“Might as well.” Dette sighed.
Pirate pecked at Alejandro’s head and whistled.
Alejandro tugged at the collar of his clean white T-shirt. “I want my hedgehog hoodie.”
Madison shot him a look. “Well, you left it on the roof when you decided to undress and go run in the rain. It’ll need to be washed before you wear it again.”
He sighed.
Dette laughed. “You guys sound like an old married couple.” She was silent a moment. “Except most old couples don’t argue about climbing on the roof in the rain. What were you doing up there, anyway?”
“Listening,” said Alejandro.
Dette moved closer to him. “Listening to what?”
“The voices,” said Alejandro.
Dette grinned. “Voices? What kind of voices? Do they tell you to do things?”
Dette was having fun at his expense, and Madison didn’t like it. At the same time, she was curious about his answer.
“No,” he said. “They ask for help.”
Help? Though Madison’s knowledge of schizophrenia was limited, she’d had never heard of voices asking for help. “Help with what, Alejandro?”
He shrugged. “Money. School. Work.” Then he faced Madison. “Mrs. Strane was asking for help with her life. She wanted me to save it.”
The whole thing was too much. If - and it was a really big if - Alejandro had found Abigail Strane in her trailer, there was still no way he could have possibly heard her from the roof.
Dette scooched even closer to him. “Do the voices ever talk dirty to you?”
“That’s enough,” said Madison. “Let’s play a board game or something.”
“Ouija?” asked Dette.
“No. I’m not playing with the Ouija board. How about Clue?”
Dette sighed. “Fine, but I get to be Miss Scarlet.”
Dette was always Miss Scarlet.
* * *
The wine had warmed his belly, pinked his cheeks, and loosened his tongue, and Nick found himself beside Roxie Michaelson on the couch.
After her third glass, she’d loosened up quite a bit. Her cleavage, which he’d been having some trouble ignoring, had gone rosy, and with the rise of body temperature, her perfume had grown strong. It wasn’t unpleasant.
Nick told her about the weird events of the day and when he finished, she shocked him by setting her glass down, looking him square in the face, and asking, “Would you like me to spend the night with you?”
“Tonight?” It was a stupid question - an attempt to gather his bearings.
She smiled and placed a warm hand on his thigh. “Yes, tonight.”
He felt himself growing aroused as she continued staring and stroking her thumb along the denim of his jeans.
“You can say no, Nick, and I’ll leave. No hard feelings, no questions asked.”
He knew it wasn’t a good idea, but the booze had cocooned him and he felt like nothing could go wrong.
She took his glass from him, set it on the coffee table. “Don’t worry that I’ll get the wrong idea, Nick. I know what this is … and what it isn’t.”
“Well, it’s just that, uh …”
“I know. You don’t want anything serious. Neither do I.”
He smiled nervously. “So, you’re a mind reader?”
She shook her head. “Nope. You’re not hard to read. The moment I saw you, I knew you wore your heart on your sleeve.”
He shrugged. “Not my best quality, I suppose.”
She laughed. “I like it.” Her hand moved up his thigh and he relaxed his legs, just a little. She leaned over and ran her tongue along the ridge of his ear, and whispered, “But your heart doesn’t belong on your sleeve, sunshine.” She nipped his lobe. “It belongs strapped to your boot, next to a six-inch dagger.” She laughed and Nick found himself joining her. His hands slid to her waist, and he buried his face in her hair, found her neck, kissed it.
“Take me to the bedroom,” she said.
He’d be sorry tomorrow, he knew, but tonight, he felt wonderful.
* * *
Alejandro sighed. “It was Mrs. Peacock with the candlestick in the conservatory.”
Madison eyed her cards, then looked at Dette, who shook her head. “Damn it, Alejandro. Quit doing that.”
He’d done the same thing three times previously, guessing - and being correct - about whodunit, with what, and where - before they’d been more than five minutes into the game.
Madison sighed, and checked the cards inside the yellow envelope marked “CONFIDENTIAL” that sat in the center of the board. She pulled them out: Mrs. Peacock, candlestick, conservatory. “Right again … somehow.”
“I think you’re a psychic,” purred Dette.
Alejandro shrugged. Pirate peered at the game from his shoulder and tilted his head. “Who’s a pretty boy?”
“It’s kind of exciting having amnesia, don’t you think?” Dette stretched her arms back and pushed her chest out.
Madison’s jaw tightened.
“I mean, you could be anything … anyone.”
Alejandro took no interest in Dette’s breasts, but turned to Madison, his silvery eyes going wide. “Maybe I am a professional Clue player.”
Dette snorted. “A professional Clue player? Is that a thing?”
Thunder grumbled outside and a flash of lightning lit the sky.
Alejandro stared at his hands, looking forlorn.
“Hey,” said Madison. “Are you okay?” Something had been bothering him all day, and she imagined he was growing frustrated with his lack of memory and identity. If I could just get him to the hospital, she thought.
“I’m just very tired,” he said. “And no, you cannot get me to the hospital.”
Madison shivered, and not because the temperature had dropped since the power outage - the fire wasn’t cutting it - but because it was really creepy how he seemed to read her thoughts. Whatever he may have done as a profession, she was certain of one thing: The guy definitely had some psychic ability.
Unholy Night
Six bolts of lightning struck the grounds of St. Agatha’s with strobing blasts and thunderous booms. Gremory Jones knew his acolytes had arrived. Slipping on his coat and replacing his top hat, he headed downstairs to greet them, his ebony walking stick under one arm.
They’d let themselves in and stood in the main room, examining their surroundings with distaste.
“That was a rather flashy entrance, don’t you think?” Gremory noticed that the holy water in the fonts had turned crimson in their presence.
Six heads turned to stare at him.
“A church?” One of the men looked up at the great wooden crucifix that hung on the wall, the stiff white-blond spikes of his hair untouched by the wind outside. Gremory recognized him immediately as Astaroth, despite the all-American bad boy visage. Astaroth nodded at the crucifix, the sad Jesus that grimaced in pain. “Kinky.”
Gremory chuckled. “I thought you’d find that amusing.” He tapped his walking stick on the hard floor and the hunk of holiness lost its top mooring and swung down to hang inverted.
“Much better,” said Astaroth.
Gremory recognized Zazel, her eyes like chips of cold stone, staring at the sorry savior with disgust. “Hideous.” She moved closer to it. Her long fiery hair was graceful in contrast to her thick, muscular frame - which Gremory instantly disliked - but the hair was dazzling. Like the tongues of hell themselves.
He caught uneasy glimpses between Tyranny and Estrella as he circled them, taking them in, identifying one from the other in their respective skin suits. Tyranny, with her salacious curves, would garner plenty of attention, but Estrella’s silken blond strands, which brushed her knees, would be the real showstopper. “Well done, ladies.”
He moved toward the men and looked them over, stopping before one in a white poet’s shirt open at the chest. His long, dark hair tumbled past his shoulders, giving him the look of a windswept Byronic hero on the co
ver of a bodice ripper. “Corson, I presume.”
“In the flesh.” Corson smiled ironically.
“And, Thorne, of course.” Gremory moved to the square-jawed, heavy-lipped man with sand-colored hair. His eyes and skin were the same dusty shade. Even his vest was the color of the desert, making him appear almost monochromatic.
“But you,” Gremory turned to Astaroth, “were easiest to recognize.”
Astaroth gave him a wink and slung an arm around Gremory’s shoulders. “I like to think I’m pretty distinguished, in any form.”
“That, you are.” Gremory shrugged off Astaroth’s arm and stood back, taking in the six of them. There was something to satisfy every taste, every desire, and this pleased him. “Well done, all of you. Now, let’s retire to the rectory where you will be residing.” He paused and stared at Astaroth. “Except you. I have an immediate job for you.”
Astaroth’s brows rose. “I haven’t been here five minutes.”
“Yes, but I’d like to get down to business straight away. Time, of course, is of the essence.”
“Time, time, time.” Astaroth sighed. “Just one thing in a very long list that I despise about this plane. What do you need me to do?”
Gremory smiled.
* * *
The tinkle of bells stopped her breath. It sounded as if distant wind chimes were making eerie, discordant music in the wind, but Beverly knew better. She looked up from her phone. While Abigail slept in the guest room upstairs, Beverly had been reading a slew of texts from her ex-husband, Trevor, which had begun rolling in the moment her cell service returned. Now, texts forgotten, she braced herself for the barrage of terrifying images that she knew would follow the sound of the bells.
She held her breath, waiting.
Nothing happened.
She stood, made her way to the window, and peered into the night. The rain had returned, but it was light and hazy. There’d just been a series of lightning flashes, so quick they’d bordered on the surrealistic, but now she saw only a few intermittent flashes, miles away above the White Mountains.
The flood had passed and the wet streets glittered like the oily skin of black snakes. Hearing a high giggle, she whirled. It was the same voice she’d heard during the visions, but even as she waited for them to come, bracing herself in the windowsill, none came.
Maybe it’s passed … whatever it is …
Returning to her chair, she tried to relax. Don’t let me see any more terrible things. She looked at her phone, her knuckles bloodless around it. There was a new text from Trevor, a drunken one in which he threatened to find her and haul her back to Snapdragon - but that was the least of her concerns. Sleep it off, she typed, and set her phone under the blue glow of the Tiffany-style lamp.
She leaned back, closed her eyes, and the visions struck.
She saw the skid and slip of tires on a wet road, heard the heavy thud of contact, the crash of metal, a woman’s scream. Her body jolted and rocked as if she’d been in the collision herself.
She bolted upright, gripped the arms of the chair, and willed the visions away. “Make it stop,” she whispered. She could feel the blood draining from her face, and the room was redolent with the cloying burn of rubber, but the images dissolved.
She was certain that the car accident would herald the beginning of …
Of what?
* * *
He woke from fragmented dreams where a gallery of images - floods, tipping trailers, and men in boxer shorts walking on water - filled his mind. Through the darkness of night and the confusion of too much wine, Nick Grayson opened his eyes and stared at the woman next to him, blinking, trying to bring her into focus. He shot up, panic twisting his gut. The ritual was all too familiar - the frenzied scrambling for memories, the fear of not knowing what he might have said, what he might have done, and with whom he might have done it.
Red wine.
Roxie Michaelson brought it.
He lay back down, feeling the dizzying ebb of the booze’s effects. His heart beat an irregular rhythm, and he could smell sickly-sweet alcohol sweat on the sheets - on his skin. The hangover - a freight train off the rails - was on its way. He considered going in search of what remained of the wine, but that would only postpone the hangover. And I have to work in the morning. He glanced at the clock.
Shit.
He’d be lucky if he were half-sober by then. Why did I do that? Why?
It was a question he’d asked himself so often that now it seemed more of a personal mantra.
Why?
Disappointment, a thick itchy quilt, lay heavily upon him. He closed his eyes. This is my last drunk. I’ll quit tomorrow - but before he’d concluded the thought, he cut it off. He knew better. Every drink was the last drink - it had been for two years now - and it was time he faced the facts. Nick Grayson, current chief of police of Prominence, California, was a drunk. And I need help.
Before that taunting inner voice could begin chipping at his resolve, Nick rose from the bed and staggered nude down the hall. He found the bottle of red wine on the kitchen counter, and drained its remains into the sink. His heart wasn’t broken as he watched it swirl away, nor did he resent the substance as he had during past efforts to quit. He was simply indifferent, and that - if nothing else - was new territory, a good sign.
He swallowed a handful of aspirin with about a quart of water, then slipped back into bed and stared at Roxie. Her blond hair was thick, glossy, and gorgeous. The curve of her cheekbone, even in near darkness, was so well-sculpted that it was difficult to believe her beauty was accidental, a mere fluke of nature. Nick smelled the sweetness of her skin, listened to the breathy moan that escaped her soft lips as she slept. She was beautiful; the kind of woman that belonged on the arm of a beach-bodied Apollo. The kind of woman he’d always been drawn to.
And yet, Nick Grayson felt nothing for her, nothing at all.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
* * *
They sat around a polished mahogany table in the dining room of the rectory, Gremory at the head, Zazel, Thorne, and Estrella to his right, Tyranny and Corson to his left, along with Astaroth’s empty chair.
“What do we know about him?” asked Tyranny.
“He goes by the name Alejandro,” said Gremory.
The group exchanged glances.
“What kind of name is that?” asked Thorne.
Gremory shrugged.
“And have you found a way in?” Corson’s emerald eyes lit with interest.
“Indeed I have,” Gremory said. “And I have no doubt she’s the perfect starting point.”
“She?” Tyranny asked.
Gremory smiled. “Yes. She.”
“Is that why you sent Astaroth out?” Thorne looked annoyed. “To seduce some half-witted human?” His strange sand-colored eyes grew darker.
“Oh!” Estrella clapped her hands like an excited child. “Temptations of the flesh!”
“Indeed.” Gremory tipped his head at Astaroth’s chair. “It’s underway as we speak, though Astaroth has been advised to move very slowly.” He looked at Thorne. “It’s unlikely there will be any … sexual activity tonight. Tonight is for introductions.”
Thorne scowled, clearly disgruntled that he hadn’t been appointed the task.
Zazel’s heavy brows lowered in confusion. “But how will this woman lead us to … Alejandro? Why can’t we deal with him directly?” Her intellect had apparently dimmed to match her square jaw and football-player’s shoulders.
Tyranny shot her an incredulous look. “Gee, I don’t know, Zazel. Why don’t we just ask him to hand over his soul?”
Zazel reddened. “I just thought that-”
“Be nice, Tyranny.” Estrella patted Zazel’s hand.
Tyranny rolled her eyes.
Gremory retrieved a cigarette and his ebony holder. “We must move forward with great caution. Any sudden moves will compromise our chances.”
Like a petulant toddler, Thorne cros
sed his arms. “Why don’t you just have Tyranny seduce him? Wouldn’t that be faster?”
Now that he was back in a mortal coil, he was obviously eager to begin enjoying the pleasures of the flesh. Thorne had always had an outrageous libido. Gremory sighed. “Seduction is well and good, and of course, we’ll be doing plenty of that in the days ahead - we have an entire town to corrupt! You’ll all have ample opportunity to … enjoy yourselves. But ...” he looked pointedly at Thorne, “in this particular case, sexual enticement is only the starting point, a place to lay our foundation. We must operate carefully. A conquest of this magnitude requires more time, greater finesse.” He pulled on his cigarette and blew out a sulfuric cloud of yellow smoke. “I think we can all agree that a subtle approach is best.”
Heads nodded - all except Thorne’s. He was still pouting. “So, the chick Astaroth’s banging tonight. Who is she? Is she hot? And how come you always pick him to-”
“The subject,” said Gremory, “is particularly attracted to very fair men, that is why.” He tapped ash into a crystal ashtray. “Who she is and what she looks like is not important right now.” The subject. He liked it. It made her sound like an object. A conquest. Which she was.
“What if it doesn’t work?” asked Corson.
“It will.” Gremory had been keeping close tabs - not only on the man who’d fallen to earth, but on those surrounding him - and had easily identified the weakest link, the chink in the armor. With a little finessing, Gremory had no doubt that the woman - the subject - would deliver the angel to them on a silver platter.
* * *
The windshield wipers moved back and forth at their lowest speed with a shrill, grinding scrape that made Bernadette’s scalp prickle and set her teeth on edge. She was eager to get home and into her own bed. It was obvious her friend didn’t want her anywhere near Alejandro, but it was also obvious that Maddy was denying interest in the guy - denying it even to herself. Such a waste, thought Dette. She tried thinking of something else - but found her thoughts returning to his face, his skin, his scent … and that body! But she would not move in on him. Whether Maddy knew it or not, she was interested in him - and Dette wanted to be a good friend. But it wouldn’t be easy with Alejandro around.
The Angel Alejandro Page 14