by Kristie Cook
Monroe snorted. “Bastards, all of you.”
I looked away, my eyes searching the dark ever-changing landscape through the tinted windows. Shadowy trees made way to street lights and empty buildings. Jackson, Mississippi.
“I didn’t lie,” Conor insisted.
He was referring to the moment we’d shared. I didn’t answer.
“Like you didn’t lie to us about what you were all these years,” Monroe argued in my stead. Her hand found mine and squeezed.
Conor sighed. “Monroe—"
She gave him the hand. It was childish, but I understood why she did it. We’d known Conor for as long as we both could remember. We’d always believed there were no secrets between us. My mother and his mother had been close friends. Very close friends.
I stared at Conor, my mind struggling with the idea now taking root. Pain radiated through my stomach. I plunged my free fist into my gut. I hated this feeling, hated the invisible parasites I’d been infested with the moment Mrs. Cavendish had told me my parents were dead.
“Your mother is a gargoyle,” I whispered. It wasn’t a question.
Conor shifted in his seat. “Yes.”
Sobs threatened to choke me. “She was my mother’s protector, wasn’t she?”
Marcas glanced at me again in the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable.
Conor turned to face me. “Dayton—"
“What went wrong?” I interrupted. Where had my father been when my mother died? Why hadn’t he been able to stop it? Where was he now? And why had Mrs. Reinhardt failed?
My fist grinded into my gut.
Conor fidgeted. “I’m not sure.”
His troubled expression was genuine. I left it alone. I would find answers about my mother’s death. Someone was going to pay. But now wasn’t the time. I knew that.
My teeth bore down on my tongue. Marcas glanced up sharply from the front seat, his jaw tightening in the rearview mirror. I ignored it, looking instead at the airport parking lot he suddenly pulled into.
“Where are we going?” I asked him.
He stopped the car and shifted into park, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. I didn’t look away. Meek Dayton was gone.
“Italy,” he answered.
Monroe gasped. Conor said nothing.
I stared. The ability to be shocked was beyond me. Unexpected relief engulfed my frame. I needed to get away.
“Don’t tell me. We have an audience with the Pope,” I murmured.
Marcas didn’t break eye contact. “You’re as much an enemy of the church as I am now, Blainey.”
I watched him. I think he expected to see fear in my eyes at the remark, but there was none. I was too numb.
So, I was an enemy of the church now. If Samuel was any indication, they’d need to take a number and get in line. My gaze lingered on Marcas’ face. He was stained with blood but it didn’t take away from his appeal.
“Guess this means a tour of the Vatican is out of the question,” I quipped.
Marcas’ lips twitched.
Conor waved his hand. “We’ve got one problem.”
My gaze was blank when it met his. I felt so, so very cold. Would I ever feel warm again?
Conor’s gaze moved down my shirt before glancing over at Marcas. “If you think airport security is strict about weapons being brought aboard a plane, I’m pretty positive a blood covered Demon and Naphil won’t make it past the door."
He had a point.
Marcas held his hand out, his palm up. A black T-shirt appeared. He wrapped his fingers around the material before bringing his other hand up. A clean red dolman materialized.
My eyes widened in amazement. “Please tell me I can do that.”
All the plays and books I’d ever read about the devil offering people their heart’s desires in exchange for their soul came to mind. It made me wonder what Marcas was capable of. How many people had he bribed in the past with his powers?
Marcas threw me the dolman before shrugging out of his leather jacket and pulling his shredded black tee over his head.
“Don’t push your luck, Blainey,” Marcas muttered.
I gaped at the sight of his chest, my cheeks flushing The man was an Adonis, a marble statue carved by an artist with an eye for detail. A Demon with the body of an Angel.
Marcas pulled the clean, new shirt over his head and down his abdomen. I noticed even Monroe stared.
He pointed at the dolman on my lap. “Your turn.”
Thank God I wore a black cami under the ruined shirt I had on now.
“It’s a reproduction of the clothes we had on before,” Marcas explained.
I tugged the bloodied, torn dolman over my head. The black cami underneath was still in one piece and unsoiled.
I pulled the clean shirt on hurriedly before anyone had a chance to comment on my pink bra straps clearly visible under the cami. Dried blood marred our skin, but Conor produced a pack of wet wipes from the glove compartment of his car and we cleaned up the best we could. Monroe even handed me a pony tail holder she had wrapped around her wrist. I pulled my hair up on top of my head and left it that way.
Marcas stepped free of the car. A few curls escaped my pony tail as I climbed out into the night after him.
We all met at the front of the vehicle.
“We don’t have passports,” I pointed out.
Marcas held his hand out again, and a group of booklets materialized in his palm. It looked like such an easy gesture for him, like walking or breathing. I really wanted to be able to do that.
He handed each of us a booklet.
I stared at mine numbly. There was a picture of me, but the name was different. Danielle Mays.
I glanced at the other passports. All of us had aliases. Conor was Chad Edwards, Monroe was Ellen Edwards and Marcas was Mark Mays. I stared at the last names. Danielle and Mark Mays?
My eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Is there a reason for the shared surnames?”
Marcas didn’t look at me. “With Reinhardt’s and Jacob’s height and blonde hair, they can pass as siblings. We’re married."
I coughed. What?
“Fuck that!” Conor exclaimed, his gaze full of horror.
“Why?” I stuttered.
Marcas’ even gaze swept the group. I wondered what he would look like if he laughed.
“Because the best you can pass for is nineteen and that’s barely. It’d be less suspicious for us to leave the country as a couple and siblings than as a group of independent teenagers and one adult. It’s just until we land.”
He didn’t look much older than we were. Twenty at the oldest. I glanced again at his passport. He had his age at twenty-one.
It’s just until we land.
That was a relief.
“We’re newlyweds?” I mumbled.
He had my age at nineteen.
He looked at me. “Yes, my dear. You’re my loving new wife.”
He pushed to the front of the group. I cringed at his callousness. I wasn’t used to lying, and I wasn’t an actress.
Following, I muttered, “Smartass.”
Conor trailed us. “This is bullshit!”
Marcas glanced at me before staring at Conor. “I would have gladly made her your wife.”
I was getting insulted. “Can we just do this?”
Monroe snorted next to me, her lips pinched to keep from laughing. “If it wasn’t for the danger, this trip would be interesting as hell.”
Our humor was returning. I flipped her the bird, and she stuck out her tongue. The gestures felt familiar and nice.
We moved into the airport and Conor fell back next to Monroe. He’d done subterfuge before. It was obvious by the way he grinned and elbowed his "sister" as if they shared a joke.
Marcas took my hand and tucked my arm into his. My skin crawled. Nerves overtook me. We moved through the terminals easily.
No one questioned our motives, and when it came time to produce tickets, Marcas handed
four over without blinking an eye. I was having a hard time saving face. Monroe had always been a good actress and Marcas and Conor seemed experienced in lying. I was sorely unprepared for this.
“Mrs. Mays,” the lady greeted respectfully from behind the desk as she handed back my ticket.
I reached for the slip of paper with my left hand and almost gasped at the beautiful diamond solitaire engagement ring and white gold wedding band that suddenly appeared.
I smiled. “Umm … thank you.”
She glanced at me curiously before moving to Conor and Monroe. I had a hard time not staring at the ring. The diamond on the engagement ring was heart-shaped and tinted pink.
I walked through the metal detector and met Marcas on the other side. He took my hand again. My arm tingled, and my stomach ached.
A flight attendant met us at the plane, her eyes on my face as we boarded. “Are you okay, Mrs. Mays?”
Marcas had produced first class tickets. I was impressed.
My sheepish gaze met the attendant’s. “Just a little nervous about flying.”
It wasn’t a lie. I’d never flown before.
She smiled and assured me it was safer than being in a car. I wasn’t convinced. A car didn’t disregard the rules of gravity.
Marcas let me take the window seat. It was a nice gesture, but I wasn’t appreciating it in the least. I didn’t like heights. My stomach was twisted in knots.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Italy,” Monroe said, her voice full of excitement as she took the seat in front of me. She popped a piece of bubble gum with her finger.
Conor glanced at Marcas and me before sitting down next to Monroe glumly. If I had a choice, I’d much rather be sitting with them.
The seat belt light came on, but I was already buckled up, my hands clenched in my lap.
“Breathe, Blainey,” I whispered.
The plane’s engines started up, and the pilot came over the loudspeaker, his words lost to me as the flight attendant began a safety lesson. I searched the seat in front of me for a barf bag. I found it and grabbed at it greedily.
Marcas glanced at me. I ignored him.
“Try this,” Monroe offered.
I glanced up to find her holding a piece of gum over the back of the seat. It was spearmint.
I took it gratefully. She knew I had a phobia of heights and spiders. Both tended to paralyze me. The shock from the Samuel incident had worn off, and my body was on high "frantic" alert.
Unwrapping the gum, I muttered a quick thanks before popping it into my mouth. It did help some with the nausea.
The plane moved.
“Oh, my God!” I muttered.
Marcas took my hand, and I looked down at it, startled. I tugged on it, but stopped when I noticed the flight attendant looking our way. His other hand went to the back of my neck, and I cringed.
“Relax,” he murmured.
My gaze went to his face. His eyes were focused, the pupils dilated.
The tension in my stomach eased. The plane lifted off. Marcas kept his hand on my neck. The nausea went away.
The seat belt light went off.
“Okay?” Marcas asked.
I stared at him. He’d done something to ease my fear, I just wasn’t sure what.
My eyes searched his. “Yeah."
He removed his hand. My skin felt instantly cold.
“Thank you," I whispered.
He didn’t look at me. “I didn’t think having to produce another shirt because you got sick a very good idea.”
Either way, I was still grateful.
A flight attendant appeared next to our seats. “Can I get you some champagne?” she asked.
I shook my head. According to my I.D., I wasn’t old enough anyway. Marcas nodded. She disappeared.
My gaze went to Marcas’ face. “I’m beginning to see my life in movie shades,” I teased. I was attempting, if somewhat feebly, to make small talk.
Marcas eyed me. “What?”
I shrugged. “You ever seen that movie Just Married? You know the one where Brittany Murphy and Ashton Kutcher get married and have all kinds of honeymoon mishaps?”
Marcas looked away.
“Not a movie guy, huh?” I asked.
He didn’t respond.
“Oh well."
I’d tried. Of all the Demons in the world, I had to get bound to the coldest, most unreadable person I’d ever met. Maybe it was a Demon thing. Maybe Demons abhorred small talk. Who knew? He didn’t look like a Demon. I had to remind myself that he wasn’t human.
The flight attendant brought Marcas his champagne. She smiled at him. He didn’t return the gesture.
I watched her walk away. “Does craving blood make you an asshole?” I asked.
Marcas took a sip of his champagne, taking a moment to savor it before looking at me. “What is it about you Angels? Did you want me to smile at the attendant?”
I snorted. It was so not ladylike. “I wouldn’t know. And a little grin wouldn’t have hurt.”
I didn’t know anything about being an Angel. I still found it hard to believe my father was one and that I shared his blood. And what did Marcas have to compare me to? How many Angels did he know?
“I’m supposed to be a newlywed,” he remarked dryly.
My brow lifted. The attendant had smiled at him. I didn’t consider that flirtatious. He’d obviously never seen a Southern girl circling a guy she was interested in. Southern women had gumption.
“Newlyweds smile. They look happy,” I pointed out.
Marcas leaned over and bared his teeth. They were fangs. “That better?”
I grimaced. “Real attractive.”
He looked away.
The attendant walked by and I asked for a pillow.
“Can I get you anything else?” she offered.
I hooked my thumb in Marcas’ direction. “A new husband. You can have this one."
The woman choked, her eyes wide. Oh yeah, she wasn’t from the South. If she had been, shock wouldn’t have been the reaction I’d gotten. A Southern woman would have either verbally destroyed the man next to me for whatever crime he’d committed to ignite my ire, or she would have taken the cards I’d laid on the table and made a play for my "husband."
Monroe snorted from the seat in front of me.
“Ma’am?” The attendant asked.
I waved my hand. “Sorry. Lover’s quarrel. Give us some time. You know what they say about make up sex.”
Someone called to the attendant and she moved on quickly. Monroe had graduated from snorting to laughing. Conor was silent.
“Like you know anything about sex,” Marcas muttered. “Are you always this aggravating?”
“Pretty much.”
“This is going to be one helluva long flight,” I heard him whisper.
I didn’t disagree.
We fell silent. Time moved slowly. The darkness outside finally caught up with me and I yawned.
My eyes drifted to Marcas. “Why does everyone want me dead?” I whispered.
He leaned back in his seat. “Because of what we are.”
I didn’t understand and I told him so.
He glanced at me. “It’s not unusual for Demons to bind mortals to them. Many enjoy having human servants with increased strength and a long life who can serve them on earth for centuries. When they tire of these mortals, they take their souls. Never before has a Demon been bonded to an Angel. Ever. There are no rules for this. It could have disastrous results. It’s not natural. My brother believes it will bring the race of Cain redemption. Others believe it will throw the war on the side of good or evil. Right now, they are equally matched. Neither side can afford for the other to get the upper hand.”
I winced. "So we’re writing the rules for this as we go then?"
I didn’t really expect an answer. And he didn’t give me one.
I watched him as he turned away from me, his profile erect, and I wondered how he felt about this whole debacle. Did he
hate me for what I was? Or did he hate his brother for binding us? Did I need to hate him because my father is an Angel?
“You said your father was Cain. The Cain that killed Abel in the Bible?” I asked.
He averted his gaze. “Yes."
I had a hard time swallowing that. “And your mother?”
Marcas threw me a look. “Are you always this chatty?”
I shook my head. “I’m usually much worse,” I answered. “You’re avoiding the question.”
Marcas leaned his head back. “My mother is the Demon, Lilith, the first perceived wife of Adam.”
I frowned. “Adam had another wife before Eve?”
“So some believe. It’s more myth than fact. The truth remains, though, that Cain did lie with a Demon and our race was the result,” Marcas said.
I touched his arm. He glared at my hand, and I pulled away.
“So you’re the descendant of Cain and Lilith?” I asked.
It didn’t seem possible that he was the son.
His gaze captured mine. “I am their first born.”
My eyes widened. Was he serious?
“That makes you—"
“Really old,” he finished for me.
I sat back. Well, I hadn’t expected that. And here I thought Monroe was the one attracted to older men. God, I should be disgusted.
I peered at Marcas from the corner of my eye. He looked confident even leaning back in the first class seat of a 747. It was hard to believe he’d existed before the invention of flight.
“How many of you are there?” I asked him.
He didn’t move. “Millions.”
I thought about that. Vampires may not exist, but I had a feeling Marcas’ race had been the basis for the myth.
“This doesn’t feel like reality,” I whispered.
There was no response from Marcas.
I yawned again but fought sleep. “How are we supposed to get unbound?”
The interior lights of the cabin were dimmed. Most of the passengers were asleep.
“I’m not sure yet,” Marcas answered.
That was comforting. I stood and looked over the seats in front of us. Monroe and Conor were both asleep.
I sat, my hand gripping the armrest between Marcas and me. “I don’t want to die,” I whispered. “And I don’t want my friends to die.”