Love, Death, and Destiny: An Epic Celestial Romantasy that Spans Across Lisa Silverthorne’s A Game of Lost Souls Series

Why did humans always insist on doing stupid things that got them killed? In terrible, terrible ways…in dark alleys. Forcing angels of death to sort it out and clean up the mess.

And Talia was tired of it. Of them.

Everything in the Creation had a rhythm. Pure. Rich with a sound all its own. Cicadas buzzing in August twilight. Chicago streetlights thrumming at three A.M. Steady dub dub of a human heart’s final beats against moon-washed pavement. She’d heard that sound way too many times. And when it stopped, the silence was infuriating.

Talia shook her head, stepping over one of two dead humans, light grey shift rustling as she left the dark red-brick alley that smelled like urine and death. Rush of Chicago traffic was steady as she moved toward the busy sidewalk, people passing by on all sides.

But they couldn’t see her or her two colleagues waiting beside her, dove grey wings flexed, gold halos spinning. She sighed. There was nothing more she could do here. She was an angel of death after all, not a guardian angel. She didn’t even have a chance to cross them over.

Humans! She didn’t understand any of them!

She offered one of her angel colleagues a supportive shrug as the smell of rain touched the air, ready to wash this carnage clean. First light was a couple of hours away.

“One of yours, Talia?” Muriel asked as she slipped past with soft footfalls.

Muriel’s flowing, dark chestnut hair framed her face and soft grey eyes, wings twitching at her shoulders, the wind billowing her light grey robes. Talia’s hair had darkened to the color of night since she’d become part of Azrael, Archangel of Death’s guard. She didn’t get out much.

But she was done trying to save humans. They didn’t want to be helped—even when an archangel like Azrael sent her.

She pointed at the thin, dark-haired woman’s body, spread eagle on the wet, pocked pavement in torn jeans and a dirty blue tank top. And the brown-haired, bearded man slumped beside her in a grey striped shirt and worn cargo shorts.

She nodded. “Azrael wanted me to save the crackhead. Stupid human didn’t want to be saved though.”

Muriel shook her head and then nodded at the man. “Neither did mine.”

“Guess Azrael has them both now,” said Talia.

“The shock of what these humans do to each other must make Azrael weep every single day,” Muriel replied, wincing as she squinted at the rain tapping softly against the pavement and the two bodies.