“Part of it.”
“Which part?”
“The part that means I know all about you being an Echo. Is that why you killed Hunter? Because you don’t have a soul?”
“Don’t have a soul? I—”
“You’re some kind of soul freak. I heard that guy telling you.”
“I don’t know what you think you heard, but you sound crazy.”
At the mention of the word “crazy,” Declan grew agitated and started waving the gun around. “Crazy? I’m not fucking crazy. Do you understand that? I’m not stupid, either. Of course, you wouldn’t confess something like that to me. It sounds crazy because it is. But I know all about crazy. And I know other ways to get you to confess your sins to me.”
He dropped the arm holding the gun to his side. Cyn tried not to flinch as he suddenly moved closer. Little flecks of blood flew out of his mouth as he sneered, “I also know how to make you beg.”
“You want to hear someone beg?” a voice said from behind them. “I’ll get right on that.”
Cyn turned around to see Thirteen standing there, the large black dog from the junkyard next to him.
Ears back, hair raised, every single one of the dog’s razorlike teeth showed as its lips curled in a snarl. Steam rose from its fur in wisps that matched the smoke rising off of Thirteen. Vivid burn marks covered Thirteen’s arms, and his red eyes and horns were in full effect. He was six feet five inches of badass mixed with pissed-off motherfucker.
“What are you?” Declan said.
Thirteen just glared at him. “Really? Are you going to make me say it?”
“Yeah, I’m going to make you say it. What the fuck are you?”
“Your worst nightmare.”
He took a step forward, and Declan turned the gun on Cyn. “Don’t get any ideas. This is between me and her.”
Thirteen took another step closer. “What did she do to you?”
“She killed my little brother! He was stabbed in his own bed. And she was there.”
“Doesn’t mean she did it.”
Declan tilted his head toward him, like he was sharing a secret. “I heard what you told her the other night. She’s an Echo. That’s why she did it. Some sort of satanic ritual or something.”
“Okay.” Thirteen nodded like he was in full agreement. “But do you have any proof that she killed him? You were a cop. You know you need proof.”
Cyn glanced over at Thirteen. “Was? He was a cop? He told me he’s with the Sleepy Hollow Police Department.”
“So I fucking lied,” Declan said. Distracted, he lowered the gun. “I was with the NYPD and they put me on suspension.”
“Maybe you just pissed off the wrong person.” Thirteen looked Declan straight in the eye. “You’re with the Navarro coven, right? Vampires know a lot of interesting ways to get a message across. They can be pretty brutal.”
Cyn tried to follow what Thirteen was saying. Vampires are real too? And Declan is working with them?
“We have an understanding,” Declan argued. “I make sure no one ever notices when they do their thing, and in exchange, they’ll turn me. I’ve always held up my end—they have no reason to come after me or my brother.”
“They’re sharing their blood with you?”
Declan nodded, then started coughing uncontrollably. Doubled over, he fought to bring the gun back up so it was pointed at Cyn, but his hand was shaking. The black veins in his face bulged with every wheeze and seemed to be growing larger. When Cyn glanced down at his hand, she saw the veins there were turning black too. Traveling up his arms like they were carrying black ink.
“What’s wrong with me?” Declan finally said.
Thirteen gestured at the gaping wound covering Declan’s shoulder. “Looks like a dog bite to me.”
“I fought him off.” Declan glared over at the large dog, who was keeping silent watch. “Hit him with the butt of my gun. Should have been enough to crack his skull.”
“It probably was,” Thirteen said. “He heals fast. Like me.”
“So, am I infected?” Declan glanced back down at his black veins. “Is he some kind of . . . werewolf or something?”
“Hellhound. Let’s just say you don’t have to worry about turning into a vampire anymore. Hell, you don’t have to worry about anything anymore. Time’s up.”
Thirteen took one more step and was finally close enough to reach out and take the gun.
Cyn could tell that he was going to go for it, but instead of waiting for him to make his move she reached for the sharpened spoon in her pocket. She wasn’t done with Declan yet.
Quickly counting to three, she pulled it out and jabbed it over her shoulder. Right where Declan was standing. Slight resistance gave way to a gelatinous substance, and then a sudden spurt of warm blood against the back of her head and Declan’s howl of pain let her know that her aim was true: She’d hit him in the eye.
Declan’s gun dropped to the ground with a dull thud. “You fucking bitch!” he spit out.
Blood was pouring down his face, and something flashed dark and deadly in his good eye.
In that instant, Cyn knew what he was going to do.
Declan reached out and sunk both hands into her shoulders, hauled her up against him, and then stepped off the edge of the bluff.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Cyn screamed as they went over, and Avian’s wings burst out of his jacket. With two strong pumps, he was over the side of the cliff and diving down after her.
The spray of water from the falls was almost strong enough to knock him off course, but he reached out to snag her ankle and managed to stop them midfall. Their combined weight made it cumbersome to navigate, and he fought to pull them back up over the cliff.
“Get off of me,” he heard Cyn grunting, and he looked down to see her kicking at Declan.
The cop’s face was a mangled mess—one eye bloody and bulging, his lip split into two, broken capillaries and blood vessels covering his face and arms. The hellhound’s bite had done a considerable amount of damage.
But so had Cyn.
She kicked one more time, and Declan started coughing again. His body convulsed as he struggled for air. With one final heave, she knocked him loose.
Avian leveled off, and they both watched Declan’s body free-fall into the water below. He disappeared and then resurfaced, bobbing lifelessly until the current carried him over the falls. If there was any question as to whether or not he could have survived, it was answered as his body was dashed against the rocks at the bottom of the waterfall over and over again.
Avian cleared the edge of the bluff and let go of Cyn’s ankle as soon as the ground was close enough for them to land safely. He came to a stop several feet away. The scars on his back were burning like a son of a bitch, and he fought to keep himself under control.
“Holy shit, Thirteen,” Cyn said. “I was just getting used to the horns. You can fly?!”
She came closer, and he arched backward, hissing with pain. “Don’t. Don’t come near me.”
The burns on Avian’s arms deepened, like someone was branding him with a hot poker from the inside, and his horns throbbed with a painful intensity. When he got pissed off, the demon side of him wanted to do some damage. Regardless of what, or who, was around.
That’s how he’d gotten the scar from Shelley. When he wasn’t careful, and the demon side had slipped out. Luckily, she’d been smart enough to use the knife she’d always carried and had nicked the side of his neck just below his left ear. He’d been distracted enough by it to rein himself back in.
“What’s happening to you?” Cyn asked. “It looks . . . painful.”
Avian contorted as the burns flared up again, and he landed hard with one knee on the ground. He didn’t answer her question. It took all of his willpower to make sure his demon side stayed under wraps.
Eventually his horns receded to nubs, and he changed his eye color back to brown. The wings were another matter—they would have to w
ait until he could bind them again.
When he stood, Cyn glanced at his arms and the fading scars left behind. “Happens when I get angry,” he offered by way of explanation. “I burn from the inside out. It’s my curse.”
“So the burn marks are coming from the inside and pushing their way out of your skin?”
He nodded.
She looked at his shoulders. “And that’s”—she gestured to the black feathers sprouting from his shoulder blades—“all part of this too?”
“They come from my mother’s side of the family.”
“Wings and horns.” She turned away from him, then turned back with a confused expression on her face. “Have they always been there?”
“Always.”
“I didn’t feel them when I rode behind you on your bike.”
“I keep them bound.”
Cyn gave him a brief, sweeping glance. “Anything else I should know about? Any other surprises?”
Besides the healing, shape shifting, persuasion, memory reading, and general-ass-kicking skills?
Avian shook his head. “Nope. That’s it.” Removing his jacket, he folded his wings down and then put the jacket back on.
“Okay. Good. But you and I are going to have a little chat when we get back to the house.” She glanced around and absentmindedly rubbed her arms. Her clothing was wet from coming so close to the waterfall.
“My bike is back where the road ends,” he said, answering her unasked question. “I didn’t want to lose the element of surprise, so I left it there.”
He put two fingers to his mouth and whistled. The hellhound followed them back to the bike.
“What’s with the dog?” Cyn asked, climbing behind him. She was careful not to touch his wings. “He was at the junkyard Declan made me go to.”
“He’s a hellhound. A guardian of the dead. I passed by the junkyard when I was out looking for you and saw the dog heading in this direction. Since the cop was drinking blood from the undead, the hellhound was able to follow his scent.”
Cyn shrugged. “Whatever he is, I’m glad he was there. He slowed down Declan enough for me to get a head start.”
The hellhound raced beside them the whole way back to Pete’s Salvage Yard. Keeping up an easy pace. When they reached the gates, he leapt over them and disappeared inside.
They rode in silence the rest of the way back to the rectory, and Avian let Cyn off at the kitchen door before putting his bike away. He didn’t realize that she hadn’t gone inside yet but was still watching him when he dropped the torn jacket into a heap on the ground and set his wings free.
“Hey!” Cyn suddenly called. “Are you going up there?” She pointed to the roof of the church.
“Yeah,” Avian said, and cursed himself for even thinking what he was going to say next. “Wanna come?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Cyn didn’t give herself any time to think before she nodded. She took a step toward him. “So, we just . . . go up?”
“We just go up.”
Pushing aside her fear of heights, Cyn closed the gap between them. She could feel the warmth radiating off of him. It was like having her own personal heater.
Thirteen snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her tightly against his chest. “So you don’t fall,” he said.
Heat rushed to her head. It doesn’t mean anything.
But that didn’t stop her from wrapping her arms around him in return.
The ground suddenly let go of her feet, and she looked down. They were rising higher and higher. Oh my God, we’re flying!
They crested above the roof of the church, and he glided down to an overhang with a ledge. The narrow ledge offered enough room for one person to stand, but with two it was a tight fit. Cyn shifted her weight to let go of him, but her foot was too close to the edge, and she jerked off balance.
Thirteen’s grip around her waist tightened, and he pulled her back. “I got you.”
“Can I just . . . ?” Cyn asked before wrapping her arms tighter around him. He was ridiculously warm—No, not warm. Hot. Oh my God, he is so hot—and she could feel his well-defined chest move slowly up and down beneath her ear as he inhaled and exhaled. Something hung around his neck under his T-shirt, a medallion of some kind, and he could feel it next to her cheek.
“What’s this?” she asked, reaching for it without even thinking.
Thirteen’s hand slid down and covered her wandering fingers. She pulled away, and he removed the necklace from his shirt. He glanced down at it, and in the moonlight Cyn could see it was a rectangular piece of bronze metal with words carved into it.
“ ‘Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future,’ ” he said. “Oscar Wilde. It was a quote Father Montgomery used to say to me, so I had this made.”
“Nice thought, but it’s not true.”
“The saint part? Or the sinner part?”
“The sinner part.” Cyn glanced up at the stars. They were so close. “Some sins are too big to ever recover from.”
“Are you talking from experience?”
His voice rumbled against the ear she had pressed to his chest.
“Yeah. I am.”
He stayed quiet, and Cyn contemplated whether or not she should spill her secret. He’d said that he knew what it was like to wish he could take something back. Maybe he’d understand what it was like to carry such a weight on her shoulders all the time too.
Taking a deep breath, Cyn said softly, “Declan was right about his brother. I murdered Hunter.”
She waited for him to pull away. To stare down at her with horror. She’d just admitted to committing a major crime.
But he didn’t say anything.
Cyn felt compelled to fill the awkward silence. “I don’t know what Declan was involved in, but it didn’t have anything to do with his brother. I woke up next to Hunter in bed, covered in his blood, and I . . . I panicked. He wouldn’t wake up, and there was a knife on the floor, so I took it with me and threw it into a river on my way out of town. I don’t know why I didn’t stay. I guess I didn’t want to go to jail.”
He still didn’t say anything.
“So you see why I don’t believe that every sinner has a future, right?” she said. “At least, I certainly don’t. Unless you mean a future filled with constantly running. Always looking over my shoulder and wondering when the cops are going to finally catch up with me.”
She looked up at him and gripped the edges of his shirt, almost desperately. “Are you going to say anything? I just admitted to killing my boyfriend, and you haven’t even blinked.”
“I’m sure you had your reasons.”
“What?” Cyn shook her head. “You’re sure I had my reasons for killing Hunter? And what would those be?”
Thirteen stared down at her. “I don’t know. But I live in a world that’s not black and white. There’s a lot of gray.”
“And you think this is just one of those gray areas?”
He didn’t tell her that when she reached for his necklace and he touched her fingers, he got another flash of the scene with Hunter. Just like when he’d woken her up from the bad dream when she was sleeping on the couch, there was no actual memory of the killing.
Just the after.
“Yeah. I do.” His gaze shifted to her mouth, and suddenly another memory was filling his head. The memory of what she tasted like.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she said crossly.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re going to kiss me again.”
Damn. His pride was actually stung a bit by that one. “Was it that bad? Shelley never—”
His tone changed when he said her name, and Cyn glanced up at the trace of longing that was still there. “Who’s Shelley?”
“She was someone I loved.”
“Did something happen to her?”
“She was an Echo, and she died.”
His jaw flexed, and she could tell that he was clenching his teeth.
Thirteen held her gaze. “I knew the cop was bad news. I made a call to a friend of mine and found out the cop had a brother named Hunter who was killed. I put two and two together. Figured it was your Hunter.”
“That’s all there was to it? Nothing . . . more?”
Before he could answer, she said, “Because that kiss didn’t mean anything to me. I want you to know that.”
He glanced away, and at the same time a crack of thunder came from overhead. A slight breeze blew across the roof of the church, and Cyn shivered. Even being this close to him, she was still cold.
“Let’s go inside the house before the rain starts,” he finally said. “And it didn’t mean anything to me, either. I don’t get involved with Echos.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Cyn forced herself to let go of Thirteen as soon as her feet touched the ground. It was good that the kiss didn’t mean anything to him. That meant they could skip the awkward do-you-or-don’t-you-have-feelings-for-me part.
They went inside the house, and he went straight to the coffeemaker. “Wouldn’t some whiskey be better?” Cyn suggested.
“Maybe later.”
Although she would have preferred a shot of Jack to warm her up, she had to admit, some fresh coffee sounded good. “Irish coffee?”
“I’m not Irish.” He ground up some coffee beans, and Cyn sat down at the table.
“Speaking of not being Irish. What exactly are you? You said you have a demon side, but why the wings? And why are they black?”
“I’m half demon, half angel.”
Cyn felt her eyes go wide. “You . . . are? Part angel? Seriously?”
The coffee started percolating, and he joined her at the table. “My father was a demon, my mother was an angel. I don’t know why my wings are black instead of white. They just are.”
“Is that what a Revenant is—half angel, half demon?”
“No. I’m the only one like me.”
“But there are other Revenants out there? Just not like you?”
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