Prologue

New York City
May 5, 2006

Because of my wings, some people would call me an angel. Demon would be more accurate. I have never served in a place like Heaven, I am not even sure such a place truly exists. I come from a time where demons were worshiped as gods and magick was not questioned. I am beyond good and evil, I am too old for such a black and white ideal. I live now only to suit my own needs and I fight to stay alive.

So what brought me to the dark corner of New York City, waiting to meet with a man whose threats meant nothing to me? He had found out my secrets and I wanted to know who he got his information from. I have made several enemies over the years, though many are dead now. I kill those that threaten the life I have made for myself – they almost always deserve it anyway.

Just how much this man knew I was unsure of. He demanded several million to keep from going to the press. I can afford such an outstanding fee – I own several companies in Europe, Asia and the United States – but I was not going to be paying him. Whatever ill fate had brought that man across my path had already signed his death certificate. He just didn’t know it yet.

So there I stood, wings safely tucked away, in the middle of a deserted alley in the most forgotten part of New York, waiting for the man to work up his nerve to come say his piece. There were two guns trained on me from either side of the darkness, but guns do not hurt me – much.

Before the man, Mr. Norman Reynolds, even opened his mouth to speak, I was already turning to greet him. He was short for a man, a mere five-foot-five to my five-foot-three. His blue eyes widened a touch as he finally opened his mouth to speak, “Miranda, I presume?” he paused for a dramatic tension and a sinister grin crosse his face, “or should I say, Kitana?”

Kitana is a name I hadn’t heard since my younger years – in early 2000 B.C. – and I just stared at him for a few short moments. Then, quickly recovering, I matched his grin with my own cold smile. I let my age slowly seep into my midnight blue eyes and I watched the color quickly drain from Mr. Reynolds’ face. He didn’t know, or didn’t believe, what he had gotten himself into. Too bad.

“Why, Mr. Reynolds, I do believe you are pale,” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice, thick with a French accent – I had just returned to the United States from visiting one of my companies in Europe, France is like a home away from home.

Mr. Reynolds instinctively reached his hands up to his tie to loosen it, as if he couldn’t get enough air. His next words were strained, “About the money, Kitana.”

My smile grew colder and I drew the last 4000 years of my life into my eyes. “Yes, the money,” I whispered, and the accent had drained away from my voice. “What about the money, Mr. Reynolds?”

“My sources,” his hands fumbled to get his tie loose, “tell me that you’re a...not human.”

I took a step toward him and heard the guns click around me. In a blur, I had Mr. Reynolds’ neck in my hands and his body carefully between each of the guns. “Now, Mr. Reynolds, who are these sources of yours?”

“I...I can’t...they’ll kill me.”

“Oh, I don’t think that matters, Mr. Reynolds. See, I am going to kill you. I imagine that these people don’t kill very quickly, do they Norman?” His body stiffened in my grip and a low tremor started at the base of his spine. I was right, the people who had tipped him off threatened him with torture. “I promise to make it quick if you just tell me who they are, Norman. Or I can be just as nasty.”

He started nodding and speaking incoherently. I loosened my grip on his throat and murmured, “Speak up, Norman, I can’t hear you,” and suddenly tiny pools of blood began forming at his temples. The guns that were trained on me had turned on him. That, I did not expect.

I drew in a breath, and with a loud whoosh of air, my wings spread wide, shining silver in the moonlight. Covering myself just in time, wrapped in the safety of my feathers, the guns were turned back on me, and I felt the spray of bullets as they bounced off my natural shields. Without my wings, however, they would have killed me.

Once they realized the guns weren’t going to help them, I heard footsteps as they ran as far away as they could get. I took off, Norman’s body dead in my arms, straight up to the rooftops. Hovering above the buildings, I could see the car the gunmen ran to. I watched as they drove off into the night, thinking they were safe, and I followed. There is more than one way to find out who tipped off the good Mr. Norman Reynolds, and my second option was driving in the direction of Manhattan.

They drove into an old warehouse in Manhattan. They seemed to think they lost me several miles back, when they stopped driving in aimless circles. The warehouse was one of those with a glass roof. I landed gracefully on that roof, and set the good Mr. Reynolds down next to my feet.

It was dark at first, then my eyes began to adjust to the difference in light. The warehouse wasn’t terribly large, but it was empty save for a few crates. The ground was covered in blood. As I looked closer, I saw the bodies of the men I had been following. What was left of them, anyway.

Both men were covered in so much blood it took a moment to really see what I was looking at. There were large pools of deep crimson where each man’s arms were supposed to be. Their legs were a twisted ruin. I leaned closer to the glass and discovered a gaping hole where their hearts should have been. Whatever had done this was not human. And they were fast. Faster than I can fly.

Then I felt it, a sudden burst of power that wasn’t there before. Whatever had done this was still there. There was a pressure building just below me, a giant ball of energy that had nowhere to go. I took off into the sky just in time for the entire warehouse to implode, and then there was nothing. No debris, no power, just...nothing.

I blinked slowly, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. The ground was solid, as if nothing was ever there. There was only a faint trace of the power that built up and even that was only a mere echo of what it was. Even Norman Reynolds’ body was gone.