His eyes watched my movements, blinking only on the rarest of occasions. His look was deep, like his eyes were a dry sponge and I was a basin full of water. He absorbed me more the closer I came, but he was never saturated with my appearance. He constantly needed more.
I gripped the armrests and lowered myself into the chair. The large wings behind me made it impossible to lean back, and now I understood why the chair was so large—because it was made for an angel.
There didn’t seem to be any imminent danger, but that didn’t slow my frantically beating heart. It was like a hummingbird trapped in my chest, working hard to fly out of my body and to the sky. I looked at the interior of the room from a new perspective, imagining the Malevolent sitting in the rows starting at the thrones, faces hidden behind their skulls. I stared at everything but him, afraid to look at his face once more.
A part of me was convinced this entire experience was a dream…except for the fact that I never woke up.
He straightened in the chair and leaned forward slightly, his elbows moving to the edges of the armrests, his hands coming together. His eyes were on me, and slowly, that grin stretched on his face. “You are…beau-ti-ful.”
If this chair weren’t so heavy, I would have picked it up and slammed it on his head. I redirected my gaze and didn’t look at him because that smile was so fucking creepy. It was creepier than this room, than the thrones, than the statue. “Touch me, and I’ll kill you.”
“Touch you?” His voice turned low, only speaking loud enough for me to barely hear what he said. “An-gel, all I want is your forgiveness. All I want is to confess my sins and exhume my soul. All I want…is a chance to be human.”
My eyes shifted back to him, relieved that the smile was gone, replaced by his serious expression once more, which was far less terrifying. He looked human again. “You are human.” His smile was demonic and his soul was evil…but he was human.
“I us-s-ed to be. I am no lo-ng-er.” He bowed his head, large hands interlocked, taking a moment of quiet, as if to silently cast his regret.
I felt like a priest in a confessional—but his sins would never be absolved.
Not just because I wasn’t a qualified priest.
But because this wasn’t religion. There was no god here. This was a fucking cult.
They’d paid for the buildings and the statues with money—and they had to earn that money somehow. They were criminals, and not just because they were kidnappers and committing crimes against humanity, but because they had to be selling something to finance this freak show.
I held my silence because I was utterly powerless. He wasn’t snatching my purse on the street and would go down with a swift kick to the groin. I couldn’t scream for help and people would come running. This was much bigger than me, and I had to do whatever was necessary to survive—until I figured out a plan.
“I’ve waited a long time for you.” He lifted his chin again and looked at me. “I’ve waited a long time for a path to redemption. I need the grace of an angel to take me back to the light…and make me into a man again.”
4
Benton
I grabbed the bottle and refilled my glass, hearing the tap of the decanter against the crystal. The brown liquid swirled around before it went still, like a black pool of death. The decanter returned to the table, nearly empty because I used scotch as a pain medication for my soul.
Opioids for the heart.
“Should you contact him?” He left his chair and grabbed the decanter from the coffee table. He carried it into the kitchen and emptied it down the sink before leaving it empty on the counter.
I stayed on the couch and stared at the fire. “You think that’ll stop me?” The only thing that mattered to me had been taken, and now I had nothing left—except scotch.
“No.” Bleu came back into the living room. “But I can.”
I released a painful chuckle because it was so false that no amount of truth was needed to deny it. There was no reason to keep my mind sharp like a tack, my body ready for a demolition, because I’d explored every thread of hope to endless dead ends. What was the purpose of being ready for a battle that I couldn’t find?
Bleu sat down again. “Should we go back to the Chasseurs?”
“No.”
“It’s been a few days.”
“I’d be suspicious if it took less than a few days. This isn’t a restaurant where you call to see if your order is ready for pickup. If Bartholomew has something to say, he’ll say it.” I tipped the glass and took another drink, my eyes irritated because they were dry from constantly being open and staring, looking at the fire and feeling the heat burn the moisture away.
Bleu turned quiet, shifting his gaze to the fire, his hands clasped. “What did they want in return?”
I stared down into my glass and gave it a gentle shake, seeing the colors change as it swirled, moving from a deep black to slightly brown. “Money.” I lifted my glass once more, letting the coolness touch my bottom lip before the liquid came. My eyes returned to the fire, the only company I really had since Claire had disappeared.
Bleu turned back to me, his eyes slightly narrowed, slightly suspicious. But he didn’t dare challenge me.
I wasn’t in the mood for it.
His gaze lasted a while before it shifted forward, looking toward the kitchen and the dining room. When his shoulders tightened and he cleared his throat, I knew we weren’t alone. He rose to his feet and silently excused himself. His footsteps moved across the hardwood floor, across the house, and then out the front door.
His exit was audible, but Bartholomew’s entrance was silent.
The glass returned to the table, and I rose to my feet to look at the man to whom I’d once pledged my eternity. Through the dark streets, through the knife fights, through the endless battles, we stood shoulder to shoulder. Trust took a lifetime to earn, but a second to lose.
His dark eyes were fixed on my face, dressed in black with a black leather jacket on top. His military-style boots shone in the light coming from the hearth—and his dark eyes did the same. His stare was steady and unreadable, because he kept every thought encased in his cold exterior. The only way for someone to know what he was thinking was if he chose to tell you—and that happened rarely.
I pulled the air into my lungs and felt my chest expand, but I felt winded at the same time, like I never really had a full breath. The grief had destroyed my body. It wasn’t visible on the surface to anyone who looked at me, but my heart was about to give out from the chronic pain, my lungs could never fully expand to give me what I needed, and my brain was fried from the nightmares.
I didn’t ask how he’d found me. I didn’t ask how he got into my impenetrable apartment without making a sound. None of that mattered because the only thing that did matter was whatever he was about to tell me.
The silence lasted an eternity because he spent more time thinking about his words than actually expressing them. “I found her.”
I took my first true breath since I’d realized my daughter was gone. My hand clutched my chest, and I couldn’t hide my reaction from him. I couldn’t keep it inside. Relief hit me, knowing there was hope, that I would get my girl back. Nothing would stand in my way. “Where?”