Dark Kings

by Sadie Moss

  As overwhelming as it all is, it’s entrancing too. I swear I can feel a thrum in the air, as if the city has its own heartbeat.

  “Hey, you gonna keep lickin’ my damn windows, or you gonna pay me and get out?”

  I jerk as the cab driver’s annoyed voice cuts through my awed reverie.

  Crap, he’s right.

  I’ve got my palms on the glass, my face so close to the window that my nose is practically smushed up against it, and I’d only have to stick out my tongue a little to be licking the window just like he said.

  Flushing, I clear my throat and scoot across the seat to pay him. Anderson didn’t say anything about giving me a per diem or anything, so I’m assuming it’s up to me to bankroll this whole operation. Which will be fine for a while, since I’ve got a bit of money saved up from my time on Earth.

  But if this operation ends up taking months? Years?

  Well, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

  Or live under it, I guess.

  I slide out of the cab, and the driver peels away from the curb, leaving me staring up at the daunting building in front of me. Luckily for me, Greed—or Beckett, as he’s calling himself nowadays—lives a high profile life, which means it was easy to find out he’s going to be giving a speech at a charity gala tonight.

  I was a little surprised at first that Greed is supporting a charity event, but as it turns out, there are a lot of ways that the super wealthy benefit from charities. From what I was able to gather, business deals will go down tonight that will make the attendees millions—and the whole thing is a tax write-off too. That’s greed at its finest: self-interest masquerading as generosity.

  Securing a ticket to this thing would be pretty impossible at the last minute, especially seeing as I’m a nobody in the eyes of New York City’s elite. But I did a little experimenting last night, and just as I hoped, Anderson gave me back my invisibility right along with my wings.

  I hike my bag higher on my shoulder, then walk halfway around the block and duck into the alley behind the massive building, glancing around to make sure no one is watching before I slip out of sight. A little shiver passes down my spine as if someone slid an ice cube down my back, and I smile at the familiar sensation. I haven’t done this in years, but it came back as easily as riding a bike—although I actually haven’t done that, well, ever.

  Heading deeper into the alley, I make a beeline toward a delivery van that’s parked out back. Event staff are unloading crates of food and carrying everything inside through steel doors that are propped open.

  Perfect.

  I fall into step behind a woman with frizzy red hair and slip in through the back door behind her.

  She heads straight for the massive industrial kitchen, and I follow, making sure to stay close enough to her that her body acts as a sort of shield for mine. I’m invisible, not intangible, and if someone knocks into a person they can’t see, it’s sure to cause way more of a scene than I want.

  “Set those on the second shelf in the fridge!” one of the chefs yells as we enter the chaos of the kitchen, and the woman hurries to obey.

  My heart rate picks up a little as I glance around me, taking in the hectic space. There’s something I like about this crazy, bustling atmosphere that humans create. My people are so deliberate about things, never frantic, and I kind of like the way humans do it.

  I know that a lot of other angels, including Anderson, wonder why I like humans so much, especially since he knows how desperate I am to go home. Honestly, I don’t know where the fascination comes from.

  Maybe I’m just trying to figure out how people can be so many contradictory things at once.

  As the woman turns back to grab another load from the delivery van, I veer off and head out into the main ballroom where all the tables are set up. People dressed in expensive gowns and tuxedos are sitting and listening to the speakers, and I edge along the back wall, keeping myself pressed to it to avoid bumping anyone accidentally.

  The woman at the podium, who I think is the head of the charity organization, finishes her speech. Everyone claps, and then…

  Oh, frick.

  My jaw falls open as the most stunning man I’ve ever seen walks onto the stage and takes the podium.

  This is Beckett Davenport. Um. Wow.

  He’s tall. I mean, really tall. So tall and broad-shouldered that he makes me feel small and tiny even from all the way at the back of the room. He’s got straight black hair, neatly styled, with a layer of scruff on his jawline that looks like it’s just thick enough to scratch if it brushed against your skin.

  He’s like a dark king, sweeping his gaze over the gathered crowd as if they’re his loyal subjects, his people. His presence is nothing short of commanding. It reminds me of the generals I’ve met in our army Upstairs, back during the big war when we were clashing directly with the corrupted instead of just waging this shadow war for Earth.

  “Thank you. Thank you very much. I’m delighted to be here.” Beckett gives a warm smile, and my stomach melts.

  I blink, pressing a hand to my belly.

  Huh.

  That’s unusual. My body might look human, but it isn’t, really. Some things are entirely human about it—I need to eat, for one thing, and I have a pulse—but others aren’t. I don’t have to breathe for very, very long stretches, for example. And it’s never done this melty-stomach-goo thing.

  Of course, I’m not an idiot. I’ve seen enough rom-coms and read enough books to get an idea of what it means when your stomach flutters like it’s sprouted a pair of wings. But I’m a disciplined person, and I’m not going to let my body’s reactions dictate how I will deal with or even look at a person.

  Beckett is one of the seven sins. We do not get butterflies in our stomach over the seven sins. So there.

  My body doesn’t fall into line quite like I hoped it would, but I give a little shake of my head and refocus, ignoring any lingering flutters.

  The dark-haired man onstage launches into his speech, talking about profit margins and a bunch of other financial things that I can’t make head or tail of.

  Honestly, I’m not paying attention to what he’s saying as much as how he’s saying it. He sounds very elegant, educated, and aristocratic, but somehow, it’s not off-putting. In fact, there’s something about him that makes everyone seem to lean forward, greedy for more. This is a man who’s at the top of his game.

  “Fuck, he’s gorgeous. Not to mention rich as sin. He’s the most eligible man in the country.” I hear a woman in front of me sigh to her friend. “How has he not been snatched up already?”

  “Because he’s got an allergy to commitment.” Her friend smirks. “There’s no way he’d let himself get tied down. He’s had every actress, heiress, and hotel maid in the city—you name it, he’s tapped it.”

  Is that his greed coming out? I wonder. It sure sounds like greed to me. You can’t satisfy yourself with just one; you need everyone, everything, more than anyone else, top of the heap.

  Behind the podium, Greed is still talking. “I think it’s important that we give as much as we get,” he says, sounding so sincere that for a second, I actually believe him.

  But then I remember he’s just using this as a cover to get even more money and power. He doesn’t actually believe in anything he’s saying.

  Sheesh. These are the sins, Trin, I tell myself sternly. They’re not actually going to be good people, and it would be stupid of me to expect that. It’s my job to change them, to redeem them, to make Beckett truly believe it when he says that it’s more rewarding to be charitable than to hoard your wealth.

  “Thank you. You’re truly a wonderful crowd,” Beckett says, finishing up. He takes a champagne glass that’s been waiting for him and raises it, and I can’t help but notice how well his suit fits him, sitting perfectly on his broad shoulders. “And now, a toast to the organization that made this all possible…”

  Everyone else raises their glasses and toasts with h
im, and I watch as Beckett takes a sip of his champagne and then descends from the stage.

  Okay, this is my chance.

  I make my way through the room toward him, keeping one eye on him and one on my immediate surroundings, working hard not to brush against anyone. I don’t want Beckett to notice anything out of the ordinary.

  The tall, dark-haired man is talking to various people, shaking hands and smiling. Working the crowd like a master. Everyone’s staring at him like they’re a little dazzled by him, like they just walked into the treasure room of an old temple and saw the massive pile of gold in the center. I keep myself at a bit of a distance from him but never let him out of my sight, until at last Beckett excuses himself.

  Good. Now I can follow him.

  I’m not going to go visible, walk right up to him and say, “Hi, I’m a fallen angel, and I’m here to win you over to the side of Heaven.” I’ve been accused of being naive at times, but I’m not that naive. I need to tail him, keep an eye on him, and find out what his weak points are.

  After all, sins aren’t the same as demons, or “the corrupted” as we usually call them. Unlike the corrupted, the sins aren’t wholly bad. Right? There must be something I can do or say that will bring him over to our side.

  I just have to figure out what it is.

  Beckett does a few final handshakes before heading for the exit. Someone brings him his coat, and he barely even breaks stride as he slips it on.

  Cool wind brushes my cheeks as I step outside after the tall, imposing man. A valet is already hurrying to bring his car around, and a moment later, Beckett slips inside the sleek black vehicle and drives away.

  Unseen, I unfurl my wings and follow.

  Chapter Five

  Trinity

  Beckett drives straight to his home, a massive penthouse that takes up the entire top floor of a luxury building in Manhattan.

  It’s hard to slip past the doorman and the guy at the front desk in the lobby, since doors and elevators opening by themselves would raise suspicion, but I manage it by following very closely behind Beckett—so close that I can smell the musky, slightly spicy scent of his cologne. I hold my breath, resisting the urge to suck more of that alluring smell into my nostrils.

  Oh, frick, I hope he can’t smell me. What do I even smell like? Do angels have smells?

  Gah! Focus, Trinity!

  As soon as the elevator doors close behind us, I take a step away from him, keeping my movements silent as I clutch my small bag to my chest. I need a little distance. For some reason, it’s hard to think when I’m standing that close to him.

  On the ride up, he looks at his phone the entire time, scrolling through his feed, keeping tabs on business rivals, and answering emails. It’s late on a Friday night, and most people are relaxing at home or partying, but greed never rests and neither does Beckett.

  The elevator dings, and I gape as I realize it opens right into his apartment. He steps through the doors, and I hurry to follow so I don’t get trapped inside the elevator. Only then do I allow myself a moment to gawk at the luxury and opulence that surrounds me.

  Whoa. So this is what Greed lives like.

  I can feel a tiny spike of avarice inside my own veins, a yearning for something so beautiful and pristine, calming in its perfect beauty.

  Then I shake my head to clear it. Is Greed’s power rubbing off on me? Are a few minutes trapped in an elevator with him enough to sway me toward his particular sin?

  If so, he’s even more powerful than I thought.

  Pulling my gaze away from the luxurious surroundings, I focus my attention back on my target. I’m here to learn as much as I can about this man, to observe him in his natural element and try to spot a chink in his armor before I make my approach.

  But I can’t let myself get too close.

  For the next week, I tail Beckett like an invisible shadow, a burr he doesn’t feel clinging to him.

  And for the entire week that I watch him, it feels like I don’t see a single emotion out of him. He’s like a machine, a robot programmed to do only one thing.

  The man is constantly angling and maneuvering to earn more money. Whoever says CEOs don’t do any work might be right, but not where Beckett’s concerned. He’s barking into his phone at all hours of the day, calling people in China and Japan, sending emails to London and Russia, organizing meetings with investors all over the world. Cutting deals and taking over other companies. He’s got several politicians in his pocket too.

  But the craziest part is, he almost doesn’t seem to care about it. He’s ruthless, but he’s also… removed. When business deals fall through, he just moves on to the next, a dozen pieces in motion on the chess board at any given time.

  It’s almost as if he’s just going through the motions of this because he feels like he’s supposed to. Like he has no other purpose, because after all, he’s Greed.

  Could that be his weakness? Is he bored of this life? Could I find a way to inspire his emotion, his passion, for something again? Something that’s virtuous and good?

  Skulking around his house for a week like a ghost or a live-in burglar feels weird. I feel completely cut off from the world. I mean, I already feel cut off from the human world, but this is a whole other level. I don’t talk to anyone because I never leave the apartment except when Beckett does. I stashed my bag under a bed in one of the guest rooms, and at night, I sleep on the couch in the huge living room. There are dozens of rooms in the massive penthouse, but most of them go unused because he never entertains anyone.

  Well… okay, that’s not true. He does entertain someone, but I think that’s really stretching the meaning of the word a bit.

  Every few nights, Beckett will call someone. It’s never a call girl or prostitute or whatever people are referring to them as these days. I don’t think he would get any joy out of hiring someone for sex, because then he’d be giving up his precious money, paying for something he can obviously get for free.

  On the eighth night of my stay in his penthouse, he makes another one of his calls… only this time, I recognize the girl. She’s a big actress on Broadway and has even had roles in a few movies I’ve seen.

  As soon as the elevator lets her out into Beckett’s foyer, she’s all over him.

  “I thought you’d never call,” she purrs into his ear, her voice a completely different pitch than it’s ever sounded in any of her movies. She bites his earlobe and pouts, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I gave you my number months ago.”

  Beckett doesn’t bother replying. He just fists her hair by the roots and pulls her head back a little so he can kiss her, his other hand roaming her body like he owns it. She lets out a breathy moan, pulling against his grip on her hair to kiss him harder.

  They start to move down the hallway toward his bedroom, and I slip into the kitchen, my heart hammering in my chest. I don’t, uh, watch when Beckett has late night visitors. Instead, I hide in the kitchen like a coward and raid the massive pantry to make myself feel less… I don’t even know what.

  Empty?

  It’s a hard feeling to describe, a feeling of longing and fear and frustration all mixed up into one. It makes me want to binge on chocolate, so that’s exactly what I do, crouching in the pantry and unwrapping luxury chocolates from Belgium.

  But that doesn’t block out the sounds filtering down the hall from the large master bedroom. And it’s impossible not to hear the way she moans his name and begs for him. It makes me feel hot all over, like my entire body is blushing. My stomach feels tight, and for the first time since I arrived on Earth, I’m tempted to slide my hand between my legs and—well, I’m not quite sure. Movies don’t really show the details of that.

  I just know there’s pressure inside of me, and I want to relieve it somehow, to get rid of this tight, hot ball in my belly. Because there’s something in my head whispering that if I do, it’ll be the best thing I’ve ever felt.

  I ignore that voice and keep my hands occupied by u
nwrapping another chocolate. Beck has so much food in the house that he hasn’t noticed the bits that’ve gone missing—as if a little mouse has been stress-eating all his cheese and chocolate.

  Crap. I’m not sure I’m cut out for this. Why couldn’t Anderson and the board have chosen someone more suited to this kind of task?

  Probably because there isn’t anyone, my brain whispers.

  The battle between Heaven and Hell has been going on for so long that I can’t even remember how long ago it started. Earth is the last unconquered territory, a neutral ground. Heaven wants to obliterate Hell so that only Heaven is left. Hell wants to do the same to Heaven. Neither side has any interest in controlling Earth, but both sides are interested in claiming as many souls as they can.

  We try to guide humans into being good, because if they are, their soul goes to our side after they die and we are strengthened. Every time a human does a good deed, we get stronger.

  But then it goes the other way too, and every time someone does something based in malice, selfishness, and so on, Hell grows stronger. And if a person is tempted into being truly awful, more awful than they are good, then Hell gets them after they die.

  The supernatural creatures who live on Earth are a byproduct of the war between our two sides. The magic that spilled out from our battle with Hell touched normal creatures and humans and made them into something more. Now vampires, werewolves, witches, and so on live in this world in shadow, unwelcome in either Heaven or Hell.

  A final scream of yes! comes from the bedroom, and a shiver works its way down my spine. She sounds like she just had the most euphoric experience of her life.

  Oddly, I’m panting. I clench my thighs together, trying to ignore and relieve some of the pressure inside of me. I feel oddly… like I want this woman to go away. I know that it’s illogical, and that she hasn’t done anything to me at all. In fact, I like all of her movies. But still… I don’t want her here. I don’t want her around.

  As if he’s subconsciously granting my wish, Beckett emerges from the bedroom about ten minutes later. I scramble out of the pantry, pressing myself against a wall near the fridge and hoping he doesn’t accidentally brush against me. His firm, muscled body gleams with sweat in the moonlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows, and I find my mouth dropping open a little at the sight.