Lost Angeles

by Mantchev, Lisa

  Or maybe it is. Maybe it’s our fault.

  “It’s all right to be angry,” Cas says. “You’re going to need every bit of that fighting spirit to weather what’s ahead.”

  Gritting my teeth, I spit out, “And what, exactly, is ahead?”

  He draws in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “You are going to reconnect with Sebastian Winters and the Legacy.”

  “Like hell I will.”

  “You are going to let them filter billions of dollars through your little web of gluttony and excess.”

  “You’re insane—”

  “You are going to fill your coffers with so much rebel gold that you could wipe your arse with thousand dollar bills, if you took a fancy.”

  He’s so close now that I can smell him: expensive cologne and leather, shoe shine and mouthwash. We’re face to face in a way that we haven’t been in centuries, but there’s no reading Caspian Declan, no judging by his tics and twitches because he doesn’t have any. Trying to figure out his game is like playing your first chess match against a Master.

  “Lore will live,” he tells me. “And if she lives, it will be more important than ever for you to take Sebastian up on his offer. Trade your underground money railroad for Lore’s safety. Promise to do whatever they say—”

  “Then they win.”

  Cas shakes his head. “There are battles, and there are wars, Xaine, and occasionally you have to forfeit a skirmish in order to take the day.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I sneer in return. “And what skirmish are you forfeiting, huh? What exactly are you sacrificing?”

  He flashes me that cold, dead, humorless half-smile that’s a perfect dark-mirror image of Lore’s. “You should really watch the news more often.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because if you did,” he replies, “you’d know that you’re looking at the next president of the United States of America.”

  And if that doesn’t steal the words right out of my mouth, I’m not sure what would. “Holy shit.”

  There’s a vague glimmer of amusement, evident in the crinkle at the corner of Cas’s eyes. He wouldn’t be so crass as to actually laugh at me, but this is the closest I’m going to get.

  “Holy shit,” I repeat.

  “Yes, well,” he says, as casually as if he hadn’t dropped the equivalent of an A-Bomb on my head, “there are clothes belowstairs, and food if you need it.”

  Giving me a nod, he turns on his heel and heads down the hallway. I could follow the trail of expensive cologne if I wanted to, try to get more answers. It should all make sense after a revelation like that, but it doesn’t. If Cas agreed to run on the Legacy ticket, there’s a whole lot of holy shit going down, precious little of which I am privy to.

  Everything and nothing.

  Roman’s words, come back to haunt me, along with the scent of death. I barely notice it at first, but then I realize it smells like Lore’s blood in here. It’s heavy in the air, absorbed into my clothes, and a glance down at what’s left of my tux shows me a series of red stains, thick and damp, clinging where it touches my skin. An image of Trick St. John flashes through my head, a memory from that night at the precinct, his entire suit soaked in blood.

  Maybe we’re not so different after all.

  Except Trick managed to bring his attachment out the other side, whole and unharmed, which is more than I can say for myself. I end up in the shower at some point, watching red spatter the tiles and circle the drain. All the hot water in the world isn’t going to wash this soul clean, but I get the gore off, scrubbing harder than necessary, trying to feel something other than numb. Something other than cold. There’s a set of clean scrubs waiting for me when I get out, which is better than ending up in a dress shirt and slacks belonging to Cas.

  His clothes wouldn’t fit me anyway. Not enough room cut in the crotch—

  I catch myself before I can finish the jibe. This isn’t the time or the place to be a dick. I’m on his turf, at his mercy, and praying that the medical team he put together is doing their job. It’s humbling to know that all my money and music and influence mean precisely squat at this juncture. I always thought Cas was kidding himself, playing the good Samaritan, sinking time and cash into this kind of venture.

  And now my entire universe hinges on what he has done. What he is able to do.

  Deus meus, ex toto corde paenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum,

  eaque detestor, quia peccando…

  It starts over again, and I can almost feel the rosary in my hand.

  Non solum poenas a te iuste statutas promeritus sum,

  sed praesertim quia offendi te…

  Taking a deep breath, I catch the cloying smoke of the incense. Under that, there are notes of old wood and beeswax, expensive fabrics and body odor. I slide to my knees on the floor, trading tile for stone, harsh overhead lights for the memory of candles. I close my eyes. Shut myself down, shut myself off, leaving only the prayer. My contrition. My promises to do better.

  Summum bonum, ac dignum qui super omnia diligaris.

  Ideo firmiter propono…

  And I wait for someone to come get me, because Lore is awake and wants to see me. Because a miracle has been wrought.

  Ideo firmiter propono, adiuvante gratia tua,

  de cetero me non peccaturum peccandique occasiones proximas fugiturum…

  Or for Cas to put a gun to the back of my head and pull the trigger.

  Amen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Lore

  The constant beeping brings me back. It’s a slow but steady cadence that starts off like a mosquito buzzing near my ear or someone kicking the back of my chair, wearing me down and growing exponentially until I can’t ignore it.

  And then I’m simply awake.

  The next bits are less pleasant. My head is muzzy, my mouth is dry, and it almost takes more effort than I can manage to open my eyes. There’s an ache in my middle, a dull and radiating pain that I notice the second I try to move. That stops me from twisting, turning, or curling myself into any position but the one I’m in. Safer this way, until I know exactly how much it’s going to hurt.

  There’s an ache in my neck too, but it’s only the crimped pinch you get when you’ve been in one position for too long. My head’s tilted to the side, propped on something soft, and when I finally manage to open my eyes, I can’t help the tiny smile that I feel, even if I don’t necessarily have the energy to actually make it happen.

  Xaine.

  He’s sleeping, sprawled out in a chair by the bedside. Has it kicked back on two legs instead of four, propped against the wall, and he’s got a Gibson in his lap. I can’t imagine how he got into that position or how he’s staying in it, but that’s Xaine in a nutshell.

  Defies gravity, makes his own rules.

  He’s got one arm curled over the body of the guitar, but the other one is on the bed mere inches away from where my hand rests. Despite the needles and tubes snaking out of my veins, I need to touch his skin. Slowly, I ease my hand toward his—

  “Welcome back,” a voice startles me, tossing my heart into my throat. I turn my head in the other direction; busy looking at Xaine, I hadn’t realized there was someone else in the room. “Can you tell me your name, Lore?”

  Jackson Trace sits on the other side of my bed, smiling at me like I’ve done something incredibly awesome. I don’t know, maybe I have. All I really remember is getting myself stabbed in the gut and ruining a perfectly good Valentino.

  Besides which, he just told me my name, the twat.

  But when I open my mouth to speak, I can’t manage much. I want to ask where I am, how I got here, how long Xaine’s been asleep in that chair, whether he’s been fed, has he left?

  And I am so sorry, for everything.

  All that comes out is one single word, dry and rasping. “Xaine.”

  “That is definitely not your name,” Jax says, giving me one arched brow. “I even cheated and told you the answer.”


  “Jax.” The word spills out in a rusty, whining huff of frustration, because I’m not in the mood to play.

  “Nope, also not your name.” And he grins, teasing me because apparently he loves kicking people while they’re down. “You’re really terrible at this.”

  After that, I just glare at him. Undaunted, Jax reaches for the pitcher and cup by the bedside. My attention shifts to the plastic carafe, and I practically drool at the sight of the tan cylinder, slick with condensation. Mercifully, my tormentor pours me a cup of water, then pushes a button on the bedside that eases me into a semi-upright position. It stings to bend at the middle, but not as much as I’m expecting.

  “Best of three?” Apparently the look on my face conveys my lack of enthusiasm because he only chuckles and holds the water cup so I can take a sip. The liquid goes down cool and clean, perfect and probably the best damn thing I’ve tasted in my life. “It’s okay, you can be Xaine if you want, although I’m not sure why you’d want to. He’s got the second filthiest brain I’ve ever—”

  “Jax.” Throat wetted, my voice is slightly stronger when I say, “Shut up.”

  He smiles that idiot smile of his and puts the empty cup back on the bedside table. There’s a few seconds when he’s not talking, and I’m free to scrutinize him. It’s the same impossible face that greeted me that first morning at the motel, and the grin that never fails to get me. Despite myself, I feel better already, even if he is a blithering dummy with an ass for a chin.

  Jax sobers, the amusement fading from his lips. He’s got serious questions. I can feel them. My answering smile slips away too, and anxiety starts to boil in my gut. Like it’ll help, he takes hold of my hand, curling his strong fingers around mine; the moment skin touches skin, my anxiety eases up, fading into the background alongside the beeping of the medical equipment.

  “You’ve been out for a while,” he says. “Weren’t sure you were coming back.”

  “Where else would I go?” I’m joking, but an expression crosses his face that wipes away any amusement I might have felt. It’s the sort of look someone gets when you’ve accidentally hit upon some big secret, except you haven’t, but they think you might have, and now they’re sitting there trying to figure out if you really know or if you’re talking about something else entirely.

  “Good point,” is all he says. “But glad to have you back nonetheless.”

  Casting another quick glance at Xaine, I’ll be the first to admit, it’s with no little bit of longing. I don’t really want to talk to Jax, nice as he is. I just want to curl into Xaine and sleep alongside him for a while.

  But Jax isn’t about to drop it. “So, you wanna tell me how you ended up drunk, married, dressed-up, and stabbed on the Strip?”

  My head lolls a bit, tilting until I’m looking at him again. Then, because we’re both idiots, I say, “What happens in Vegas…”

  “That is, surprisingly, not as funny as one might think,” he tells me. “Spill it, Lore.”

  “Thought we decided that that was not my name.” And this time it’s his brows drawing together in irritation as my eyes start to drift shut. I’m awake, but I’m tired. So damn tired. All I want to do is slip back into the darkness, get away from the beeping for a while…

  “Lourdes,” he says, demanding that I wake up and be serious.

  “Wrong again. Best of three?”

  “You’re an asshole,” Jax grumbles irritably. “You two are perfect for each other.”

  His wry statement causes me to laugh, except it comes out as a weak chuckle punctuated by a weaker cough. Jax’s eyes go wide, and his hand fists around mine, like he’s suddenly afraid he’s broken something. Broken me. Except I’m fairly sure I was broken when he found me. I forego more laughter and content myself with giving him a lopsided grin, one that he doesn’t appreciate in the least, judging by his concerned scowl.

  “How long has Xaine been here?” I ask softly.

  Jax’s attention shifts over the white blankets to where my—Jesus Jumping Christ on a pogo stick—husband lies sleeping. “About a week. He won’t go home. Probably going to be pissed that you woke up while he was unconscious.”

  That makes me smile, mostly because Jax is right. “He was pretty mad at me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said I didn’t want to be married to him.” I don’t know why I feel compelled to confess things, but I do. My hand creeps toward Xaine’s, and at the same time, I pull my fingers from beneath Jax’s. It doesn’t seem quite right to touch them both at once.

  “You can get an annulment,” he says, echoing my earlier thoughts.

  “No.” I shake my head a bit. “I think that maybe I need to take a page from the Book of Xaine and just enjoy the moment. Never know how many tomorrows you’ve got left.”

  Jax stares through me in that uncanny way he has, then leans back into his chair. One hand delves into his pocket, and it takes some doing, tight pants and whatnot, but he eventually comes up with the same gold coin that I’d been carrying since the day he came to the Palisades house.

  Once he’s fished it out, Jax leans forward, propping his elbows on the edge of the bed and holding the disk up where I can see it. At first I think that maybe he’s offering it to me, so I reach for it, but he pulls it away.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asks.

  “Yeah, your trick coin.”

  “It’s not a trick, Lore.” Jax shakes his head. “It’s also not a guitar pick, which is what Xaine’s been using it as for the last couple of days, the heathen.”

  Poor Jax looks more beleaguered than anything, like someone stole his fork and called it a dinglehopper.

  “Did it work?”

  He shakes his head. “Assholes, the both of you.”

  “Alright, so… not a guitar pick,” I say. “Then what?”

  He goes all serious on me, all traces of humor gone. “It’s a scale. You hold it, see, like this.” He turns it over in his palm to illustrate. “And when a picture turns up, then we know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Know how much a soul weighs.”

  Skepticism hits first, my eyes flickering from his earnest face to the object he holds in his hand. “So, you hold it in your hand and it judges you?”

  “Well, yes,” he says, then turns the coin over. “Each side is a different facet of the human condition. There are two sides to every story. To everything, really. There are two coins, too, but the other one is… somewhere else.”

  “I don’t understand.” He gets my confused face then, because I don’t know what else to give him.

  “It’s okay,” Jax says, palming the coin and tucking his arm out of sight. “So, what can you tell me about the man who attacked you?”

  The topic shift throws me, but only for a moment. “His name is Tiberius. He said it was my destiny to be his little raven, carrying messages from beyond the grave. After that, things got… fuzzy.”

  “Fuzzy how?”

  I hitch a shoulder, because I’m not sure how to explain it. “Like he was pulling on me, except… on the inside? And everything narrowed down to a little tunnel with black edges. He said that I wouldn’t feel any pain because I’d be gone before then. Except that I didn’t go. And I definitely felt the pain.”

  “Reaper.” Jax says it without emotion or inflection, like it’s just a word.

  “Is that like a sin-eater?” Because I want to know. I need to understand something, anything, everything that I possibly can.

  “No,” Jax says, shaking his head. “Sin-eaters are demons, but reapers were angels. Except, in the war, they didn’t choose a side.”

  “The war?”

  Jax hesitates, pressing his lips together like he’s not sure how much to tell me. Red Pill or Blue Pill, Neo? I can practically see the question spelled out in the turquoise of his eyes. “The war for heaven.”

  When all I offer up is a scoffing snort, he frowns harder. I laugh until I realize he’s not joking, or at least
until I realize that he doesn’t think of it as a joke. The man might be off his rocker, but he believes every word he’s saying. That wipes the humor away, leaving behind a cold-blooded chill in its wake.

  “You’re serious.”

  “Yes,” Jax says. “I’m serious. Reapers were the angels who didn’t choose a side. For whatever reason, good, bad, altruistic, selfish, or just indifferent, they chose to willfully ignore their part in the war, and for their indifference, they were sentenced to a sort of indentured servitude.”

  “To what purpose?” The words tumble out, despite the face that I’m enabling a crazy person. “To go around killing people?”

  Jax shakes his head. “No, they’re couriers. Soul-shufflers.”

  “Soul-shufflers…” I feel a bit like a mentally handicapped parrot, repeating random phrases.

  Jax waves a dismissive hand, brushing it all off like it’s nothing. “Long story short, reapers are reapers until they aren’t anymore. Whatever their offenses, they’re soul-shufflers until they’ve worked off their debt. Servants of a sort, but they shouldn’t be taking a soul unless it’s time.”

  “Time?”

  “For the soul to go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Go on, Lore,” Jax says, like he’s talking to a very small child.

  Or a mentally handicapped parrot.

  It’s too much to wrap my head around, but I struggle to understand it all, to believe it all. “Scales, war for heaven, reapers… What does any of this have to do with me?”

  “Well, nothing as far as Benicio is concerned,” Jax says. “Dark things are attracted to Light things, so it’s possible that Benicio just happened to brush up against you one night. I do know that the reaper’s agenda is far larger. There’s nothing accidental about Tiberius’s reappearance.” He gives a sly smile and adds, “We call him ‘Tibs’ behind his back.”

  “That’s nice,” I mutter. “Because my own personal reaper wouldn’t be named something like Bob or John. Nope, I get ‘Tibs.’” Then, because Jax has stopped explaining things, I ask, “So, what next? Will they leave me alone now that they think I’m dead… again?”