by Tes Hilaire
He extinguished the light. “When I’m charged with His power I probably emit some of the properties of His light.”
“His light. As in God’s?”
He nodded.
“Sorry. Not buying it.”
“Why not?”
“Because buddy, after the things we did?” She laughed, though it wasn’t a good kind of laugh, more the world’s-messed kind. “Let’s just say I know for a fact that you’re no angel.”
He frowned. “I never claimed to be.”
“But you just said He,” she glanced upward, shifting slightly, “that, um, God sent his angels down to help us.”
“That’s the short of it. The long of it was he asked for volunteers. It was a great thing to ask because it would mean certain sacrifices, and not just because the angels would have to leave His heavenly realm.”
“Uh-huh,” she muttered, her skepticism obvious. But then she pursed her lips, her face skewed into a considering look. “What sort of sacrifices?”
“A true angel cannot yield a weapon. To take up arms against another, a man must have the capacity to feel such human emotions as love and anger. Otherwise, the act of violence is being done in cold blood, and to let that sort of unemotional violence loose on the world would be too dangerous.”
She pounced on that like a scientist would in the ring with a monotheistic philosopher. “Why? Wouldn’t it be akin to a soldier being given an order from his commander?”
“Yes and no.” He gnawed on the inside of his lip, trying to think of a way to answer that correctly. “Yes if the commander were always present, always assessing the situation and always giving orders.”
“And God’s not?”
“He can’t be. His presence is not allowed here on earth. Not without risking Lucifer breaking free from his prison.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “So instead he asked for volunteers to come down for him.”
He nodded.
“And you? You were one of them?”
He heard the doubt in her voice, understood it. He also knew he had to give her all the facts or those seeds of doubt would grow bigger and there would be no hope of her believing any of what he said. “I am a descendent of one of them. Originally there were only twelve warriors. Twelve Paladin as he called them.”
“So, what? These Paladin got it on with a bunch of human women and made little baby Paladin?”
“Not exactly,” he hedged. He’d have to explain how unusual their bond was to her later, but right now he wanted to focus his efforts on getting her to believe in the possibility of the Paladin’s existence. “After the first twelve came down and the other angels saw the good they could do, there were more who volunteered. Of those there were some female Paladin and they mated.”
“Were? Why do you talk as if there aren’t anymore?”
“There is only one female Paladin. And she cannot bear children.”
“Why?”
He shook his head. “That’s not important. What you need to understand is that the Paladin, my brothers, fight as His warriors. And that we don’t engage in violence heedlessly, but only to protect His children from evil they cannot see.”
“Like the woman from the alley?”
He nodded. “And the demon from the garage.”
She shuddered at the reminder, one arm wrapping around the other as she fingered the punctures on it. He wanted to reach over and pull her to him, but was afraid she would not accept his comfort.
“Jessica, I promised you that all I did was for your safety. I did not lie.” Her brow rose into her hair with that. He quirked his lip. “Okay, I did evade your questions, but I would argue they were not outright lies.”
She glared at him.
“My point is that I have only wanted to protect you.”
“Why?” She lifted her chin, drawing attention to a slight dimple in its center which he hadn’t noticed before. Funny, considering how much time he’d spent worshipping her body last night.
“Why do you care?” she continued. “If you’re some sort of heavenly warrior why do you give a rat’s ass about one stupid human?”
“I’d care about any human. But I care most about you.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t, to you.” He tugged at his bottom lip as his mind churned for a way to explain well enough that she could understand, but wouldn’t be too much information too soon. He dared not speak of things such as mate-bonds and destiny to her yet.
“I care about humans because it’s my duty. You are His children and I’m sworn to protect you. I enjoy humans. They are refreshing in a way that you could never fully understand, since you are one.”
Her lips pursed, her tongue running across her top teeth as if she was considering biting it to keep from retorting.
He reviewed his words and cringed. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”
“Very high and mighty,” she agreed.
He blew out a frustrated breath. “It’s a hard thing to explain. I guess what I want you to understand is that, though I do care, there hasn’t been anyone I cared enough about to sleep with since my mother’s death.”
Her eyes softened, her head tipping to the side. “I’m sorry. And really, given your grief it’s understandable that you weren’t up for that sort of intimacy.”
He shook his head. “Tell that to my brother, Bennett. He thinks almost a hundred years of celibacy is a bit much.”
“A hundred?” her face closed up, her tone revealing her disbelief. “You’re a hundred years old?”
Cursing his loose tongue—she wasn’t ready for that—he reached out to ease her with his touch. She shrank back, her body coiling up until she hit the headboard and couldn’t go any further.
“Don’t touch me.”
Fisting his hand, he forced it back into his lap. The rejection tore through him more completely than any blade ever could.
“Can I ask why that upsets you so much?” He tried to keep his voice soft and gentle when all he really wanted to do was grab her up and shake her as he berated her for not believing in him. In them.
She shook her head, the gesture implying that he was dense for not getting it. “Because one, um, I just slept with a really, really old man. And okay, yeah, you are a really hot old man, but damn it, this is like one of Julia’s stupid vampire novels where the hero, who’s never fallen in love in all the years of his existence,” she tagged on, lowering her voice, “falls for the weak, vulnerable human heroine and then yada, yada, yada, something happens and she has to be turned. Only you’re not a vampire, you’re some sort of freaky angel spawn, which, unless you’re somehow hiding one impressive set of canines, or filed them down or something, means that you’re not inclined to such evil aspirations as stealing the heroine’s, aka my, soul—which, don’t get me wrong, I’m kind of happy about, but really, when you stop and think about it, I’m not, because you’re a hundred freaking years old, if not more, which means that you’re going to live longer than me, and I’m sorry, but I can’t just buy that. But even if I did, I couldn’t live like that.”
She finally ended her tirade, her chest heaving up and down, her hair loose and frazzled around her face. And God forgive him, even as hope crumbled around him, all he wanted to do was yank that sheet from her, flip her onto her back, and plow into her again. But then the very last thing she said fully penetrated.
He narrowed his eyes. “Live like what?”
She threw her arm up in the air. “Always wondering how old was too old. Waiting for the time when you would get sick of me and my wrinkles and trade me in.”
“You think I would leave you because you aged?” The insanity of that statement had him half laughing—sick of her wrinkles, he’d worship every one of them if h
e could keep her safe and alive that long—but the pure fire in the glare she gave sobered him quickly.
Oh but wasn’t this ironic: They had the same fear, but for two obviously different reasons.
“I would never, could never get sick of you,” he said solemnly as he carefully stood up, forcing himself to step away from the bed. “But I will go. Let you think about this.”
Five minutes were more than up and she needed time. Not that he’d go far, but a few hours for her to think and for him to regroup and hopefully come up with a better plan for getting her to give them a chance than the major clusterfuck that just went down.
She nodded emphatically. “I think that’s a very, very good idea.”
Jaw tight, he nodded and started gathering up his clothes from the room. He pulled on his jeans and boots, tugged on his shirt. His phone was missing. Probably fell out up in the loft. He stepped out into the chilly air of the rest of the cabin. He wasn’t all that surprised when he heard a shuffle behind him, the sound of drawers slamming. He was surprised when he made it up to the loft and began the task of searching for the little black device among the jumble of clutter to hear her light footfalls barely squeaking the treads of the ancient stairs.
Probably making sure I actually leave.
When the sound of her advancement ended on the last step he didn’t turn to her or acknowledge her presence in any way, figuring she’d speak if she wanted to. Besides, there wasn’t much he could say that wouldn’t come across as either desperate or crazy…or both. He’d told her the truth and she couldn’t accept it. Couldn’t accept him.
Maybe it’s for the best. You wanted her to be able to walk away? Well looks like she’s going to.
The question was to whom would she run? That Mike guy?
Hot anger pulled at the back of his neck, jealousy of the faceless man. He tried to tamp it down by taking deep breaths, but the image that kept playing in his mind was of Jessica, her eyes glazed with pleasure as some other man came between her knees.
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.
Fisting his hands to keep from smashing something, he forced himself to fix his gaze on the artwork that was spread around the loft.
As he studied the paintings, the beauty of each one, he felt the anger receding. What rose instead was curiosity. There wasn’t any real rhyme or reason to the paintings. Still lifes, portraits, even a splash of modern in the mix. It didn’t matter what the subject was, everything her sister had painted celebrated life.
He would have smiled but for one small fact: They all sat in the loft collecting dust. He’d seen the beautiful artwork at Jessica’s apartment. None of them had the same style as these.
Why? Why didn’t she display any of her sister’s paintings?
“Can I ask you something?”
“What?” She crossed her arms as she fortified herself for war.
“Why don’t you like these?” He gestured around the loft.
“My sister’s paintings?” She shook her head. “I do like them.”
“Really?” He shifted into her space, holding her with his gaze when he thought she might run. “If you like them, then why aren’t they on display? Why don’t you have a single one on the walls here or in your apartment?”
She sucked in a breath, her back going ramrod straight. “I don’t see how that is any of your business.”
He shook his head, taking in again the waste he saw around him. He didn’t understand it. If he had a sibling with a talent like this, he’d beg to have them on display. “Do you and your sister get along?”
“We were best friends.”
Logan drew his attention away from a particularly poignant portrait of a child offering up a flower. Jessica’s voice was wistfully sad, but her eyes burned with an unholy anger. “Were?”
“She was murdered. Six years ago. Frat party. She got in the wrong car and ended up in some ditch. She died there, hours later. Result of a violent gang rape and subsequent beating.”
Oh, God. That explained her passion for justice. Explained, too, why she abstained from life for her job. He was almost afraid to ask but needed to know. “Did they catch the guys who did it?”
Her mouth curled into a twisted smile, hatred burning in her eyes. “Yes. Twenty to life. And if they ever get out, you can be sure they won’t live long enough to enjoy their freedom.”
The blood chilled in his veins, constricting around his heart. This was what was going to kill her. Not old age. Not his enemies targeting her as collateral damage. But the hatred she held so close to her heart.
She took a deep breath; let it out as she stretched her neck. “Sorry. I don’t mean that, not really. Just, being here among her paintings, it hits closer to home.” She gave him a slim smile, rather fake he thought. “I guess that’s why I don’t display any of them. Remembering her, to see them day in and day out, it would drive me crazy.”
He could understand that. He had no idea how the fuck he was going to go on when she died. “Is your sister why you became a cop?”
Her eyes drifted past him to the dusty painting that still sat on the easel. A beach scene, the outline of a single feather drifting on the surf. Even unfinished it was beautiful and revelatory and lonely.
“Yeah, it is.” She lifted haunted eyes. “We were twins. She was the passionate one, I’m more methodical—tenacious as my mother called it. They had all sorts of hopes for me. Law school. Med school. Didn’t matter as long as it eventually ended up with a whole bunch of letters after my name. But all Julia dreamed about was painting.” Her mouth quirked at the corner. “So I disappointed my parents and went to business school. I was going to make her a huge success.”
“I’m sure with your help she would have been.”
Jessica nodded, her knuckles cracking as she fisted and released her hand. “Instead, she died. And now I hunt down bastards who destroy other people’s dreams.”
And she did so under the mask of a badge and cold, hard laws. It reminded him a lot of his father. His father had learned to hide his emotions better, though not his prejudices. It scared the shit out of Logan. He’d watched the order fall further and further into ruin; adhering to traditions that no longer made sense or, quite simply, didn’t work. Their enemies were winning, and his father wouldn’t bend enough to change strategy. And now, on the crux of change, his father refused to take any help that wasn’t “pure.” His father saw the world in black and white and considered his own daughter and her mate to be just short of the enemy. They were vampires and vampires killed Logan’s mother. Oh, Logan knew his father’s prejudice and Jessica’s obsession were not quite the same, but they both held roots in hatred, and hatred was never the path to His realm.
“I don’t suppose I need to tell you that holding onto hatred isn’t healthy. That it can eat away at your humanity.”
She just glared at him.
“Jessica, I understand. When my mother died, I was devastated. It took me a long time and a lot of focus on other things to keep that anger from consuming me.”
“Yeah? And how long was that exactly, Logan? Because frankly I don’t think I have a hundred or more years.”
“Damn it, Jessica. You can’t hold this so close to your heart. You can’t let anger drive the course of your life.”
She arched her brow. “You want to bet?”
He cursed, running his hands through his hair. “Jessica—”
“I thought you were leaving,” she interrupted, then emphasized her point by stepping into the loft and grabbing his phone from under an easel. “Here.”
He refused the phone, folding his arms across his chest. Two could play at being obstinate. And there was no way he was leaving. It was bad enough that her association with him made her a target, but now that he understood what the true consequences could be? If his enemies sensed this stain o
f hatred on her heart, they would realize she was an easy mark. They wouldn’t just want to kill her, they’d want her soul. Which meant she’d be more lost to him than if she actually died.
He would not let that happen.
Her eyes hardened, her nose flaring. “Take it.”
“No.”
“If you think I’m going to discuss this further, you’re wrong. And if you think I’m going to allow you to lecture me on subjects you know nothing about, then you’re doubly wrong.”
“Nothing?” he asked softly, allowing his own grief to swallow most of his voice. The strike, though not intentional, hit home. She sucked in a breath, her gaze skittering away.
When she remained silent, he figured it was the only apology he would get. Didn’t matter. What mattered was that she seemed to accept that he did understand her grief. If she’d allow him to tell her of his hatred, too, then maybe there was a chance.
He opened his mouth, ready to tell her about the day when over a dozen female Paladin were slaughtered, but was interrupted by the vibration of his phone in her outstretched hand.
“Crap.” What timing. And awkward considering she still held it due to his stubborn power play. He could just ignore it, but very few people had his number. And every one of them were important—well, except perhaps his father. He’d blocked the man from his mind the moment he left his presence yesterday, unwilling to answer any more questions about his sister or the human whose memories he’d had to shield.
Jessica arched her brow, lifting the phone higher. He gave her a chagrined look as he took the phone from her, grunting as he recognized Roland’s number.
“I’m sorry. I have to take this.”
She nodded, turning her back on him as she wandered around the loft.
“This better be good,” he said, letting his annoyance show in his voice.
“Karissa just got an interesting reach-out-and-touch-someone from your dad.”
Logan’s hand tightened around the phone. He hoped the call was about his father trying to mend fences with his estranged daughter, but having just come face to face with the reminder of what obsessive hatred could do, he somehow doubted it. “What did he want?”