The Beautiful and the Damned (12 page)

Avian added more ketchup to his potatoes. “When did this happen? How did you get like
this?”

“At a Shade crossover in Sleepy Hollow a couple of months ago. There was supposed
to be a new set of Revenants joining the team.”

“New Revenants?” The news surprised him. “Uriel and Acacia didn’t move on, did they?”

“Nah, those bitches are still here. And they go by Uri and Cacey now.” Vincent sat
down at the table. “None of us knew who it was going to be until it was over. But
I wasn’t ready to move on to my after afterlife, if you know what I mean. So I took
care of it. Made sure I wasn’t the one being forced out of the Revenant gig.”

“And I’m guessing that’s how
this
happened?” Avian gestured at Cyn’s body, and Vincent nodded.

“The other Revenants got pissy with me for interfering and banished me. I ended up
here.”

“Doesn’t seem like their style to pick a human to pay the price for your mistake.”

Vincent leaned back in the chair, and the front two legs lifted off the ground. “This
body was there the night of the crossover. Guess they got lucky she was an Echo, the
perfect place to get rid of me.”

Suddenly, Cyn’s head jerked to the side.

“Shit. She’s coming back,” Vincent said. “I’ll see you on the flip side, Thirteen.
Good
chat.
”

C
yn’s body jerked forward, and her head slumped onto the table. It took a minute before
she came to. “I need some aspirin,” she finally said in a muffled voice. Her face
was still planted against the table. “My head hurts.”

“They’re in the—”

But a loud snore suddenly cut him off. She was asleep. The episode with Vincent must
have worn her out.

Avian stood up to return the mashed potatoes and the ketchup to the fridge. Echos
were usually stronger than most humans—they had to be, since they were being possessed
all the time, but it was hell on their bodies.

And that hell’s only going to get worse for her with Vincent in there.

Father Montgomery was right. She needed help, even if she didn’t know it yet.

At the thought of Father Montgomery, Avian’s chest constricted painfully. Even though
all he wanted to do was take the priest’s body and go find someplace quiet to lay
him to rest, he knew that wouldn’t be fair to people like Sister Serena. People who
deserved a chance to mourn Father Montgomery’s death too.

It was up to him to see that they were notified, so he went to the study to use the
phone. An address book was in the top drawer of Father Montgomery’s desk, and Avian
went right down the list. He kept the conversation brief—repeating only that Father
Montgomery had been found deceased in the church.

There was no need for everyone to know the final details of the priest’s agonizing
death.

When the calls to Father Montgomery’s parishioners were finished, he made two more
calls. One to the funeral home to tell them he wanted the best casket they had. He
didn’t care that it was eco-friendly Brazilian cherry wood that had been hand polished
by blind monks in Tibet and flown in first class. He also didn’t care that it would
cost an extra thirty grand to upgrade.

Father Montgomery deserved the best.

The second call he made was to a nearby florist. He bought everything they had in
stock, and everything within a twenty-mile radius. The last memory that church would
hold wouldn’t be of blood, it would be of beauty.

It was almost midnight when he put the phone down, and that was when he found the
note. Written in Father Montgomery’s familiar handwriting, it was on a sheet of paper
that slid out from the back of the address book.

Avian—

I moved your cello from the church to the attic. I hope you don’t mind. It’s cleaner
there, and safer. I know it’s been a while since you played, but the next time you
come home I was hoping to

The note wasn’t finished.

Avian stared down at the words his friend had left behind. His gut churned as he thought
about that sense of danger he’d kept experiencing. Why didn’t he warn the priest to
be more careful?
Why?
The paper wrinkled as his fist closed around it, and his knuckles turned white. Then
he smoothed the paper back out and returned it to the address book.

As he stalked out of the study, the attic beckoned him to go up there. Or more so,
what was in the attic beckoned him. But Avian ignored the feeling. He hadn’t played
the cello since Shelley died.

He’d met Shelley because of that cello—she was the store clerk in a dusty little music
store, and he was trying to find some replacement strings. They’d started up a conversation,
and when it became something more than just friendship between them, he played for
her on the nights she had bad dreams. When she couldn’t fall asleep.

And when she’d died, he swore to never touch the thing again. Too many memories.

Avian didn’t like memories. Avoided making them whenever he could.

He also swore to never get involved with another human again and to keep his distance
from Echos. Shelley had been the only good one he’d ever met. Father Montgomery was
the exception to his rule about humans, since they’d met long ago. It just wasn’t
worth the heartache and misery of knowing that, sooner or later, he’d have to watch
the mortals he cared for die.

In Shelley’s case, it had been sooner.

Avian glanced around Father Montgomery’s empty living room. He didn’t want to stay
here thinking about this anymore.
Cash’s bar would serve as a good distraction, and if he got lucky, maybe he’d find
an even better distraction—one that involved getting his hands dirty.

~  ~  ~

The Black Cadillac was busy. Cash had several waitresses in skintight jeans and low-cut
tank tops on duty, but as soon as Avian walked in and took a seat in a dark corner
Cash could tell something was wrong. He brought over a glass of bourbon right away.
“You look like you could use one of these, my friend.”

Avian ran a hand over his face. “Is it that obvious?” The smoke-filled room pulsed
with an undercurrent of danger that teased the edges of his dark side and forced him
to be aware of the tight leash he usually kept it on.

He took the glass, and Cash took a seat. “I found Father Montgomery’s body in the
church last night.”

Cash made the sign of the cross before he caught himself, but Avian waved it off.
“What happened?”

“He was murdered.” Avian stared down into the bottom of his drink. “It was . . . messy.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

The burn marks on Avian’s arms briefly rose up, then faded as his hand tightened on
the glass. As much as he’d been hoping to find a good fight here, it was probably
in the bar’s best
interest that he didn’t. In this type of mood, there was no telling the amount of
damage he could do.

Cash stood. He knew when his friend needed to be alone. “If you need anything, give
a shout. The bar, a bottle, anything.” He offered his hand and Avian took it.

“Thanks.” Avian drained the last of his drink and then stood up too. “Think I’m just
going to hit the road. Take a drive and clear my head.”

Returning to the register, Cash watched him leave, knowing full well that he wasn’t
just going for a drive. Thirteen was already on the hunt. He wouldn’t stop until he
found whoever had killed that priest.

And he
would
find out.

He always did.

~  ~  ~

On his way out of town, Avian passed Pete’s Salvage Yard and made a last-minute decision
to stop. Letting the bike idle, he put two fingers to his lips and whistled.

The hellhound that guarded the junkyard immediately came running and leapt straight
up and over, clearing the ten-foot-tall gates with ease. His eyes burned red as he
pranced from foot to foot with nervous energy, and a whine rose from his throat.

Avian’s eyes turned red to match, and he felt his horns lengthen. “Ready to hunt?”
he asked.

The hellhound’s ears lay back, and his spine went rigid. Avian revved the motorcycle
and then spun out, circling around the gravel driveway before pulling onto the main
road. The hellhound kept up with him every step of the way.

Avian buried the needle on the bike’s speedometer and roared down the highway. The
hellhound was a blur beside him, all lean muscle and quivering flesh. He reached out
a hand to touch the beast, and steam rose from the hellhound’s fur, curling around
his fingertips.

A flash of searing heat blasted through him. Misery and suffering melted holes in
his brain so intense, it made his eyeballs ache in their sockets. The burn marks on
his back and shoulders rose to the surface in response, breaking through the skin.

It was a memory from hell. A flashback of what it felt like to be down there.

Probably something the beast had already forgotten if he’d been topside long enough,
but the demon side of Avian had memories from that place too—he’d been born there.
Every day, he felt that pull to find a way to see just how much it really felt like
home.

He rode for another hour before he stopped for gas. As soon
as he pulled into the empty station the hellhound went on high alert, heading for
the back of the building. Avian followed him around to a dark parking lot and saw
two people huddled over a body. Faint slurping sounds let him know that this was the
kind of fight he was looking for—vampires.

“Good dog,” he said, drawing the blade from his jacket.

Since the hellhound’s purpose was to protect consecrated ground, he recognized the
scent of death. And that included the undead.

Avian moved his head from side to side, cracking his neck as he slowly advanced. Neither
of the vampires looked up until he was practically on top of them. When they finally
did raise their faces, they had bull-like heads and long, forked tongues. More members
of the Navarro coven.

Damn, these guys get around.

Whistling again for the hellhound, Avian said, “Hey, pup, what do you say I take the
ugly one, and you take the . . . Oh, hell, they’re both ugly fuckers. I’ll just take
the one on the right and you get the one on the left.”

Apparently the hellhound agreed, because his jaws were already wide open, and he leapt
at the throat of the vampire on the left, tearing into him with a blood-spurting frenzy
that Avian matched with his weapon slash for slash.

C
yn woke up to a stiff neck and a raging headache. The last thing she remembered was
talking to Thirteen. She glanced down, realizing that she’d fallen asleep at Father
Montgomery’s kitchen table. The weariness that came along whenever the darkness took
over sucked all the energy out of her.

A sound came from outside, and a light over the small shed in the backyard illuminated
the outline of someone pushing a motorcycle into it. A couple of minutes later, Thirteen
came inside the house. His hands were covered with little black spots, and a clump
of something dark and brown stained his left cheek. He went directly to the sink and
started washing up.

Oil. It’s just oil from his bike.

Finally, he said without looking up, “You’re still here?”

“I guess I was just on my way out.”

“Well, don’t let me stop you.” He dried his hands and then reached into the cabinet
to his left and pulled out an empty glass.

A glass of water and some headache medicine sounded heavenly right about now. So Cyn
said, “Can I get one of those?”

He left the cabinet door open instead of getting her a cup and walked away from it.
Cyn gritted her teeth and moved slowly toward the sink, fighting the tiredness that
threatened to consume her. Everything ached. Her back, her hips, even her knees.

Her fingers trembled as she filled the glass, and when she looked down, she saw that
her shirt sleeves were rolled up. Exposing her arms and exposing her wounds. The bandages
were missing.