The Taken (19 page)

Suddenly the danger was back and he halted and pointed at her. “Don’t compare me to that knob you were married to!”

Kit threw her hands up in the air. “Well, what would you think if someone just showed up out of nowhere, pretending to like the things you like and—”

“I’m not pretending anything!” he said, suddenly as wild-eyed as she’d found him. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you!”

Kit just crossed her arms and waited.

He pointed to his fedora, knocked off during his fall. “That is my hat.” He pulled at his suit. “This is really the way I dress. I was murdered in the fall of 1960. I was thirty-three years old . . . nine years older than the man whose house we’re in now.”

Kit blinked, then frowned. Had he hit his head when he fell to the floor? Maybe when he was flailing?

“And that’s how you know Tony? Because you were contemporaries back in 1960?” She spoke slowly, wanting to give him a chance to think about what he was saying.

But Grif just inclined his head, seemingly relieved. Then he said, “There’s more.”

“More than his being a time traveler from the fifties?”

“I’m also a . . . I’m a . . .” He looked up at the ceiling, cringing like a dog that expected to be swatted.

“A?” she prompted, looking up at him.

“A . . . sort of . . . angel.” It rushed out of him and he stood stiffly in place, glancing around the room as if waiting for something to happen.

Kit waited, too, but that was it. She tilted her head. “A sort-of angel?”

He gave her a double-take, like she’d said something crazy. “No, a real angel. A . . . you know. Angel angel.”

Kit’s recalled the way he’d rushed from the corner in her bedroom, shadows built up around him like wings. It was a good memory to hang on to now that she knew he was out of his mind. “I understand. You saved me from Schmidt and his buddy. You’ve stayed by my side and even though I’m being chased and I talk too much for your liking and—”

“Kit,” Grif cut her off with the sole word. “You’re not listening to me. I’m a real angel.”

She stared, listening now.

Grif’s neck worked as he swallowed hard. “I’m what’s known as a Centurion. Angels who used to be human. There are other angels, of course. Pures, born in the Everlast. It’s a sort of buffer zone to Paradise.”

“Pures,” she repeated flatly.
Everlast.
Where had she heard that before? She shook her head. The real question was why was she hearing it now?

He nodded. “You know. Immortal, designed by God’s hand, ever in grace. Blah, blah, blah.” He waved his hands like she should already be familiar with all this. “They’re what humans think of when imagining typical angels . . . but not as cute.”

All the warmth Kit had felt while kissing him drained from her then. She remained silent for another few moments and, when she thought her voice was steady, said, “So how many kinds of angels are there?”

He looked surprised that she should accept his explanation so easily. She didn’t, but it was the first time he’d volunteered a story on his own, and she wanted to hear him out. It was a doozy. “There are Cherubim, Seraphim, Thrones . . . they comprise the highest order. Then the Dominations, Virtues, and Powers . . . losers, the lot of them. And the Archangels, a breed of their own. Real standoffish, if you get my meaning.”

Kit forced a nod. “And where are you on this angel hierarchy?”

This time he heard the doubt edging her voice, and he frowned. “Higher than you, that’s where.”

“Okay.” Kit stood. “Will you excuse me for a moment.”

“Where are you going?”

“Kitchen.” Rounding the back of the couch, she gave him a tight smile. “Be right back.”

She made it into Tony’s kitchen, let the slatted half-doors swing shut, then let out a scream that had been building ever since Grif had pushed her away.

He was by her side in a second. Maybe he flew, Kit thought, feeling another scream build. “What the—what the hell are you doing?”

“I. Am. Screaming.” She turned toward him coolly. Funny, but it looked like he was mentally redressing
her
in a straitjacket.

“Why?”

Because she’d listened when a so-called professional had talked to her about thrust. Because she’d believed Grif actually had it. But he was just another man with a faulty heart. And the last thing Kit needed was one more of those.

“So. You’re a fallen angel.” She folded her arms.

“I’m not fallen,” he said roughly.

“Then what are you?”

He shrugged. “Busted.”

“Uh-huh.” Where did Tony keep the hard alcohol in this place? she wondered, bypassing the wine fridge. “And what kind of angelic powers do you have?”

“Now you’re making fun.”

“No. I really want to know,” she said, yanking vodka from the deep freeze and slamming the door shut. “I’ve never met a . . . what did you call it? A
Centurion
before. This is a first for me.” Except, sadly, in many ways it was not.

“Okay,” Grif said unsurely, as he watched her fill a tumbler and immediately down it. “I can open doors that are locked.”

“So can a locksmith.” So could a thief. She filled her glass again.

“Fine.” Grif frowned and reached for her glass. “Give me your hands.”

She’d have pulled away at his touch but didn’t want one more action to give away how much she cared. Slowly, deliberately, he led her palms to his back, where his shoulder blades were bunched tight beneath coiled muscle. For a moment, there was nothing. Then he shifted and widened his back. Two knobs, round and wide, flared beneath her palms.

“Damn it, Grif,” she said, jerking away. “What the hell are those?”

“That’s where my wings would be if I wasn’t trussed up in this flesh.” He adjusted his shoulders like it was too tight a fit. “If I were a Guardian, the feathers would grow in like lightning. The Cherubim and Thrones have the downy ones. But the Archangels are the real dandies. They wear the stars in their wings.”

Well, he was nothing if not imaginative. And Kit? She was a fool.

Shaking her head, she asked, “Is there anything else?”

“I died in 1960,” he said plainly. “I don’t need your help in finding out who killed another man named Griffin Shaw. I need your help in finding out who killed me.”

Kit looked at him—exhausted, rumpled, irritated with her because she didn’t just fall for it when he told her he was an honest-to-goodness angel, and yes, still totally hot. Damn it.

“And the woman?” she asked, reaching for her drink, but keeping her eyes on his face. “Evelyn?”

“My wife,” he answered, face grim. “They—someone—killed her, too.”

Kit felt another guttural scream building. Tilting back the tumbler, she swallowed, then shook her head.

“You still don’t believe me.” He shifted so his back was no longer exposed.

“C’mere,” she said, slamming down her glass.

Grif frowned, but allowed her to direct his touch. Placing one of his hands on her hip, just because she felt like it, she dropped the other on the top of her head.

“What are you—?”

“Shhh . . .” She turned her gaze up as if that would help as she moved his index finger around, letting the others get lost in her black waves. Let him see what he’s missing, she thought, moving that hip. Then she glanced back at his face, and saw the moment he felt it. “My extra brains,” she explained, as he moved his hand over the bump.

He dropped his hand and glared at her. “That’s a cyst.”

“No. It’s bonus gray matter. That’s why I’m such a great reporter.” She shrugged. “And why I usually win at Quiz Night.”

“Quiz . . . ?” Grif huffed. “It’s a
cyst
.”

Smiling, Kit folded her arms, noting he had yet to move his other hand from her waist. “Darling, what’s more unlikely? That you’ve got wings or I’ve got brains?”

He turned at that. “You are the most infuriating, stubborn—”

“You mean the most awesome, caring, and long-suffering . . . and don’t you
dare
walk out that door!” She caught up to him, breathing hard. “Look, I came to you just now because it sounded like you needed me. I kissed you because I thought we both needed it. But what I
don’t
need is some stone-cold, emotionally castrated jerk who thinks the past matters more than the present!”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you.”

“Shut up! I need your help in finding out who killed Nic, and you need my help, too. But rest easy, because I
won’t
kiss you again. I won’t even mention this kiss again. It’ll be like it never happened, and after we both have what we want, I’ll go back to my life and you can go back to the past with your dead wife. But right now
I
am going to walk out of here first. And you know what you’re going to do?”

He stared.

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re going to watch me go.”

And she turned at that, exiting the room first, and she was right. She left him staring after her, watching her go.

Chapter Fourteen

G
rif stood, smoking on the green leading to the ninth hole, shivering slightly in a rented tuxedo, and feeling small beneath the weight of the early spring stars.

Feeling like a snake, too. Kit had snapped back at him—delivered a verbal one-two that he’d deserved, and that rocked him back on his heels, though worst of all was the pain that’d flashed behind the heat. He’d done that to her, and was instantly sorry.

And he’d have lunged after her, had his fingertips entwined in that glossy, sable hair, if only he hadn’t wanted to do just that so very badly. But he’d just dreamed of Evie—his darling, his wife—and worse,
seen
her drop to the floor, and death. How could he have woken from that and immediately started pawing at some other woman?

But her touch—oh, her touch. Just like the suit he’d been wearing when he was thrown back onto the mudflat, it
fit.
Even his dream—Evie and him in the shower, the bed, in his arms—hadn’t had the punch of power that Kit held in her fingertips alone.

Because she’s alive, he thought, mind latching onto the memory of her lips pressed hotly to his.

But you’re not, he reminded himself, and pushed the thought away. He wasn’t human, not fully, anyway. He wasn’t angelic anymore, either.

He wasn’t anything.

Flicking ash onto the over-manicured green, Grif turned back to stare at Tony’s home. It was a good distraction. Grif could almost pretend he was back in the fifties, with the same desert breeze playing at his back, the same stately homes rising from the earth with their butterfly rooftops and giant windows. Back then, guys like Tony hadn’t just run the show, they
were
the show. And they’d been good neighbors, too. Even if they did work nights and sleep days. Even if they did park in their driveways with their Cadillacs’ noses facing out. Even if you did have to worry when one of their packages ended up on your doorstep.

Still, they put their hearts in the city, gave it its bones, and kept the town clean even as they wiped away dirty palms. Tony loved it, too. He still talked about Las Vegas like it was his best girl.

Yet these days the town’s greatest attraction was Caleb Chambers, who seemed to treat the city like a street whore, tossing money at her, tearing her down, using her up.

A movement at one of the large windows caught his eye. It was Kit, silhouetted behind the curtain and struggling to hook the back of her dress. She managed it, then smoothed her fingers down in a practiced gesture, obviously facing a mirror.

Turning away, Grif forced himself to stare into the abyss of the course instead. Damn it. What was going on with him? Because it wasn’t just the sight of her, the visual punch of her lily-white skin and berry-stained lips. Or the earthy, sweet scent when she stood too close. Or even her taste, though Grif would never loose that one from his mind now. He’d been able to ignore all of that, and thought he could continue to do so, too. She’d already said she wouldn’t kiss him again.

But he couldn’t ignore what he was feeling, not alone beneath the bare, honest sky. Katherine Craig had slid inside his new skin, nestled right in next to his renegade heart, and he had no idea how. She was nothing like Evie. That woman could hold a grudge like a badge, flashing it as needed.

Kit Craig flashed winks and nods, but if she held anything, it was a smile, the corners of her generous mouth ever curved upward with hope.

“Why the hell is she so chipper all the time?” he muttered into the dark. She’d lost both her parents young. She’d been played by a two-bit sot who wouldn’t know a good thing if his life depended on it. Her best friend had been killed practically before her eyes. And even if her fight to keep the family paper humming panned out, she’d already learned that money couldn’t keep you safe or healthy or happy.

So what on earth, he wondered, kept that swivel in her step? What made her dust herself off after getting knocked down? Why the hell did she insist on gifting
him
with that damned magnificent smile? Why did she taste like his own forgotten hope?

All Grif knew was that Kit Craig was vibrant and alive and she wanted him in a way a woman hadn’t in over half a century. Even with what she called his grumpiness. Even given the way he’d mysteriously barreled into her life.

And he
had
kissed her back. He wanted to kiss her again, too. To go into that bedroom, clasp her face on both sides, and crush his mouth atop hers. He also wanted to protect her.

Yet what he needed to do was let her die.

Looking up into the star-pocked face of the cold night sky, he considered that for a moment longer. “Not a chance,” he finally said, and the place where his wings should have been tingled.

Then, turning his back on the darkness of the empty course . . . he ran right into the chest of a Pure.

A
ngels—Pures—were always depicted as full of light. And they
were
light, comprised of the same particles and elements that imbued the entire universe with color. But the painters and sculptors who decided that “full of light” meant blond, blue-eyed cherubs never properly considered that the spectrum of God’s universe was vaster and wilder than anything the human eye could envision. Angels were an untamed natural wonder.

And they were not created in God’s image. That was an honor reserved only for his children. It was why Centurions could never be considered true angels. Why true angels, Pures, would never be able to comprehend humanity’s plight.

It was how Grif knew this one had been forced to don ill-fitting flesh against her will, against her nature, against the existing caste system of the angelic realm, where even the soulless Pures were divided into orders.

She didn’t look happy about it, either.

A perfectly round dark head sat atop shoulders with collarbones that flared. She—unmistakably female—was dressed in black cotton from neck to ankles, so seamless Grif could barely discern where her body stopped and the fabric began. Though it was night, sunshades were wrapped around her temples, perched on a straight, lean nose; she’d have looked severe even without the downturned mouth. She waited until he was done studying her, and had recovered somewhat, before speaking.

“We meet again.” She also didn’t sound happy.

And Grif recalled these features—not this face, but the underlying features—pressing through a thinning membrane of filmy Everlast and splintering walls. He had to fight not to back away from her, though every renegade cell in his body was telling him to do just that. “Anas.”

She looked different than she had when casting him back into flesh and the Surface, though when she whipped her glasses from her face, Grif caught sight of eyes slanted with flame before her true angelic form flashed. Twenty-two-foot wings of downy gold blazed behind her, illuminating the dark body in silhouette. Her close-shaved head prevented singeing, but her neck was suddenly too long, and the air crackled around her when she shifted.

Grif’s cigarette fell from his fingers, and he involuntarily stepped backward.

“You will call me Anne,” she said, shading her eyes again with the glasses. Her eyes and wings instantly snuffed. Darkness reclaimed the golf green, but this time it sat upon it heavily, like a layer of foreboding smoke.

“Why would I do that?” he asked, blinking hard.

“Because I do not want my blessed name defiled by human lips.”

Shakily, Grif pulled out another cigarette. “I mean, why do I have to call you anything,
Anne
? What are you doing here?”

“My job.” She lifted her chin, and this time—even with the ill-fitting skin suppressing all that flame—he recognized her. “Unlike you.”

Grif licked his lower lip. “Frank send you?”

“You know who sent me.” A Pure wasn’t to do anything outside of God’s express will. Ironically, this made them haughty despite being technically lesser than mortals. It also made them impossible to argue with.

But if Anne was supposed to take him home, why wasn’t he already wrapped up in her flaming wings and hurtling toward the Everlast? Squinting, he dragged on his cigarette. “I still have free will, don’t I?”

“You are a child of God,” she conceded, mouth turning down. “And you are encased in mortal flesh.”

“And did you get to choose your outfit?” he said, gesturing to her flesh. “Because you missed a spot right here.” He pointed to her eyes.

Her body thrummed with a growl. “Don’t mistake my blindness for weakness. The stimulation of all five senses at once would overwhelm one who is Pure. Mortality takes what is Pure and makes it defective.”

Grif ignored the insult. “So . . . what? Blind people, the deaf, the mutes . . . all those people are really angels?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Anne hissed. “They’re God’s children and destined for Paradise. But, yes, some of his children are closer to the angels than others.”

It matched what he’d seen at the Gates, where those who had physical or mental ailments entered the Everlast to find their sight restored, their bodies and minds whole. And while others marched into Paradise like an army of souls, the newly whole ones rocketed past the Gates as if launched from the mud.

Grif grunted. “And all this time I thought God had just gotten His wires crossed.”

“Blasphemy,” Anne snapped, fists clenching at her sides. “God makes no mistakes. He is divine. Angels are pure. And mankind is—”

“Impure,” Grif finished for her. “Yeah. I got the memo.”

“This,” Anne said, gesturing furiously to her flesh, “is a demotion. Donning human flesh is like being cast out for a Pure.”

And she said it in a way that let Grif know she blamed him.

“It’s an acquired taste,” Grif told her with more boldness than he felt.

“I’d rather Fall.” With the deliberation of a hungry python, she came closer. “But I can’t return Home until you either kill that woman or let her die. And I can tell you this much, Griffin Shaw, I’m already tired of running into things.”

“So kill her yourself.”

Anne sneered. “You know I can’t do that. The angelic host does not interfere in human affairs. I’m only here to clean up your mess, and preserve other souls from your defiling touch. I’ve been watching you, you know.”

He hadn’t.

“It’s different this time around, isn’t it?” She smiled knowingly.

“The coffee is better.”

“And the women?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he replied stiffly.

“That’s right. You’re
faithful.
Determined to find your Evie . . .”

“Don’t you dare talk about her.”

Anne smiled, and jerked her head toward Kit’s window. “Let me tell you about these modern-day women, then. They’re vibrant and full of
life.
Not like you.”

“Not like you, either,” he said, because if he was out of place on the mudflat, she was doubly so.

“Thank. God.”

Grif crossed his arms, and tossed her own smile back at her. “Make yourself at home, Annie. ’Cause I ain’t killing that innocent woman.”

Anne growled, flashing teeth like stalactites, and began speaking in tongues. It was like rushing water and roaring wind mashed into one vocal box, but Grif, standing there of his own free will, ignored the babble and lit another cigarette.

“The decision you make here and now will ripple through the tides of the universe,” she yelled, when he turned to leave. “The longer you’re here, the more likely you are to influence events you have no business touching. I’d think hard about what you’re trying to do, Griffin Shaw. And of what you’ve already done. You’ve hurt enough people, but you’ve changed nothing.”

That was probably true. Blowing out a toxic stream of smoke, he slowly turned back around. “It’s still my choice.”

“There is only one right choice when deciding between two courses of action, and that is the will of God.”

As if a Pure could understand true moral dilemma. Grif sniffed. “You know, you could help me find out who’s trying to kill her. Stop them instead.”

“I don’t care enough to try.”

No, he knew that. She was here on orders alone. Asking a pure angel to help a mortal was like asking a dog to meow. They just didn’t have it in them.

So Grif headed across the green, back to the house, and back to protect Kit. His wingless shoulder blades pulsed beneath the Pure’s stare.

“I will not assist you,” Anne called out, her voice again rumbling like a storm. “But I
will
thwart you. I will block your way. I will take that divine gift of free will and use it against you so that you’ll know defeat again in this pseudo-life.”

Grif kept walking. “You can’t touch me.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t touch
her
.”

Grif stopped dead, shook his head, and turned with fire in his own eyes. “You know what they say about your tribe, don’t you? The other Pures?”

He waited, but she said nothing.

“They say that you’re the ones who failed God. You failed to keep order on the heavenly pathways by doing no more than you were told and no less. They say Lucifer and the Third used your rigidity against you. They also say the only reason you were the first of the created angels was because God had to keep going until he got it right.”