Lassiter

CHAPTER ONE

11287 Gordon Memorial Parkway

Caldwell, New York

Does this make my ass look big?"

As the question was tossed out all casual, like it made any damned sense, Eddie Blackhawk opened his mouth to answer. Then he shook his head. I’m not sure how to respond to that.

Come on. His best friend, Adrian Vogel, motioned through the window of the gray-and-black Mini Cooper. Be honest.

For a split second, an image of the guy looking up with expectation caught and held in Eddie’s mind, a fishhook memory that was unnecessary after the centuries they’d spent together: Ad was a hard-core handsome type, all the Hugh Jackman anyone could want in the tall and dark department, just paired up with a Claire’s boutique’s worth of silver piercings on the trailheads of his nose, his lower lip, his outer ears. He’d shaved his head recently—because he’d bought a Manscaped trimmer on account of the Pete Davidson ad and he didn’t have anything else to shave—and his hair was already growing back in, a shadow over his skull. His clothes were black and so was his jacket. So were his weapons, although like his naughty bits, they were covered.

Hello? the other fallen angel prompted. What do you think of me and the car?

I’m amazed you can fit your posterior region in it. Eddie glanced around the wilted dealership. Why are we here again?

Ass. Adrian got out, his heavily muscled body expanding to its customary height and width like it was reinflating after a vacuum-packing. You can curse, you know. It’s not going to kill you.

Considering they were both immortals, the subject of what could unalive them was moot—as was any practical opinion about this shoebox-sized toy that was being marketed as roadworthy. And while Eddie glanced around for what felt like the hundredth time, he would have appreciated an answer to his own question: What the hell were they doing in this place? Between the fake wood paneling, the faded pictures of eighties-era cars going all airborne around tight turns, and the for-sale stock that looked like candidates for parts harvesting, he felt like they’d been sucked back four decades and Kate Bush should be piped in as a new release, not as a throwback soundtrack on Netflix.

Then again, they’d made their deal with God, hadn’t they. And with all the progress they hadn’t been making over the last three years on their mission, why not end up here? It was no more directed or random than any other place in Caldwell.

Hi, a quiet voice said, can I answer some questions about the Mini for you?

Eddie’s eyes shifted over and then had to move down, way down. The brunette woman who had approached was barely over five feet tall, and given her air of exhaustion, he guessed her age was anywhere between twenty-five and forty. Like the other salespeople, she was wearing a gold plaid suit jacket over her slacks, but the thing was a tent on her, to the point where she’d rolled up the sleeves.

I think we’re good, Eddie murmured. Thanks, though.

She reached up and tapped the safety pin that was holding the right side of her glasses together—as if she were worried that like the screw it replaced, the thing was going to fail on her.

Well, if you need anything, I’m—

I got this, Steph.

A man with a porn mustache, a full plaid suit—not just the jacket—and a hockey-player elbow pushed her out of the way. Bud James, how we doing? I’m the owner, you’ve seen me on TV.

A proud finger swung around to a life-sized cutout of himself. Which had clearly been slimmed down with filters. That’s me, your buddy in the car business. Nice suit, right? Great car, right? Let’s take it for a test drive.

Eddie tilted to the side. The woman who’d been moved out of the way was backing off, her soft-soled shoes squeaking on the scuffed blue and white floor tile. As she tugged at her jacket, she took a deep breath and faced away across the showroom’s collection of buffed-up beaters. Another couple was coming through the door and she hitched her shoulders before intercepting them.

How we doin’? Bud James put his face in Eddie’s. So how about a test drive.

Ad, who’d been circling the Mini like he wanted to date it, came over, and for a split second, you had to wonder whether Bud was going to have a problem with all the Goth.

Naaah. Bud didn’t seem to mind. Then again, the guy would probably sell cars to a demon if they had the cash or credit.

No reason to test-drive, I’ll take it.

Bud smiled like a billboard and called over his shoulder, Ring the bell, Mabel!

As an elderly woman with bright blue eye shadow creaked to her feet at the front desk and started clanging like her life depended on it, two other plaid-clad, Bud-club salesmen pumped their fists.

Let’s go do your paperwork, Bud said as he smacked a hand on Ad’s shoulder. Have to say, when I saw ya coming, I figured you’d be going for the Charger over there.

Eddie glanced over at the blacked-out, block-fronted fist’s worth of steel, glass, and tires. That’s a nice car.

We’ll sell it to you, how ’bout that?

When Bud went to pull the clap crap on Eddie, the fallen angel narrowed his eyes—and the man froze in the half-slap position and backed off. I see you’re a reserved man. I respect that, I totally respect that, yup? C’mon.

Ad went jazz hands in excitement. Then he hopped and skipped into Bud’s office, looking like the Grim Reaper on a sugar high.

As a ripple of warning tickled Eddie’s instincts for no good reason, he looked across at the saleswoman. She had a fragile hope on her face as she took the couple over to a minivan.

C’mon, Ad called out. Let’s do this.

Bud’s office was a smaller version of the showroom, same decor, same worn-out time warp. On the wall behind the desk, a banner read YOU’VE GOT A BUDDY IN THE CAR BUSINESS, the slogan spelled out on a blue-and-white background, with two bobblehead images of Bud anchoring the announcement.

—loan application, why don’t we. Bud sat at his desk, a plaid king on a paper throne. I’ll just do a credit check—

Cash, Ad said as he parked it as well. I’ll give you fifteen.

Well, if that didn’t shut Bud up. But he recovered quickly, jacking the waistband of his Rodney Dangerfields up over his paunch. Well, now. You’re a good customer, I can tell. But I don’t think I can go that low. I gotta keep my lights on—

Fifteen thousand. Ad outed a wad from the pocket of his leather jacket. And you’ll take care of the tax.

As the counting began, orderly piles of ten hundred-dollar bills lined up in front of Bud and the man got really quiet. When the last dole-out finished, and Ad sat back and smiled, it was clear that the asking price was going to be adjusted downward. Nothing like a little liquidity to tilt the course of negotiations.

It’s Stephanie Kowalski’s deal, Eddie said in a low voice. She sold us the car.

Bud’s eyes shot over. I’m sorry?

You’re giving her the credit for the sale.

Are we redoing history, son? When Eddie just stared at the man, Bud cleared his throat. I don’t like people telling me my business.

Eddie stepped up to the desk and swept the money into his hand. Come on, Adrian. CarMax has fifty of these online—

Now, hold on there. Bud jumped to his feet. Let’s not be rash.

Call Stephanie in. Tell her the good news and I’ll give you the cash.

When Bud looked at Ad, as if he expected some backup, the fallen angel just shrugged. What my boy says.

Bud muttered under his breath as he went to the open door and leaned around the jamb. Steph. Get in here.

Twenty minutes later, Adrian was having his picture taken standing between Real Bud and Cutout Bud, the Mini Cooper was out front in the open air, and Eddie was holding the key while petting the Charger’s hood. As he tried on for size what it would be like to get behind the muscle car’s wheel and drive off, he eyed the plate glass window that ran down the facade of the showroom. He imagined that the shower of shards would fall like diamonds, gleaming and sparkling as they hit the checkerboard floor and scattered in their liberation.

Well, you get your friend to c’mon back for that Charger! Bud exclaimed as he clapped his hands. Mabel over there needs her exercise, doncha, Mabel.

Over at her desk, Mabel nodded and pumped an elderly grip like she was honking the horn of a mobility scooter.

Bud leaned in and lowered his voice. She’s an important member of the team.

For sure, Ad said as he stuck his palm out. Thanks, Bud.

"No, thank you."

Adrian started for the door like he was a politician, raising a wave to the plaid salesmen, nodding at Mabel, pounding his pec and flashing the peace sign to an oil-smudged mechanic in the corner. Eddie just walked out the side door and shook his head at the Mini Cooper. The thing had tires the size of bagels and a back hatch with all the room of a carry-on bag—

Thank you so much.

Eddie glanced over his shoulder. Stephanie Anne Kowalski—thirty-four, married, two kids, husband up on drunk driving charges, mother in a nursing home after a stroke, primary residence teetering on the verge of foreclosure—had come out of the dealership, and as she approached him, her hands came together at her sternum, as if she were praying.

I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate… Her words trailed off as her brown eyes focused on something just over his head. As her stare grew wondrous, she made the sign of the cross over her heart. You’re an angel.

He smiled at her gently and ignored the adoration. You were the one who approached us. It’s only fair—

You have a halo.

Eddie frowned. No, I don’t.

Her head slowly turned to Adrian, who had paused with one leg in the Mini. With a shaking forefinger, she pointed in his direction.

He’s an angel, too, she breathed, an expression of awe rejuvenating her.

Eddie glanced in the direction of his best friend. Nothing was showing anywhere around the guy—but in any event, a human shouldn’t have sensed it even if Ad wasn’t camo’ing his essence.

Time to get out of here. Goodbye, Stephanie, you take care now—

The grip on his forearm wasn’t strong, but the contact arrested him, a strange sizzle shooting into his bones and coursing throughout his body.

As he looked at the woman… the features of her face disappeared, the broken glasses, the eyes, nose, and mouth, smudging out, nothing but a flesh-colored, oval void left where they had been. And then came the voice.

It was nothing that Eddie had ever heard before, a sweet singing soprano as well as a deep resonant alto, the syllables weaving in and out of a harmony that struck him in the chest.

Great Bear Mountain.

As soon as the words registered in his mind, the spell was broken by a clap of thunder so loud that all of the salesmen inside the dealership ducked and covered their heads, and even Ad dove into the Mini for safety.

The woman’s body stiffened with such force that her arms and legs shot straight out from her torso and she fell back, flat as a pancake. On reflex, Eddie grabbed her before she hit the sidewalk, and lowered her carefully onto the ground—and he had a sixth sense about what was coming next. Sure enough, the seizure that struck her was so violent, it was as if she were a tap dancer, every part of her in movement, things slapping, clapping, flapping on the concrete.

Over at the Mini, Ad reemerged, his body surging forward as he started to run over—

Eddie’s palm stopped him in mid-rush, and when he was certain his favorite firebrand wasn’t going to continue to come on strong, he rubbed his palms together, and hovered his hands over the woman’s chest—

Energy sizzled up, called into Eddie’s corporeal form, the licking, sparking charge entering him and making his eyes roll back. Distant voices chattered around him, swirling in a spin that his brain told him was about his perception, not any physical rotation, and yet suddenly he was the earth and they were the sun and—

I got you.

From out of the chaos, Adrian was a constant, their roles briefly reversed, the wild child becoming the calm in the center of the storm. Strong arms gathered Eddie up and broke the connection before he, too, fell onto the concrete.

Flickering lights now, and he wondered why the sky had a short in it. Except no, it was just his lids going haywire.

Man, there was a lot of plaid around him all of a sudden.

Before he could do the math on that one, Ad’s face appeared right above his own, the angel’s piercings seeming to sparkle with all the blinking. It’s okay, just breathe with me. Eddie, I need you to breathe—my guy, you’re not breathing. Do it with me.

As his best friend held him tight, Eddie followed the instruction because he didn’t have a B plan, and with his mind shorting out, he wasn’t going to come up with one anytime soon. Part of his problem was that it wasn’t just about the energy he’d taken into himself. It was that he knew what the message meant.

Great Bear Mountain.

Three years. They had been searching in vain for so long, their mission a failure, their target eluding them. And now a direction had been served, likely because the Creator had lost any faith they could do the job He’d given them.

They had to go to… Great Bear.

Next to him, Stephanie Anne Kowalski sat up and looked around at the plaid-clads who’d come out of the dealership.

You’re all right, Ad murmured as Eddie likewise hauled his torso off the sidewalk. Yup, you’re okay—

I know where Lassiter is.

The other fallen angel grew perfectly still.

Then Ad glanced back at the Mini with resignation. Well, at least I know why I brought us here. And, hey, now we have wheels.

CHAPTER TWO

10.8 miles north of Great Bear Mountain

Adirondack Park, Upstate New York

In the gathering dusk, the mountain air smelled of pine and kindling buds, the scents carried on a lazy, cold draft that trickled down the elevation, weaving around and over boulders and branches, weeds and wildlife, the frigidity of space encroaching upon the earth. Across the valley, the sun’s very last rays created a hearth in a juncture of peaks, the intersection of surging topographies a cup of palms in which the light was nestling for a brief, dying time, only embers now, no warmth to speak of.

As Lassiter, the fallen angel, emerged from the cave, he thought of McDonald’s.

Drawn by the finality of the peach glow, he walked out to a keyhole view of the splendor, tossing a small satchel back and forth between his hands. Like the golden arches memory that was suddenly dogging him, the sight before his eyes was a distillation of experience rather than something currently sensed, a refraction of the world as opposed to that which was in-the-moment sensed and seen.

In his current frame of mind, the present was as the past brought to mind, a memory that was subject to faulty interpretation and accuracy.

Had it been a Big Mac and fries? he wondered idly. Or a Quarter Pounder?

Those specifics were gone now, but he had most of the rest of the details of what had started him on the path that led here, to this night, this view. Three years ago he had been sent by the Creator to rescue the Black Dagger Brother Tohrment, son of Hharm, from grief. The mission had been an oxymoron combination of promotion and punishment. Lassiter hadn’t been looking for the former, and had had too much of the latter, but in any event, his opinion about it all was as irrelevant as where the assignment took him. The Creator had had a plan for him and, like destiny, hadn’t cared about what he thought.

He’d had free will, however, so he’d gone to the golden arches first, in a little thumb-of-the-nose at the Big Guy. Yeah, but then he’d realized food was probably the best place to start anyway. Tohr had been AWOL in the Adirondacks, living off the blood of forest animals—and Jesus, who didn’t need a hamburger on a good day, much less after going Naked and Afraid for how long?

Unfortunately, he’d eaten most of the fries on the way in to the brother.

Hey, he was an angel, not a saint. And that had always been his problem. But his rescue had worked. After a time, the fighter had emerged from the mourning of his murdered shellan and found a new life, solidly back in his old role as the King’s second-in-command. The calmest and most level-headed of the Black Dagger Brotherhood remained scarred at the soul level, but he had carried on, as survivors had to, as the living must do.

With the job done and dusted, Lassiter had figured he’d be called back home, but not all that long thereafter, a second promotion had been offered by a third party that Lassiter sure as hell hadn’t seen coming. As with the Tohr thing, he hadn’t had any interest in the job, but when the Scribe Virgin told you she was turning the vampire species over to you, and good luck with all those souls and their bright ideas? Well, there you had it. Your time card was punched… for infinity, or whenever you gave up the job, whichever came first.

Lassiter stared out over the valley below. He’d assumed he’d last a little longer than this. Like, at least five years. Ten. Fifty. A century.

Except here was the problem. When he’d arrived on the scene in Caldwell, he hadn’t particularly cared about the people, and that had made things really easy because the outcomes hadn’t mattered as much. Besides, the TV had been good, and he’d enjoyed a non-lucrative but highly satisfying side hustle of irritating the everliving shit out of Vishous, son of the Bloodletter.

Smooth sailing. Until then, sure as a case of the flu, the feelings had crept up on him, a contagion caught from the courage and the loyalty around him. Before he knew it, he’d started to worry about the vampires in that old stone mansion. Worry had led to motivation. Motivation had led to him blurring lines, bending rules… breaking the non-interference contract the Creator held all angels to.

Destiny, after all, was—or should be—a game of solitaire. Each individual had their spread to play, their own choices to make, and nobody else was supposed to be slipping them extra cards so that they could get unstuck when that pesky three of hearts just wouldn’t come up in the stock.

At first, it had been little things, but like all bad habits, he’d gotten more and more comfortable with violating his principles.

And now he was here.

Kind of ironic, really, that doing what he was explicitly not supposed to had culminated in him breaking himself.

Memories of the demon Devina barged in, and as he shriveled in his own skin, the irony wasn’t lost. Way back when, he’d gotten in trouble in the first place for dabbling with sexual expression. His higher order of angels were not supposed to bang, and even though he’d been careful to never, ever let things get to actual penetration, his I-did-not-have-sex-with-that-woman had ultimately failed to get him off the hook.

Who knew he’d end up saving his virginity for a demon.

To save the soul of a male of worth, he’d given his body over to Devina. And now he was here, standing alone in front of a dying sunset, trying to remember details about a McDonald’s order that was three years old so he could avoid thinking about all the people he was letting down… as well as the one vampire he missed with a yearning and sadness that was worse than all the humiliation and disgust he was carrying around from his time with the demon.

A different image came to him, of a female with hair that had the gleam of polished sterling silver, and eyes that were the same shimmering color, and a face that tilted up at him… as all around at her feet, wild flowers bloomed in a swirl even though it was not the season.

Why bring your girl a bouquet when you could give her a meadow full of blooms? he’d thought at the time. Especially if you were saying goodbye.

He could still picture his Rahvyn’s delight as she had twirled about, and in this, he had every single detail with pristine clarity, her hair shining as it spooled out into the moonlight, her body lithe in her civilian clothes, her smile not shy but a revelation of feminine beauty and mystery. She had been in his heart before that moment. Seeing her that night? She had entered his immortal soul.

Then again, maybe that had been less about his gift and her reaction to it… and more that he had known they were parting. Forever. ’Cuz even if they were in the same room after that evening? He was still going to be farther than the outer bounds of the heavens from her.

And yup, in the aftermath of the demon’s treatment, he’d traded places with Tohr. Now he was the one out in the woods alone, mourning a female he’d bonded with because he couldn’t have her. The fact that his female was still alive didn’t mean anything.

There was no way he could be with her now. For one, he needed to protect Rahvyn from the demon. The farther he stayed away from her, the better, so he didn’t make a target out of his female. For another… he was not who he had once been.

Lassiter glanced down at his corporeal form and wondered how something that didn’t really exist could affect him so much. This image of a body, which he chose to inhabit when it suited his purposes, was not him. He was an entity, rather than anything mortal. Yet what had been done to him lingered, the violence and the contamination transmitted through that which was an illusion into that which was real.

All he wanted was to return to the great ether, just disappear into a flush of energy that had no consciousness whatsoever. And the only reason he hadn’t followed through on the immolation?

He thought of the Black Dagger Brotherhood, the King… their families and doggen. The civilians. The Chosen who had been liberated.

His Rahvyn.

For the species’ benefit, he needed to rally. He needed to get in gear. He needed to pull up his bootstraps, get motivated, get back into the game, address the ball, find his stance, assume the position.

The pep talk didn’t work. It hadn’t worked.

He was beginning to worry it wasn’t going to.

Crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes refocused on the sliver of glow at the horizon. There was almost none of the sunset’s illumination left, and he found the parallel apt. There was not much of him left, either.

On that note, he looked down at the satchel he’d brought out with him. Opening the neck, he poured some of the contents into his palm. The tangle of golden links glowed, even in the gathering darkness, and he moved the weight around. He’d worn the necklaces, bracelets, and earrings for years because there was something of the sun in gold, and when he hadn’t been able to get outside to bathe in the solar stuff directly, he’d liked to have the warmth against his skin. Plus, given that his wedding jesses had been stolen some time ago, maybe there had been a little making up for that on his part.

More than a little.

He’d taken all his gold off before he’d turned his body over to the demon. Now? He wasn’t putting it back on. Ever. The shit would probably turn black.

Funneling the links back into the little bag and cinching the tie, he wound up a pitch and sent the satchel flying into the view’s anonymity. Just as it was silhouetted against that faint hearth of a sunset, he blew it to hell and gone with a burst of energy, the sparkling explosion like a fall of stars.

Enough, he thought. No one was coming to save him. Saviors did not get rescued.

He needed to go back to the Brotherhood, to Caldwell, to the species that he had agreed to oversee. Enough of this self-imposed purgatory—

That image of Rahvyn’s enchanting face intruded once again, sandblasting his best intentions away.

He’d only held her once. When he’d told her goodbye.

Something hit his hand, and he glanced down. The silver droplet glistened and the heat that registered was the first sensation he had felt since…

Well, since he’d come here to this mountain, at any rate.

Shaking the tear off, he pulled a swipe under his eyes and then regarded the pads of his fingers. What came out of him when he was in pain was like mercury, the reflective liquid smooth and clingy, preferring to find a stasis point that was perfectly round if it could gather enough of itself.

Turning away, he walked back to the entrance of the cave.

He had known true love when he’d seen it, when he’d scented it in his nose, when he’d felt it in his body. Then he’d done a terrible thing to himself for the right reason, and there was no going back.

Better to have loved and lost?

Bullshit, he muttered as he ducked his head and disappeared once more into the hideout.

CHAPTER THREE

Non-temporal Plane of Existence

Somewhere in Time and Space

Of course I like you."

As Rahvyn lowered herself to the hot-pink grass, she crossed her legs under her seat and put her elbows on her knees. Overhead, the psychedelic sky was a brilliant orange, clouds of red and yellow drifting by, the pseudo-sun a brilliant, glowing blue. Fluffy trees of ostrich plumes and golden branches undulated in a soft breeze that smelled of lilies, and birds made of heat waves and shimmers flittered by. Off to the side, a lavender lake was still, its surface a mirror that reflected back the world that had been created as both a sanctuary… and a vault.

When there was a ruffle, she shook her head. No, it is not your fault. And I am very sorry I am not terribly good company.

The Book was open before her, its ancient parchment folios undulating gently in their spine as if it were breathing. Bound in human flesh—or perhaps vampire?—the entity was no more about words and pages than this metaphysical plane she was hiding them in was about reality. The Book was a conduit for energy in the universe, neither bad nor good, its possessors and their inner worlds determining the course of the spells and incantations held between its covers.

Which meant the thing was capable of great goodness… and unfathomable evil.

There was another ruffle.

Oh, thank you, she murmured. I appreciate your concern. But I shall endure.

The dismissive sound that came back at her could have meant the Book was doubting her endurance or mayhap her course, but either way, there was no unkindness. With her, it had only ever been full of grace. Then again, unlike so many others, she had never had any interest in harnessing its power—and further, she believed it felt as though a debt was owed because she had rescued it from an untenable, abusive situation: Safety had been requested, and safety had been provided, without questions or expectation of recourse.

Knowing how the poor thing had been used, she could understand why removal from the demon Devina’s sphere of influence had been sought—

Fast flipping now, as if the pages were a spinning wheel that went round and round, no beginning, no end.

Please don’t, she whispered in defeat.

Yet it would not listen to her.

Closing her eyes, tension taloned up her spine and dug into the nape of her neck, and on reflex, she tugged at the sweater that clothed her and switched the arrangement of her legs in the jeans she wore. Neither eased the tension.

And when things stilled, she did not want to look because she knew what she would see.

She opened her lids anyway.

And there he was. As if the Book had become a window, she saw through the interior of its contours a male who was never far from her thoughts: Lassiter, the fallen angel, was iridescent-eyed and blond-and-black-haired, his face constructed of powerful angles and balanced by an intelligence that, having watched him in a crowd once, she believed he kept well hidden under a drape of humor.

Oh, Lassiter… Then she cleared her throat. Whyever do you keep showing him unto me?

The pages fluttered, as if it were attempting to point at something.

Yes, I know he’s the one. Therein lies my sadness.

More fluttering and then a couple of slaps.

I wish I spoke folio, I truly do. There was a heave of pages, a sigh of paper—as if she were being deliberately obtuse. And if your commiseration with my mourning is the way you’re trying to repay me—

Much flipping the now, the sound like it was applauding.

It is? Well, that is very sweet. She brushed its pages with a soft touch. And I understand that you are grateful for this respite here, but I am happy to be of service to you. I know what it is like to be used for one’s gifts and in ways that harm. My own commiseration with your situation is the purpose for the security I offer.

A wedge of pages puckered up and blew a kiss.

Rahvyn smiled. Yes, we are kin, are we not.

Looking out over the landscape, she toyed with changing it once again, shifting the colors and the arrangement of flora, mayhap turning the lake into a waterfall, perhaps creating an unnecessary, but attractive, shelter.

Lassiter bid me farewell, however, she heard herself say. Even if I went to seek him out, he wouldnae hear me in that fashion. He departed from me—and he is probably correct. What would I have to offer him?

Flipping again, as if in disagreement.

And then the wheel started up once more, an infinite number of folios flashing by—until there was an abrupt stop and the Book bumped itself closer to her. Words she could not translate choked both of the pages, the text in orderly lines—

All at once, the letters began to quiver within their alignment, the vibration intensifying until they broke free and jumbled across the page, scattering like marbles and running into each other’s paths. Waves began to form, rushing forth and receding, only to coalesce and fly away once again.

And then they froze and held their position.

I am afraid I am unable to read… She let the statement drift into silence.

With a frown, she tilted her head. It was not text of a strange and unfamiliar derivation. It was not writing.

Portraits.

The letters and symbols had pulled together to reveal two faces, one on each side of the open folio. They were males, and the longer she stared at them in an attempt at recognition, the clearer the depictions became, until they were as pencil drawings attended to with leaded tip over and over, the shadows darkening and bringing out a three-dimensional nature that was positively sculptural.

The Book clapped again, the emphatic sound an obvious attempt to focus her—except she was already locked upon what it was showing her.

It clapped again.

You want me to go find them? she asked. When there was a third smack of the folio, she shook her head. I am sorry, but however important they are to you, I am not going to go look for these two males—

A sharp clap interrupted her.

But you need me, too. This landscape is in my mind, so if I am here I know you’re safe. No one can get to you—

The faces broke apart, the letters bursting into action as they whirled around once again, the features dissolving… only to re-form in a different alignment of eyes and nose and mouth.

My cousin, Sahvage, she whispered.

Another scrambling, another face, this time a female. "His shellan, Mae."

In a relentless procession, more portraits created by the letters cycled through, and she knew them all: They were the males and females from her time in the present down below, the people at Luchas House, where she had taken shelter. Nate, the male she had saved. Shuli, his best friend…

Her sadness at the gallery was such that Rahvyn lifted a hand to her sternum and rubbed at the physical pain. Nate’s face was especially difficult to see, given all they had gone through after he had been shot… all she had done unto him.

The letters continued to shift, and currently, the visages alarmed her. No civilian males were these. One by one, the Black Dagger Brotherhood appeared. She knew not all their names, yet they were not the kind of thing that was easily forgotten.

And now… the last portrait.

Her heart stopped. The male had long black hair falling from a widow’s peak, and a visage that was both aristocratic and cruel. Dark lenses—which she had learned were referred to as wraparounds—covered his unseeing eyes and added to the menace he presented, a threat that was alleviated not in the slightest by the deep, ferocious furrow between his brows.

Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath, the great Blind King—

Those glasses were slowly removed by a steady hand… and then those strange, nearly pupilless, eyes stared straight out upon her.

With a hiss, Rahvyn jerked back. Yet they could not see her surely? This was but a rendering, and in any event, the male had no sight upon which to call.

The lips began to move, as if he were trying to tell her something—and then from the four corners of the open folio, a black tide rushed into him, the roiling letters overtaking him as he began to scream. The tight swirl of utter darkness consumed him… and then an explosion wiped all of it away, leaving only blank pages.

In horror, Rahvyn sat back and covered her face with her hands. When she finally collected her wits enough to look once again, she saw that single letters were falling from the top of the open pages to the bottom, like rain.

No, it was snow. It had to be because the flurrying symbols collected at the base of the book’s display, the level growing higher and higher.

I am not a savior, she whispered. I cannot—

A portion of the Book’s pages curled up and then blew out one side, like a tongue: Pffffffffffffffffffft.

A sense of impending doom tightened her throat. What happens if I leave here? I do not know if it compromises you in some way—

The Book closed itself abruptly. After which its gnarled, ugly cover pulsated, as if it were flexing.

You can take care of yourself, she murmured.

The sharp clap was an affirmative if she’d ever heard one.

But I should rather stay here with you—

The Book flopped itself open and the windowpane reappeared, Lassiter’s face not as something created by an artist’s hand, but as a photographic representation of the fallen angel, a flickering light playing over his grim features.

He was before a fire, she guessed, and as she tracked the way the golden illumination made his eyes shimmer, she realized that the wall behind him seemed to be some sort of rock. Had he taken shelter in a cave for some reason? She had overheard someone saying that he lived with the First Family and the Brotherhood.

Why would he be alone in the wilderness? Was he in danger?

The angel is wrong, she said roughly. I am not the Gift of Light.

The Book clapped again and did not stop, the urgency of the two sides impacting and falling back like a military drummer’s beat.

She thought of the portrait of the King, consumed by evil.

And the two males she did not recognize.

Then Lassiter.

Their destinies are all connected. When there was no reply, she looked over with even more dread. Tell me.

Before there was a reply, Rahvyn was already getting to her feet. Where do I find—

The collection of letters flooded forth and made another drawing out of the scramble. But what was shown to her… made no sense at all.

The golden arches? she said with confusion.

CHAPTER FOUR

Caldwell Insurance Building

13th and Trade Streets

Downtown Caldwell

The demon Devina shot up off her satin pillows with a scream trapped in her throat. As she panted in the dim glow of her lair, she put her hand to her heart. Behind her sternum, the pounding was so heavy, she felt like a fifties cartoon who was in love. Thumpa-thumpa-thumpa.

Where the fuck was he—

Instantly, she was calmed.

Against the backdrop of her racks of haute couture clothes, standing tall, proud, and incredibly naked, her one true love was facing away from her and focused on the display of her Birkin collection. As usual, the ass view of him was every bit as delicious as the full frontal, his blond hair gleaming under the subdued ceiling lights, his shoulders marked with bright red claw marks from her nails, his tight little tuchus a perfect set of buns fresh out of the oven.

And just as delicious.

Which explained her teeth marks on the golden globe to the left.

Just a dream. It had only been a dream, she thought as she eased back against the headboard and pulled the covers off her bare breasts. Her nipples were red and swollen from him working on them and her sex was a low-level throb between her legs.

She had black-and-blue marks in so many places.

From when he’d held her down.

He was a demon lover, for sure, and not just in descriptive title. The male was everything she had ever wanted, all but custom designed to her specifications, and for a moment, she glanced down her racks of blouses, skirts, dresses, and trousers… to the far corner, where a municipal trash bin sat, lonely and out of place.

She had put the Book on top of the thing because that collection of incantations had been insolent and unresponsive and had needed a reminder that but for her pulling it out of the remains of that house fire, it would have ended up in a landfill. Goddamn, that entity had been a pain in the ass.

But she’d needed it.

And hey, the spell had worked, hadn’t it. To get her true love, she’d had to project how she wanted herself to be adored and then she’d had to go out into the world and ruin someone else’s love. Both parts had been really simple, as it turned out. And the fact that Lassiter had been the one that she’d fucked while fucking him? A very satisfying BOGO.

Who knew that taking someone’s virginity could rob him of—

Why the hell are you keeping this one?

As her lover spoke up, Devina was not feeling the tone. But then her male twisted around on his hips, and the top half of him put in an appearance. His shoulders and pecs were Michelangelo-molded, and his six-pack was right out of Men’s Health. His face, though, was what really captured her attention. He was model-beautiful, with high cheekbones and a square jaw, his lips molded with a sensuous curl to the top and a prominent plumpness on the bottom, his brows arching in arrogance, his pale hair waving back from a broad, intelligent forehead.

His eyes were his most epic feature, however. Deeply set and heavily lashed, his pupils were an all-wrong, resonant blue, and what should have been a colored iris was a jet-black rim that seemed to crowd into the center.

They were unlike anything she’d ever seen.

Then again, so was the rest of him. And it wasn’t just the physical components.

It was the aura of evil that emanated from him.

The purse is destroyed, he said impatiently. Like she was stupid. Why are you keeping it.

Devina narrowed her eyes and curbed her enthusiasm.

No, the Himalayan Birkin 35 with the diamond hardware was not destroyed. Yes, it had been subjected to fire, its toasted crocodile skin still releasing a whiff of barbecue, its white, gray, and brown pattern mottled with ash, its handles no longer in a perfect set of arches. But the bag remained at the top of her collection of Hermès’s most exclusive purses.

You should be more respectful, she said in a tight voice. That is what brought you to me.

The Book’s spell had started with her having to choose something of great personal importance and stare at it with all the love she wanted herself to be regarded with—and she’d picked the ruined masterpiece not only