was in place, she would put an end to. . .

Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a small, elderly man's approach. He was bent over and using a cane as he shuffled toward her. His face heavily lined and his hair as white as snow.

When he reached her, Robin hissed, "What in the bloody hell do you think you are doing, Andy?"

"Elpin' me pretty," Andy said in a cockney.

Robin cringed. "God, Andy, that's the worse accent I've ever heard. There is no way you can pass for English, anything. And you know it. So, I ask again, what are you doing here?"

He slid a little closer and lowered his voice. "I want to help. It is not right that you do all the work to bring these men to justice. Catriona was as much my mamanas yours. Maybe not by blood, but by everything else that mattered."

Pain shot through Robin's chest and lodged beneath her breastbone. Her mother had rescued Andy as a child and then raised him alongside Robin. He had taken the murder every bit as hard as Robin had. Maybe more, as he had worked with her for years. But he was not a spy for the French government. Not exactly, anyway. His talent was getting into places that seemed impenetrable and ferreting out information that seemed unattainable. To him, it had all been a huge game. Until the day their mother had been murdered.

"No," she whispered harshly. She would not lose him too. "Your job is to keep my daughter safe." When he opened his mouth to argue, she broke character and laid a hand on his arm. "You and Espoir are all I have left in this world." She squeezed his flesh. "Keep – Espoir – safe for me. That is all I ask. Keep my daughter safe. Please."

She could see that he wanted to argue, yet he closed his mouth and nodded.

"Oui, I will protect her with my life, sister."

The weight on her chest lightened ever so slightly as she watched him turn and walk away a second time. Andy was not a big man. In fact, he was five inches shorter than her own five feet and seven inches. He also looked like a small child to most of the world. It was one of his greatest advantages and one he exploited quite well. Nevertheless, he would protect her daughter with his life.

Turning she watched the man in the window as he drank from a small mug. She knew from her research that it was not ale nor spirts as the man did not drink alcohol of any kind that she could tell. Confident that he was where she wanted him to be, she pulled her attention from him to the streets around the hotel.

A fission of fear washed over her. She knew that The Demon would not arrive in grand style like Sir Walter. He never did anything that brought attention to himself. Robin also knew that the man would wait and watch the area closely before approaching it. It was why she had been on the street corner, selling her apples since before dawn.

For four hours, she'd not broken her vigil knowing that he could slip into the hotel unseen if she took her eyes off for just a second. And Andy's unexpected interruption had had her eyes off the front of the hotel for more than a second.

She swept the area, praying that she had not missed The Demon. And praying even harder that he had not seen her momentary lapse with Andy. A mistake like that could get her executed before she accomplished her goal of ending Sir Walter’s life. Killing The Demon was also important, just not as much as the man who ordered her mother's death.

The fear that she'd exposed herself faded as time marched on. Slowly, a few brave souls walked past the huge men guarding the entrance to the Knight's Cross. After half an hour the sidewalk was once again congested with men and women going about their daily lives.

And then she saw it. Or saw him. A man of medium height and medium build. He moved purposefully. Not striding. Not strolling. Nor did he amble, looking through windows as he moved down the sidewalk in the way that those that were there to shop did. He glanced and saw everything as he gazed inconspicuously around at everything and everyone. The Demon had arrived.

Robin held her breath and raised an apple in the air. She tried and failed to sing out the hawker's song she had sung all morning, yet no words came out. All her concentration was on the man who had hunted her for five long years.

Then he stopped just shy of the doors. He turned and looked around as if he knew someone was watching him. His gaze passed over Robin and her voice came back as she cried out, "Apples. A'esh apples."

His eyes did not linger on her. However, hers could not look away. Her heart stopped beating, then began to pound loudly beneath her breasts. For years she had tried to imagine what the man hunting her looked like. Robin had fantasized all manner of features on The Demon. However, all she had ever known for sure was that he was of average height and average build. Other than that, he, like her, was a chameleon. Changing his appearance to blend into whatever background he was in. It was why she needed to meet him in his natural surroundings. She needed to see the man as he was.

Despite trying to look ordinary, unremarkable, he was not. Not to Robin. He had soft brown hair, dark eyes––that she could tell from across the street––and a strong face. His nose was not overly long as so many of the English were. And his lips were not full, nor were they nonexistent, as many of the men in England bore. In short, he was handsome.

A fluttering began in her belly that was not the fear or anticipation she had been feeling all morning. Nor was it the anger and hate she'd harbored since the death of her maman.For the first time since the horrors that followed her mother's murder, she felt a stirring in her that was not hate but the faint echoes of what she enjoyed before. Before everything changed for her.

Shaking off the unsettling feelings, Robin catalogued every nuance of the man across the street from her. Finally, she had a face to go with the man that she needed to use to get to Sir Walter. And use him she would. For no matter what it took, she would kill the man who ordered her mother's death.

Letting out her breath, she put away the apples she'd been selling. Now for phase two of her plan. She needed to slip around to the back of the hotel, wash the makeup and stench from her body, and go to meet her quarry as the shy, orphaned daughter of an Englishwoman.