Lucca (9 page)

She did a little investigating of her own,
curious to find out more about Detective Marlowe. She found
nothing.
Nada.
Well, nothing out of the ordinary anyway.
Everything was in order, as if someone created a neat little file
for him. His records stated he worked up north, the Bay area, but
retired last year to relocate. Really? Retired? He was too young
for a pension. What was he, thirty-something? Not much older than
she, but she couldn’t fathom a retirement any time soon. “Too
squeaky clean.” Lucca Marlowe had to be more than he let on.

Maybe private sector in the military,
running black ops came to mind. God knew his body looked especially
made for the Navy SEALs or for the Green Berets—wide shoulders and
thick biceps she couldn’t put both hands around. “Hmm…his hair’s
too long.” They tended to go for the military cuts, buzzed to the
scalp. Well, the Green Berets she ran across anyway, which weren’t
many.

She tapped the end of her pencil on the desk
in rapid succession. Lucca sported a thick shiny mane any woman
would die for, but Lucca was in no way feminine in any shape or
form. Beautiful perhaps in a godlike fashion, with defined
cheekbones, chiseled chin and straight nose, but his eyes, the
shade of blue like the winter storm sky, knew how to pin a person
down and keep them there. Lethal,
don’t-mess-with-me
looks
would make a hardened criminal comply. Lucca could most likely hold
his own
in a fight, heck, he had according to his friend and
he came out the victor. No wonder he befriended the Nephilim. They
were more in his league than an ordinary human would be.

She ran into Lucca three times now, all
chance meetings: once at the Laundromat, the mini-mart, and at a
murder victim’s residence. His home address just happened to be in
the same apartment complex as hers. Coincidence? Too much so that
it made her nervous, and didn’t that just piss her off? She liked
Southern California and she didn’t want to run again. Owen liked
his school and she had a job she enjoyed, but if they were in
danger…

Leroy had wanted her to meet someone. Had he
wanted her to meet her neighbor Lucca? Maybe, but she didn’t know
for sure. Until she figured out Lucca’s motives, she would be
careful.

If Lucca Marlowe had secrets, she would find
out what they were.

She glanced at the crime scene photos on her
desk. Leroy’s horrible death bothered her on so many levels. He had
been a friend. She would forever miss his jovial outlook on life,
his sweet smile…his kindness. She sighed with remorse for not
recognizing someone threatened him. She didn’t even know he hired a
private detective. Why hadn’t he come to her?

Leroy befriended everyone, some with
questionable backgrounds. She tried to warn him about his
association with the seedier realms, but he only chuckled and waved
her away. He told her it was better if he knew the enemy than to be
surprised when the degenerate showed up in the dead of night.

“Who surprised you, Leroy?” She didn’t
believe his death had anything to do with her and Owen. Leroy had
been tortured. No one, not even a full blooded Angel could
withstand such pain. He would have talked, would have revealed
something of their whereabouts in his delirium, but all remained
quiet. If it had been about finding Owen and her, they would have
been dead already. An Archangel wouldn’t wait hours to jump on the
information granted him. He’d glamour his winged-behind on over and
take care of business. No, Leory had died for some other
reason.

“Jules, are you heading out? A bunch of us
are stopping off for a drink,” Tony Squires said. He stood
five-foot ten with black hair and dark eyes. He was attractive in a
clean-cut way. His gaze looked hopeful, but she’d have to shoot him
down.

“I have a few things I need to do before I
call it a night. Catch you tomorrow.”

He nodded, his sad smile making her feel
guilty. He kept trying to bridge a friendship but she kept pushing
him away. She didn’t earn her ice queen status overnight, but it
couldn’t be helped.

She glanced at the time on the right corner
of her computer. She had less than two hours to shower, change, and
head over to the tryouts.
And Lucca.
She really needed to
stop letting her libido rule her thoughts. “Focus, Romeo. Don’t let
a pretty face cloud your judgment.” Okay, pretty was pushing it.
Rugged. “Dangerous.” But the way the man looked at her. Like he
wanted to eat her up with the promise that she’d enjoy every
sensuous flick of his tongue made her heart skip a beat. “Stop
it.”

“Jules? You okay over there?” Sam Barton
looked up from his desk. Sam had been a detective for ten years. He
had a wife and three kids and still found time to volunteer down at
the youth center.

“I’m fine, Sam.” Fine? Far from it. She was
all hot and bothered because of a look and she couldn’t remember
the last time that had happened. Still, meeting Lucca was purely to
find out more about him, make sure he was on the level. It had
nothing with to do with attraction.

“And pigs can fly,” she murmured as she
logged out of her computer.

Chapter Twelve

Gideon sat on his couch in his boxer briefs
and nothing else as he watched another episode of
Love Boat
on his flat screen TV. Every episode someone found true love. Maybe
he should take a cruise. See if his soul mate showed up while he
lounged around on the upper deck, sipping Mai Tais.

He leaned forward letting his one good wing
spread out in a stretch along the eight-foot couch he’d special
ordered for comfort. His other wing didn’t fair so well once the
Hashasheen demons were through with him. Sarice, the Dark Angel
goddess, hacked it off for good measure. He’d like to begrudge her
for doing so, but in truth, the half demon, half angel saved his
life. The Hashasheen demons fancied poison-dipped weapons. He
should be grateful the spike didn’t hit a vital organ or he
wouldn’t be sitting here complaining about his poor luck.

On TV,
Captain Stubing’s
voice droned
on as he questioned
Gopher
about some mishap. He usually
enjoyed the funny adventures aboard the
Pacific Princess
,
but the events of last night kept him distracted as he played what
happened over and over again in his head.

Lucca instigating a fight wasn’t unusual,
but what happened later in the Laundromat made Gideon question the
warrior’s behavior. He wondered if Lucca having his wings bound had
anything to do with it. Shifting was a part of them. It wasn’t
natural to keep them restrained. Painful, too, he would imagine
with wings spellbound underneath the skin. Maybe the stress was
becoming unbearable and Lucca would eventually snap. It brought
home his own dilemma, his handicap. He could shift, but not
gracefully and he couldn’t fly. God, he missed spreading his wings
and taking flight.

He turned his head, gripping his shoulder as
he inspected the damaged wing. If one could called the sawed-off,
feather stump a wing. His once beautiful bluish tinted wing with
silver looked like a desecrated chicken stump plucked free of
feathers and ready for baking. It ached like tiny fists were
punching the stump at a consistent thirty-second intervals. Sarice
thought the wing might grow back. She cut away the infected area,
leaving only healthy tissue, but so far he couldn’t detect any new
growth.

He was earth-bound, which sucked when he had
to be somewhere. True, he could move faster than a human by
shimmering, but flying made traveling so much easier. In that
respect, his compassion went out to Lucca whose wings were bound,
cutting him off from flying as well as his connection to the
preternatural realm. Their wings were their essence, every feather,
every tendon sensitive to touch when glamour didn’t shield it.

Lucca’s back would ache worse than his
sawed-off stump.

His gaze locked onto his desk table where
his inks and paper waited for him. The next edition in his graphic
novel series was due in three weeks, his editor was already
breathing down his back, but he had barely brushed the surface of
the next adventure in the Fallen Angel series. Who knew voicing
what he experienced could be so lucrative? He had the talents for
the art, could sketch just about anything he put his mind to, but
he loved the artist’s challenge of bringing it all to life. He was
a whiz with computers, too. Put it all together and he mastered the
graphic art world. There was no glamour involved. Just straight out
talent he could be proud of accomplishing. “The Fallen and their
perils.” He wondered who said, 'art resembled real life,' or
something like that. He couldn’t remember the exact quote. Lucca
would probably know. He knew literature, craved it like a drug. The
male should have been a storyteller instead of staking out
unfaithful husbands and wives as a private detective, but maybe he
wanted to keep his passion to himself.

Lucca might deserve the punishment dished
out to him for trying to kill Eli. He hoped in time the Watcher
would come to terms with his human side and learn to live among the
humans, but last night only made him question his hope. Lucca
charged into the Laundromat like a warrior set out to bring down
his enemy. The only thing missing was his broadsword.

Gideon smoothed down his spiked hair,
knowing it would pop back in place the moment his fingers moved
away.

Lucca’s focused pursuit last night had set
warning signs throughout Gideon’s body to stop him before the
warrior did something unforgivable. Lucca’s actions confused him
even more when his large hands didn’t encircle the woman’s throat
in a death grip like he expected. Instead, Lucca leaned near the
female, his eyes fixated as he inhaled her essence. It was as if he
wanted to breathe her inside him.

Lucca claimed her scent drew him to her.
Gideon’s brows furrowed in thought. “The bloody woman wasn’t even
near them.” How in the world did he zero in on the female’s scent,
while ignoring the other aromas flitting across the night air?

“I’ll be damned. He’s found his soul mate.”
He chuckled over the absurdity of it. Lucca hated humans. The idea
of him finding his soul mate seemed like Fate had a cruel sense of
humor—for the human that is. Lucca would never commit and where
would that leave the female?

The knock at the door pulled him out of his
reverie, his eyes narrowing with suspicion as he stared at his
door. He didn’t have callers. He rose to his feet, reaching for his
leather jacket hanging over the side of the couch’s armrest. He
pulled out his jewel-handled dagger concealed in the inside pocket.
With careful steps, he approached the door and peeked through the
peephole. He rolled his eyes as his sight took in Zaiden, staring
back with a cocked brow of annoyance.

He threw opened the door to allow the Guard
of Judgment entry, taking a step back and putting distance between
them. “What do I owe the pleasure?” Gideon kept the dagger firmly
in his grip.

Zaiden closed the door, his gaze lingering
on the weapon before meeting Gideon’s gaze. “Do you always greet
your visitors with a dagger welcome?”

“Don’t have many callers.”

“Hmm… I can’t imagine why with your stunning
attire and welcoming nature.”

Gideon lowered the dagger, loosening his
grip as he walked past Zaiden and placed the weapon on the sidebar
He leaned against the thick wood he built to accommodate his liquor
collection. He added more bottles since his wing dissection. The
alcohol took the edge off the pain. Being one of the Nephilim it
took a lot of alcohol to make him drunk. Two bottles of Scotch
would only give him a slight buzz.

Zaiden’s gaze wavered over his attire, or
rather lack there of, but the watcher refrained from making another
snide remark by pursing his lips in disapproval.

Gideon didn’t need to make excuses. This was
his home. He could walk around stark naked if he wanted to. One
winged or not. “What do I owe the pleasure?” Fallen Angels weren’t
social callers. They tended to keep to themselves and Zaiden
probably had fewer friends than he had. The Watcher killed for a
living, a hit man for the preternatural world. Not many would call
him a friend and live to tell about it.

“I have need for your…talent,” he said.

Gideon lifted one brow as he eyed the Guard.
“My talent?” He highly doubted Zaiden wanted him to sketch him a
picture.

“Your expertise of touch, your ability to
pick up remnants of the event that took place.”

Objects left impressions associated with
what transpired when a being’s emotions were out of control.
Happiness or violence worked the same way. Energy dispersed around
the being, leaving residue on everything within reach. Walls,
floors, even furniture absorbed the energy like a sponge soaking up
water. Seeing as the Guard of Judgment wanted to use his talent, he
had a hunch it wasn’t to find a happy couple.

“What happened? By your grim reaper
expression, I’d say someone died.”

“Assassinated.”

Gideon reached behind his sidebar and pulled
out his brandy container. “Want some?”

Zaiden shook his head.

Gideon poured a good amount into a dirty
glass and indulged. If he was donning clothes, he needed something
to dull the pain in his back. “Did someone beat you to the punch?”
He couldn’t fathom the reason why Zaiden would need to know who
took out a target.

“The assassination wasn’t sanctioned.
Someone took out a Watcher, leaving his remains scattered. I want
the butcher before he decides to take his aggressions out on
someone else.”

Gideon stood up straight. “Angels turn to
dust when they die.”

“I’m aware. Why do you think I’m here? I
need you to tell me what the hell happened.”

Chapter Thirteen