Dirty Angel (Sainted Sinners #1) (18 page)

For now, this was…
perfect
.

K
irael lay
quietly and feigned sleep, waiting for Vesper to drift off.

All he wanted to do was fall asleep holding her, but there was something he needed to do first. Once he was absolutely sure that she was out cold, he gently rolled Vesper onto her back. Getting up, he covered her with a blanket before grabbing some clothes.

This is a little too familiar
, he thought.
This time I’m coming back before she wakes up, though.

Considering what he was about to do, Vesper would no doubt forgive his short absence. His words to her earlier were true, though: he did intent to be present, to give up his obsessive search for penitence.

For Vesper, for himself. This would only be the firming of his resolution. Though the idea had only come to him as he lay in bed with Vesper, inhaling her sweet scent, he knew it was the right thing to do.

He was down the stairs in a matter of minutes, out in the still-humid New Orleans night air. There was nothing for it, this close to the bayou. Locals just got used to the way everything stuck to their skin, the dampness of it all.

Heading straight down to Jackson Square, he scanned the moonlit pedestrian walkway in front of the Cathedral. Across the way, he spotted a scraggly-looking figure pushing a shopping cart full of soda cans, covered head to toe in a heavy, hooded coat despite the weather.

“There you are,” he said, mostly to himself.

Kirael made a beeline for the man, waiting until he got a few paces away to call out, “Arturos!”

The figure slowed, glanced back. Even from here, in the dark, Kirael could tell that Arturos wasn’t close to looking human. The odd Fae creature blinked big yellow eyes at Kirael, looking like a startled owl.

For the life of him, Kirael couldn’t figure out how Arturos passed every manner of human, all day and all night, and no one ever found him out. Arturos leaned forward, his long white beak appearing in the moonlight.

It was the most of Arturos that Kirael had ever actually seen.

“Call Arturos?” the Fae asked, his voice like the creaking of a thousand tree branches. His beak clicked when he spoke, and for some reason the clicking itself made all Kirael’s hair stand on end, a sure sign of a dangerous creature.

“Yes. I have a trade,” Kirael said, determined.

Arturos didn’t move for a long time. When he inclined his head, Kirael let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“What trade?” Arturos asked.

Kirael held out both his palms and closed his eyes, summoning the Book of Names. When he looked up, he could see nearly all of Arturos’s beak, and the tip of his pointy white chin.

“Book. Have Book,” Arturos clicked. “Trade Book.”

“Yes,” Kirael said.

“Give Book. What Trade.”

“You want to know what I need in exchange?”

Arturos dipped his head. “What Trade, Angel.”

Angel
. It had been so long since anyone had called Kirael that, the word took him off-guard.

“There is a girl, a woman. She is at Mere Marie’s house. Do you know the place?” he asked.

Another dip of Arturos’s head.

“She is sick. Drugs, who knows what. I need her to stop.”

Arturos was still. “Change Girl Heart?”

It took him a moment to parse that. “Yes, that’s what I’m asking. I want you to change what’s in her heart, make her want to get better. Can you do that?”

Silence. Painful, terrible silence. Then, “Give Book. Trade Book. Girl Want.”

“Yes,” Kirael said, his relief immense. Then he hesitated. “And one more thing.”

“Want.”

It was impulsive, but… “A ring. From Keil’s on Royal Street.”

“Ring.”

“It’s a canary diamond with some kind of sapphires. Massive. Used to belong to Mary Queen of Scots or something.”

Arturos blinked his big owl eyes. “Ring. Trade.”

“You will heal Mercy, from the inside out. And deliver the ring to me, sooner than later. And in exchange, I will give you the book. Do we have a deal?”

He couldn’t see much past the very tip of Arturos’s beak, but Kirael could’ve sworn that the Fae
smiled
.

“Trade. Deal.”

Kirael held out the book, wondering what Arturos’s hands looked like. He’d never know, though; Arturos crumbled like a column of ash, a sudden brisk wind sweeping him into a swirl of air.

In a blink, the swirl covered the book. In the next instant, Kirael’s hands were empty. Before him, Arturos’s shopping cart stood, abandoned.

“Okay…” Kirael said, shaking his head. “I suppose we’re done, then.”

Turning back toward his flat, Kirael couldn’t stop the smile on his lips.

Vesper
. He was already imagining crawling back into bed with her, the sleepy sound she might make, the feel of her body pressed against him.

Since the moment of the Fall, he’d been ungrounded, lost.

For the first time since that terrible moment, Kirael knew exactly who he was, where he was going. He was going to be with Vesper, and though the apartment itself meant almost nothing to him, a singular thought rang though every fiber of his being.

He wasn’t going to a particular place. Rather, he was going to where
she
was.

Kirael was going
home
.

V
esper laced
her fingers with Kirael’s, swinging their hands between them as they walked. He nodded at a bunch of ducks flying overhead, a common enough sight in City Park.

“I don’t get your thing with birds,” she said.

He just winked and shrugged, unworried as they continued their stroll, cutting across one big corner of the park.

“I like this walk,” he said. “It’s nice to get off the Canal Streetcar, then see a little of the park, and then there’s Vargus’s house.”

“Yep. It’s pretty amazing,” Vesper agreed, although they both knew she wasn’t talking about the location.

They made it to Vargus’s a few minutes later. A familiar figure sat on the front stoop of Vargus’s little shotgun, head down, intent on…

“Are you shelling peas?” Vesper called as they crossed the yard.

Mercy’s head snapped up, and she grinned. “Yep. They just came out of my garden last night.”

“Ridiculous,” Vesper said. She eyed her sister; Mercy’s dark hair was growing long and dark and pretty. She was finally filling out a little, too. More chic model and less skeleton lady.

It was a sight that Vesper had never thought to see again. Each time she laid eyes on the new, improved, sober Mercy, she wanted to kiss Kirael on the mouth. Well, she always wanted to kiss him, but this was a special kind of grateful, thank-you kiss.

After all, he’d made this happen. Mercy had been the one to struggle through the withdrawal and continued therapy sessions, but… none of it would have been possible if Kirael hadn’t given up the Book of Names.

She glanced at Kirael, squeezed his hand, and then reluctantly released him. Just for a minute, just to hug her sister.

Good god I am so clingy lately
, she thought with a sigh.

Mercy set the peas aside, rising and brushing her hands off on her apron. She opened her arms, beckoning to Vesper. “C’mere.”

They hugged, Vesper’s heart starting to overflow. When she stepped back, she had to blot at her eyes, trying not to sniff.

“What’s wrong with you?” Mercy said, giving Vesper the eye.

Vesper flushed. “Nothing. Just… emotional. You know. I’m just… I’m so glad that you’re here, and…”

“Oh, don’t start crying,” Mercy sighed, patting her on the shoulder. “Kirael, what’s up with her?”

Vesper glanced at Kirael, who merely raised a brow and a shoulder at once, unconcerned. “Not a thing, as far as I can see.”

Vesper blushed even harder. “Quit.”

“I like it when you get red in the face,” he said. “No shame here.”

“Vargus!” Mercy yelled over her shoulder. “They’re here!”

Vargus bent low to poke his head out the front door. “Bout time. I’m starving.”

“Ugh, werewolves,” Mercy said, flapping a hand. “You ever want a roommate who will eat you out of house and home, a werewolf’ll do the trick.”

“I will remind you that I own this property,” Vargus said, amused.

Mercy paid him no mind, turning back to Vesper. “You look dead tired. You could have called to cancel, you know. Did you work late?”

Vesper glanced at Kirael, feeling a dumb smile creepover her face. That was her life now, thrilled one minute, crying the next, then back to thrilled. It was like her heart was on a roller coaster, every waking second.

Kirael just nodded at her. Vesper fiddled with her ring, feeling self-conscious.

“I’m going to take some time off, actually.”

Mercy had turned to head back inside, but now she paused. She came back around slowly, looking suspicious. “Why?”

“Well, because… I won’t be able to work. For about seven more months, and then a while after that,” Vesper said, pulling a face.

“Or never,” Kirael chimed in.

Vesper raised a hand, shutting him down. He’d wanted her to quit her job from day one, this was just more incentive for him to insist.

“Wh— oh. Ohhhhh,” Mercy said, pressing her fingers to her mouth. She looked at Kirael, who nodded. “Oh, really?”

“Really, what?” Vargus asked, leaning against the door frame.

“A baby, Vargus,” Mercy said, giving him a look.

Vargus’s jaw dropped, which made Vesper crack up.

“You— really?” he asked, echoing Mercy.

“Yes, really!” Vesper said. “People have babies, Vargus. It’s a thing.”

His shock was comical, but not as comical perhaps as the way Vesper’s own mouth dropped open when Vargus grabbed Mercy by the waist, swinging her up, and then kissed her.

“Oh, put me down,” Mercy said, sounding flustered. Now it was Mercy’s turn to blush, it seemed.

Vesper was sure she must look the very picture of surprise, right then.

“Wait, are you two…” she asked, pointing back and forth between Vargus and Mercy.

“Oh, hush, don’t worry about us,” Mercy declared. “Now come inside and sit down to dinner. I want to hear every single detail.”

“Okay, okay!” Vesper said with a laugh.

“I mean it, Ves. You never listen to me, but you’d better listen to me now…” Mercy said, her voice trailing off as she headed inside.

Vargus followed her, leaving Kirael and Vesper alone for a final moment before dinner.

They looked at each other, grinned, and kissed one more time. Then Kirael took her hand, leading her inside to dinner — and a truly happy
family
meal.

T
urn
the page to start a sexy, thrilling new romance!

D
ear Reader
,

A
s a New Orleans resident
, I am always inspired by the rich history, vibrant culture, and haunting beauty of my city. I have certainly drawn on many of the stories and famous figures from the interwoven tapestry of New Orleans myths, legends, and history. I would like to make a point of saying that I have taken bits and pieces of all of these things, mixed them all together, and come up with a work of fiction.

None of the names, places, or persons in this story are meant to be taken literally — that’s part of the fun of a story like this. Everything in this story is a work of fiction, a figment of my imagination, and is meant to be interpreted as such.

Please enjoy this story, with my compliments.

S
incerely
,

V
ivian Wood

M
ere Marie was roused
from a light doze near midnight, though she wasn’t sure what had disturbed her rest. A flicker of icy air against her skin perhaps, or a shifting of the deep shadows cast by the last few candles she’d left burning. Though it was the 21st century, some 220-plus years since Mere Marie’s birth, and modern conveniences abounded, she still preferred some of the more romantic notions from her early life. Candles were always lit after dark at Maison Laveau, and dark always seemed to come early in the sultry New Orleans summer nights.

Pulling her shawl more snugly around her shoulders, Mere Marie rose from the comfortable leather armchair she preferred for resting. An immortal, a member of the Kith, as the paranormal community were often called, Mere Marie had no need for true sleep. Not the way humans did. But, like the candles, it was an old habit that she simply kept for the sake of keeping. She followed many of the old ways, worshiped her ancestral spirits, lived in the same house where her mother and her mother’s mother worked as maids, her New Orleans lineage going all the way back to the city’s foundations. Back to Haiti, even, if she summoned her ancestral spirits and asked for a glimpse into the much more distant past.

The age of her beautiful house, added to its location in the vibrant, thriving Vieux Carre, meant that Mere Marie might simply have heard a muffled sound, some distant shout of celebratory joy from a tourist experiencing the French Quarter’s charm for the first time. Her bedroom window faced the quieter side of Vieux Carre, but she still got occasional bits and pieces of late night revelry.

When Mere Marie turned toward the window, intending to open first the glass pane and then the tightly-shut wooden storm shutter in order to peer out into the street, she stilled. The candlelight turned the window into a murky mirror, and the hazy reflection told Mere Marie that she was not alone in the room. Mere Marie saw herself of first, a diminutive Creole woman appearing about sixty years age. Her long, dark hair was neatly braided and wound around her head, her white night rail rumpled. Her high, proud cheekbones, her broad, flat nose, and her distinctive cafe au lait skin tone showed Mere Marie’s mixed ancestry, common in women from the class into which Mere Marie had been born - Gens de Couleur Libres, or Free People of Color.

Such classes were supposedly a thing of the past, but Mere Marie wasn’t the type to forget her roots. No practicioner of Voodoo was likely to get far without respecting the past or the spirits of their ancestors. Family magic, people sometimes called it.

Mere Marie studied the window again. Standing only a foot behind her was a fiercely tall, finely turned-out gentleman of proud African heritage. His presence made every hair on Mere Marie’s body stand on end. What in the world was Le Medcin doing in her house? During the witching hour, no less.

“Monsieur,” Mere Marie said, watching his reflection. She knew better than to try to turn around and face him, but she couldn’t stop staring at him, her fascination only increasing with each passing moment. She wasn’t sure if he was a god, an ancient spirit, or something else entirely, but Le Medcin’s power was such that it drew one in, even someone as old and powerful as Mere Marie. All she knew was that Le Medcin worked for the highest of higher powers, a distant sort of benefactor to humankind and Kith, the final authority in all matters both in this world and the next.

On the surface, Le Medcin was nothing but a handsome, well-to-do Free Person of Color, wearing an elegant if outmoded black suit with tails and a sky-high top hat. He clutched a gold-tipped cane. His dark skin seemed to be stretched a little too tightly over his bones, and when he moved or spoke Mere Marie had the distinct impression that she could see right through to his skeleton. She’d dealt with him perhaps a dozen times in the last hundred years, and each time had been just as off-putting as the last.

Le Medcin rarely came to the human world. He presided over the world of spirits, those who had passed through the human world and continued on. It was easy enough for Mere Marie to contact a spirit, but to reach out from beyond the grave and communicate with a living being, Kith or no… the power needed was unthinkable.

“You came to me some time ago, seeking the power to seed a protectorate for the city,” Le Medcin said at last. His voice was an unearthly baritone, so deep that hearing it made Mere Marie shiver with a mixture of pleasure and fear.

She couldn’t stop watching his mouth as he spoke, his paper-thin flesh giving her glimpses of his teeth and jaws. His nose was there one moment, gone the next, revealing a gaping black hole for a few seconds, blinking in and out. It was like watching a very old movie, seeing the frames as they flickered by.

“Oui,” Mere Marie said, thinking it best to keep her answers brief.

“You may have it,” Le Medcin said. He paused, then grinned. For a moment, his skin on his head was completely gone, leaving him a skeleton. “On one condition.”

“Which would be?” Mere Marie asked, keeping her tone polite.

Le Medcin raised a bony hand and pointed at Mere Marie’s writing desk. Her ink pen rose, the tip touching down on a blank piece of stationery, and thick swirls of ink bloomed on the page. Twelve names, most unfamiliar to Mere Marie.

“You may have three from this list. Choose those in the most immediate need.” Le Medcin lowered his hand and pinned her with a gaze. The skeleton disappeared, flesh returning to his form, and Mere Marie was startled to find that Le Medcin had eyes green as emeralds. “You’ll choose wisely, I’m sure.”

“Oui, Monsieur,” Mere Marie said, bowing her head a few inches.

“I leave what you need to complete the ritual,” Le Medcin said, nodding his head at the corner of Mere Marie’s desk. To her astonishment, a thin leather-bound book, a large flat mirror, and an ornate silver dagger appeared on the desk. Her mouth opened to ask how could Le Medcin bring forth physical objects from the other side of the Veil, but she was too late.

With an impish wiggle of his fingers, Le Medcin simply vanished from the window. Mere Marie turned her head on impulse, but of course she already knew that the room was empty. She sucked in a deep breath, stepping over to her desk to examine the objects that Le Medcin had left her. She was nearly afraid to touch the inexplicably summoned items, a subtle reminder that though Mere Marie might run the Kith in the Vieux Carre, Le Medcin was infinitely more powerful.

She picked up the dagger first, gingerly turning it over. The hilt was smooth and unremarkable, except for its obvious age. The blade, though… every inch of the dagger’s blade was covered with dense, intricately etched whorls. Mere Marie felt that they were some kind of text, rather than merely a beautiful design, but it was hard to be certain.

Setting the dagger aside, she examined the book. It was bound in crisp black leather with bright gold filigree. Its spine was perfect and uncracked, as if it had never been opened, but Mere Marie’s senses told her that the book was much, much older than she herself. With the lightest touch she could manage, Mere Marie opened the book to the first page. Thin lines of ink blossomed there, forming two elegantly-scrawled words:

M
ere Marie waited
to see if the book had anything else to tell her, but it seemed that nothing more was forthcoming. It did seem that she now had a name for her warriors, though. She supposed that it would be a waste of time to wonder who had chosen that name, but it did suit her purposes perfectly.

Last, she turned to the mirror. She picked it up, her touch causing ripples to float across the surface. Frowning, she peered at the reflection.

Several scenes flashed in quick succession — Mere Marie as a human child, holding her mother’s hand and eating a piece of sorghum candy, her chubby cheeks working as she stared up at her mother. Mere Marie lighting a candle on an ancestor’s grave, hands shaking as she initiated her first solo contact with those beyond the Veil. Mere Marie in her current incarnation, examining herself in a full-length mirror after she’d completed the incantations that shed her human life and rendered her Kith, forever immortal and paranormal.

Back in her room, the mirror’s surface shimmered and went still, reflecting nothing more than her own surprised face. She had the strangest feeling that the mirror had been reading her, trying to understand her, and now it seemed to accept her ownership. Or possession, at least. She set the mirror down, her fingertips tingling where she’d held the thing.

“Ah,” she said, understanding. “To research the candidates. Very thoughtful.”

She picked up the list of names and focused on the first, then touched the mirror. Instantly a wealth of images sprung to life in the mirror’s surface. It took Mere Marie some minutes to realize that the mirror showed her images from both the past and the present, sometimes going hundreds of years back or more. Each man’s story unfolded before her at her command, each tugging at her heartstrings in a different way.

She immersed herself in the task for some time, whiling away the day’s earliest hours by trying to narrow down the list to a few candidates. The first one that caught her attention was a fierce, rugged 18th century Scottish Highlander. Mere Marie scried for him and was surprised to find that the intimidating name Rhys was pronounced Reece, easy enough. She watched him sparring with other soldiers near a massive castle, grinning and jesting as he worked up a sweat. Impossibly tall and broad, Rhys was pure muscle mixed with practiced grace, wielding his sword and shield with deadly precision. His close-cropped hair was a russet brown, but his full, unruly beard was a rich auburn that made his bright green eyes stand out like emerald beacons. He was beyond handsome, even to Mere Marie’s jaded senses, but it was his fiercely determined expression that made her want to know more. Mere Marie willed the mirror to show her his struggle, and her interest soon turned to something more like pity. The fierce warrior was in a bitter struggle with a fate from which he could not turn back, and his end was tragic indeed. A complete waste of such a fine fighter, in Mere Marie’s opinion.

Shaking her head, she moved on. A few names later, she came to a young magician by the name of Gabriel. Gabriel’s head of sable curls and midnight blue eyes were every bit as arresting as Rhys’s had been, though less rugged. Gabriel was tall and broad-shouldered, but more slimly built. There was an ethereal quality to him, perhaps a side effect of his magical inclinations. It took Mere Marie only a handful of minutes to skim Gabriel’s life story, and she ached for him. No one should have such an upbringing, nor such a swift and violent end to their life. He was also intelligent and graceful, and could no doubt be trained into an excellent swordsman.

Pressing her lips into a thin line, she continued down the list. All the men of Le Medcin’s choosing were compelling, though none rivaled Rhys or Gabriel until she reached the last.

“That can’t be right,” Mere Marie muttered to herself as she gazed in the mirror, then back at the list of names.

Aeric Drekkon
. No, she hadn’t made an error. She watched the gorgeous dark blond Viking in the mirror’s reflection, her eyes widening. Could he truly be…

“Mercy…” she whispered aloud.

Rhys and Gabriel had made the final cut by their formidable physiques and heart-rending personal stories, but Aeric was a true treasure. Mere Marie was no fool. She would never pass on the opportunity to bring one such as he to her side. No protector could be more fierce, more brutal, more intelligent, more loyal.

At the end of her scrying, she sat back and considered Le Medcin’s words.
Choose those in the most immediate need
, he’d said. Mere Marie pulled out another piece of stationery and picked up her pen, hesitating for long moments before writing three names on the page.

Satisfied that she’d done as Le Medcin had asked, she tucked the full list of names inside the black book, thinking she might need it at a future date. Tomorrow, she would have to figure out how she was going to actually contact her three choices. Not to mention bringing them here, which would be nearly as difficult as Le Medcin bringing objects through the Veil. Time travel was possible, but…