The Given

by Vicki Pettersson

  “May I?” a voice said from behind him.

  A man stood there, tall and thin and dark, dressed in a cuffed suit with a pocket square, and an era-appropriate skinny tie. He looked like a detective from some fifties television show, and Dennis’s eyes pinched at the corners as he stared at him, mouth firmed and ready to say no, but then Kit nodded. “It’s okay. I know him.”

  “As long as you’re still dancing,” he finally whispered, then bussed her cheek, “I’m happy to watch from afar.”

  Kit bit her lip to keep from tearing up, and dipped her head in a grateful nod. When she’d finally gathered herself, she was in the other man’s arms, and she looked up and met his gaze dry-eyed.

  “Hello . . . Saint Francis of the Cherubim tribe.” The steadiness of her voice surprised her as she locked her gaze with that of the Pure. The Universe swirled where his irises were supposed to be, rich and dark and mysterious, punctuated by stars. Galaxies rose and fell, and stars were birthed and died before her.

  “Hello, Katherine Craig.”

  He was different from when she’d last seen him, fully restored, she assumed, to his former glory.

  “Inebriated?” she asked him.

  “What do you mean?”

  She tipped her head at his body. “You appear on the Surface using the bodies of the very young, old, sick, or drunk. As there’s no shortage of alcohol here, I’m guessing you chose the latter.”

  “Actually,” he said, taking a deep breath before dipping her expertly, “I’ve come to the Surface of my own accord. I’m using flesh granted to me by God to access the Surface. Much like your dear Mr. Shaw.”

  Though a pang still shot through her heart at Grif’s name, it was a relief to be able to talk openly about him with someone. “But Grif said that the Pure find molding their divine nature into human form extremely uncomfortable.”

  “It’s like detonating a nuclear bomb in your chest,” Sarge confirmed. “But I still owe you.”

  “No,” Kit scoffed. “You said that in a perfect world you would owe me.”

  “Ah, yes. But who can wait around for that?” The left side of his mouth lifted, and they adjusted their rhythm as Elvis’s “Blue Moon” began to play. “Besides, you forgave me the night we last spoke, remember?”

  “So?”

  “So your forgiveness healed me. I really do owe you now. Even God Himself said it was a miracle, and after feeling all that you felt, experiencing every emotion as you did, I have to agree.”

  Kit smiled but remained silent, waiting to hear why he was really here. Knowing her thoughts, of course, gave Sarge an advantage, and he inclined his head. “You know, there was a time when I didn’t understand why the Chosen wasted their time on love. Even the most ardent affection is ultimately destroyed by death, so why bother?”

  Kit thought for a moment. “It’s hard to explain to a Pure. You guys are, by nature, fatalists.”

  He gave a small laugh at that. “When I was first put in charge of the Centurions, all those lost and broken souls, I found myself sympathizing with the suicides the most.”

  “Why?”

  “I thought that because death was inevitable, it meant life was empty and hollow by nature. Why bother with any of it? It’s all meaningless in light of . . . well, the Light. How much better would it be to just shut it down early, avoid the needless emotion, and come directly to God?”

  Kit just shook her head. Trying to explain life, or love, to a Pure would be harder than explaining the sun to the blind.

  “And now I see,” he said, reading her mind again. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Kit said after a moment, and realized she really meant it. Yes, she was in mourning, but wasn’t that life? She was lucky to have it.

  “It’s good to see you out,” he said tentatively.

  “Yes, well . . .” She motioned around the dance floor at the other people, at the life. “There’s still living yet to do.”

  “And work?”

  “There’s always work.”

  He tilted his head, and almost made it look natural. “So are you still a truth-seeker, Katherine? Still value that above all else, no matter how hard or at what cost?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good,” he said, pulling back. “Then I have another truth for you, though it’s not one you can share.”

  “No?”

  “Look around. Who here would believe you if you spoke to them of Centurions and of the Pure and the Everlast?”

  No one.

  “Who,” he continued, and released her to wave one hand gracefully through the air, “would ever believe that a man named Griffin Shaw lived and died two lifetimes?”

  Nobody. Sometimes she had trouble believing it herself.

  “Who,” he finally asked, lifting both hands high, “would believe that miracles happen every day? We just don’t see them.”

  And an ombré gray mist rose around them, causing the room to still as if captured in concrete, a pseudo-Pompeii.

  “Are they okay?” Kit asked, whirling about herself, noting that the music had gone mute. She was the only one who moved.

  “You looked like you needed a little breather,” Sarge said, smiling. She did. Too many eyes had been on her all night, Fleur looking but not wanting to be caught doing so; Dennis doing the same, his longing caged. Sarge looked at her now, too, with the debris of the Everlast glossing his gaze and her own sadness reflected in his eyes. “I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

  Everybody was. Kit closed her eyes, and an image of Grif flashed through her mind. And everyone could be as sorry as they wanted, but it wouldn’t bring him back.

  “You couldn’t have done anything different, you know,” Sarge said, as she swallowed hard. He put a hand back on her shoulder. “Every step you took was the right one at the time.”

  Yes. Fated. “So . . . how is he?”

  Sarge just stared at her with that eternal gaze. It was hard to look him in the face, but Kit didn’t even blink. After all she’d been through, she had the right to know.

  “These things take time,” Sarge finally said. His voice was the gentlest thing she’d ever heard. Somehow that made it worse. “You know, just because something doesn’t come in the way you want or expect it to, doesn’t mean it isn’t a miracle.”

  “I imagine that’s very easy for you to say from that side of Paradise,” she said, allowing her bitterness to break through for one moment, but Sarge just nodded. He’d known it was there, lying dormant, anyway.

  “I’m causing you yet more pain. I didn’t mean to, so I’ll go. Just . . . do me a favor,” Sarge said, walking backward through the thickened haze. “Don’t talk to anybody until I’ve gone. At least, not until you figure out what’s weighing down your left-hand pocket.”

  “My left—” Her hand immediately went there, and her eyes went wide as she felt the outline of something long and sharp, but Sarge was shaking his head.

  “You keep on living, Katherine Craig. The world may not be perfect but . . . it has its moments.”

  Kit frowned at that, watching him turn around, the plasmic clouds swirling and closing rank behind him. She gazed after him, trying to see the moment he disappeared, but it happened so slowly that she didn’t even have to blink. He just dissolved before her eyes. Then the music rose to full speed again, Elvis in a throaty croon, and the dance floor came alive around her.

  Kit backed away to keep from being trampled, and then reached into her pocket, feeling for the long shape now poking her in the thigh. Edging into a corner, she lifted the object and peered closely at it in the light. It wasn’t one item, but two—both soft, downy feathers, pure white and flashing with quicksilver as Kit twisted them around and back.

  “They said I wouldn’t need them anymore,” said a voice from behind her. “Not where I’m going.”

  Kit whirled. He wore a five-o’clock stubble that would, she knew, tickle her palm, if only she could move. His fedora was pristine, as was his suit, th
ough his tie had a sideways slant to it, like he’d been yanking at it, trying to get free. His usual half-lidded gaze had gone wide, and he was looking at her as if afraid she might disappear.

  Griffin Shaw held out his hand. “Care to dance?”

  The room still felt like it was moving at half speed, and Kit swayed.

  I really do owe you now.

  One last dance, Kit thought, and smiled for the first time in a week. She sent up a quick prayer of thanks and accepted Grif’s hand.

  “I feel like I’m dreaming,” she said, ignoring the finer points of the dance to nestle close to his chest. It was the warmest place she knew, and she closed her eyes, breathing him in. Sen-Sen on the breath, coconut in his pomade. Grif—God, it was Grif—again in her arms.

  “That’s how you know it’s a blessed moment.”

  And not one she’d ever forget. For now, though, she meant to live it. She held up the feathers that Sarge had given her, that she somehow suspected were binding her to him. “I take it you’re not currently on duty?”

  “Actually, I’m no longer a Centurion.” He shook his head at her surprised look and pulled her back close. “No more Pure than you.”

  She frowned, and then, because she knew she’d kick herself if she didn’t ask, said, “And the past?”

  “I let it go.” He smiled against her hairline, lips sliding back and forth as he inhaled. “I’m moving on. Next time I die, it’s straight through the Gates for me. No stopping at incubation. No wings or Takes or prophecies for me.”

  She was so very glad, she was. But the song, already too short, was almost over. “So how long do we have?”

  Grif shook his head, causing her heart to sink. “Not long. Just the one . . .”

  He trailed off, leaving her imagining the worst. Tune? Hour? Night? What?

  “The one?”

  “Life,” he finally said, one corner of his mouth turning up in a grin. “It really isn’t long, but I bet we can make some memorable moments. That is, if you’re still game to ride out your years with an old bull like me?”

  She wasn’t breathing. She only realized it once she grew light-headed. Then, breathing too hard, threatening to pass out in a totally different way, she began searching the room.

  After a moment, Grif asked, “What are you doing?”

  Kit didn’t answer. Instead, she reached out and poked him in the chest. Finding it solid, she then grasped his wrist. Warm. Bending, she felt at his ankle. No holster. No gun.

  “Done frisking me?” he asked wryly.

  Straightening, Kit just stared for a moment before poking him again.

  “Flesh and bone, Kit. So . . . you know.” He grabbed her wrist. “Stop it.”

  “Oh, my God,” she heard herself saying, and then the buzzing overtook her. Kit’s knees buckled as her head grew light, but somewhere beyond her consciousness she realized that Grif’s arms were still there, strong and tight around her, and he lifted her up again, holding her on her feet until she could manage it herself.

  “Go ahead and take a minute,” he said, drawing her close. “I’ll be here.”

  They swayed, and then the music slid away from them, bouncing into Buddy Holly, sending the room into a subdued frenzy. Yet Kit and Grif only continued touching each other, treating each other’s skin like talismans, reassuring themselves that the other was still there. When she found her voice again, she spoke close to his ear. “So . . . flesh?”

  “And hopefully some brains thrown in this time, too.”

  Couples swung past them like orbiting galaxies. Kit and Grif remained in a world of their own.

  “So not Pure?” she said again, making sure. The feathers were bent, clutched in her fist.

  “Not Pure,” Grif confirmed, then smiled at her like never before. “Just Chosen.”

  The whole room brightened. She didn’t know how long they remained like that, staring at each other, tucked into the corner of their newly born lives, but when the song ended, he was still, miraculously, there. Same as the song after that. And after that. Finally, Grif touched his lips lightly to hers, fusing them both in time and place, in the moment. Together. “I’ve got a proposition for you, Craig.”

  “Do you?” she breathed, her head gone light all over again.

  “How about you and I go make some memories?”

  “How about an entire lifetime full of them?” she replied, finally able to breathe, to smile. To live.

  She hoped Sarge could feel this. He needed to know that it wasn’t the pain and sorrow, but the joy in fleeting moments that told a person they were alive. Sure, Kit thought, death always loomed somewhere in the future, but there were worse things to fear than that. Like going through life and never really living at all.

  “I think it’s only fair to warn you,” she told Grif, as they sauntered from the club. “I’ve been told that I can be a bit chatty at times.”

  “And I can be a bit gruff, or so I hear,” he said, draping his arm over her shoulders. “But one thing’s for sure . . .”

  Kit smiled, and finished the thought for him. “We make a damned good team.”

  And even the angels in heaven couldn’t argue with that.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book is for my readers—my VPeeps, my friends, my Tribe. Thank you for taking time to reach out to me via my website, for chatting with me on Twitter, and for giving me a home on Facebook, where I am as teased about my cooking as I am encouraged to write. (Just like real life.) Extra thanks to Facebook friends: Justin Allen for allowing me to abuse his good name and Michelle Ritter Pearsall for suggesting the name Eric. Jann McKenzie and Joy Bannister served as beta readers for this final installment in Kit and Grif’s journey, so if there’s anything amiss in the text, I’m happy to forward along their personal e-mails as places to rant. Finally, to every reader who has opened up his or her mind to meet me on the page, I thank you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  VICKI PETTERSSON is the New York Times bestselling author of the Sign of the Zodiac novels, a six-book urban fantasy series set in her hometown of Las Vegas. Though she’ll always consider that glittering dust bowl home, she now divides her time between Vegas and Dallas, where she’s learning to like good Tex-Mex (easy) and the Dallas Cowboys (easier than you’d think).

  www.vickipettersson.com

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  BOOKS BY VICKI PETTERSSON

  CELESTIAL BLUES SERIES

  The Taken

  The Lost

  THE SIGN OF THE ZODIAC SERIES

  The Scent of Shadows

  The Taste of Night

  The Touch of Twilight

  City of Souls

  Cheat the Grave

  The Neon Graveyard

  PRAISE FOR VICKI PETTERSSON’S

  CELESTIAL BLUES TRILOGY

  “Pettersson impressively deepens and darkens the compelling romance between her complex and irresistibly tormented protagonists. Even minor figures are fascinating, as is the ruthlessly realistic setting.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review) for The Lost

  “The Lost is one exciting follow-up! The romance between Kit and Grif is equal parts passion and doubt, keeping readers hanging on to reach the conclusion. And what a conclusion! . . . This is a wonderful sequel.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKclub

  “Pettersson’s amazing new series is off to a rocking start with this compelling read.”

  —RT Book Reviews (top pick) for The Taken

  “Exceptional. Mystery, crime-scene drama, and more than enough romance to keep the heart pumping blend seamlessly into an enthralling read that kept me glued to the pages. I can’t wait for the sequel.”

  —Kim Harrison

  “A delectably dark paranormal thriller. I’ve always been a fan of Pettersson’s work, but she knocks it out of the park with this one.”

  —Kelley Armstrong

  “A s
tylish, atmospheric mash-up of rockabilly and angelic affairs quickly reveals itself to be so much more: The Taken proves that Pettersson is not afraid to explore the darkest corners of the human heart—and that her gift for redemption is unsurpassed.”

  —Sophie Littlefield

  “Intriguing mix of paranormal, romance, and mystery with just enough suspense!”

  —Suspense magazine

  “Pettersson hits every note in the familiar duet of a ‘reticent, complicated, darkly sexy man’ and a luscious, plucky ‘girl reporter.’ . . . The resulting irresistibly good yarn proves that there’s still plenty of room for brilliant innovation in urban fantasy.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review) for The Taken

  “A sure bet for urban-fantasy readers of all types, but especially fans of Carrie Vaughn, Jim Butcher, and P. N. Elrod.”

  —Booklist

  CREDITS

  Cover design by Richard L. Aquan

  Cover illustration by Larry Rostant

  Author photograph by Jeferson Applegate

  COPYRIGHT

  Harper Voyager and design is a trademark of HCP LLC.

  THE GIVEN. Copyright © 2014 by Vicki Pettersson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  FIRST EDITION

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Pettersson, Vicki.

  The given / Vicki Pettersson. — First edition.

  p. cm. — (Celestial blues ; book three)

  ISBN 978-0-06-206620-6

  1. Private investigators—Fiction. 2. Paranormal romance stories.