Feather (Angels of Elysium Book 1)

by Olivia Wildenstein

  He dragged his hand through his hair that curled harder as it dried. “You seem to think I have a moral compass.” He opened a set of French windows, the metal bar clanking as it retracted from the ceiling and floor, allowing the glass-paned doors to swing out.

  My fingers became fists which I longed to pummel into Jarod’s arm. He was bringing out the absolute worst in me. Thankfully, rage didn’t cost feathers, but hitting him would. When he didn’t reappear, I went to find him.

  I burst onto a narrow stone balcony lacquered in moonlight. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the obscurity and another to spot Jarod reclined on a lounger.

  “Let me leave, and you will never hear from me again.” Frenzied heartbeats swarmed my body. “I promise.”

  He twisted his head to look at me. “By all means, Feather, go downstairs.”

  “I don’t mean your bedroom; I mean your house.”

  He checked his wristwatch. “Five hours from now, they’ll disarm the place to let the supplicants in. You’ll be able to leave then.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why don’t you disarm your house now?”

  “Because Amir and Mimi are the only ones with the code to my alarm system, and they went to sleep to recuperate after yesterday’s festivities.”

  It felt like a lie. How could he not know the alarm code to his own house? I eyed the courtyard below and noticed movement in the shadows—a guard. I walked over to the stone balustrade and measured the drop.

  “The last person who hopped from my balcony broke his spine.”

  I froze.

  “Don’t worry. He didn’t suffer long. My guard put a bullet through his skull.”

  My mouth parted.

  Jarod turned his eyes to the sky that stretched over us. Not a single star pinpricked the chilly darkness. Like in New York, stars lost out to smog and ever-burning city lights. “And before you start doling out sermons, know that he was a hitman paid to assassinate me.”

  “Would your guards put a bullet in my skull if I tried to escape?”

  Jarod linked his fingers over his abdomen. “If I ordered them to, yes.”

  “Would you order them to?”

  “Do you want to kill me, Feather?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then you have nothing to worry about. Now, why don’t you take a seat on that other lounge chair and tell me all the things I should change about myself.”

  “I’m fine standing.” My tone was short.

  He flicked his gaze to my footwear. “In those heels?”

  I leaned my hip against the rough stone handrail. “Tell me about how tomorrow works. What sort of help do people come to you for?”

  “It varies, but it usually involves some form of physical retribution or monetary donation.”

  “People come to you for handouts?”

  “You seem surprised.”

  Begging in a subway station was one thing, but sticking a cupped palm out to the Mafia lord was quite another. Not to mention Jarod’s money was probably tainted by blood. “What do you ask for in return?”

  “Nothing.”

  If that were true, it would mean he was generous, and generosity wiped sinner points off scorecards. Ever since he’d been recorded in the Ranking System, his score had never wavered.

  It hit me then why this must be—the money wasn’t his to give. Dirty money expunged any good act done with it. “And the physical retribution? What does that entail?”

  “It varies from beating up spouses to frightening bosses.”

  “Do you do the beating up or the frightening?”

  “What sort of savior would I be if I didn’t do any rescuing?”

  There he went with his Robin Hood complex again. “Do you do background checks to verify claims before you go in guns blazing?”

  “I know you think me amoral, but I didn’t think you thought me stupid.”

  I sighed. “I don’t think you’re stupid, Jarod. Conniving, calculating, controlling, but not stupid.”

  “Thank you.”

  I shifted, because the stone was digging into my joint. “Those weren’t compliments.”

  “My uncle was all of those things, and more.”

  “I take it you idolized him?”

  Jarod moved his linked hands to the back of his head. “He came from nothing. Dropped out of school at thirteen, then worked at a stud farm outside of Paris for six years. He started by shoveling horse shit before working his way up to training them. One of the horses he coached ended up breaking every racing record two years in a row, making his stables millions. The owner gave my uncle five thousand euros to thank him. Five thousand euros—” Jarod snorted.

  “He could’ve been given nothing.”

  “Ah . . . forever the voice of reason.”

  “I wasn’t implying he didn’t deserve more.”

  “No, you were implying he should’ve been grateful for his winnings.”

  I shrugged one shoulder. “So, how did he go from horse trainer to”—I nodded toward the courtyard—“this?”

  “Why don’t you sit down? You’re giving me a crick in my neck.”

  “I’m sure your neck is fine,” I said.

  “You’re ruthless.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Then what happened?”

  “Then he graciously thanked his boss and gave back the bonus.”

  “He gave it back?”

  “Every penny, and then he asked his boss to gift him the scrawny foal of mediocre lineage which Uncle knew was supposed to be sold to a nearby stud farm for a pittance. He’d observed the foal and had discerned something in the horse’s muscle structure which both his boss and the breeder had missed.”

  Mosquitos buzzed around the single sconce peeking out from the thick ivy climbing up the limestone, their drone interrupted by the occasional squeal of tires on the road outside Jarod’s mansion.

  “To my grandparents’ horror, he brought the colt home. They lived in the suburbs and only had a backyard.” Amusement flickered over his face. “They told him he couldn’t keep that creature in their home. My grandmother had a friend in a nearby village who had a big property. She enquired if she’d be willing to take in the horse. Her friend agreed but made Uncle promise to care for it. When his savings ran low, he asked the woman if she had any work for him. She found him tasks to do around the house—she had a very old house, and everything inside needed fixing. He ended up spending most of his days there. And then, the summer after the old lady’s granddaughter visited, his nights, too.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He fell in love.”

  I tried to reconcile the image of the ruthless Demon Court founder I’d conjured in my head with the picture Jarod was painting of a hardworking, love-smitten, honest man.

  “They trained the horse together, and once the horse turned two, my aunt, who was a slip of a woman, became the jockey. Ever heard of Le Démon?”

  I raised my brows. “Was that what he named the horse?”

  “Apparently the yearling had a fiery personality.” His lips stretched tight over his teeth. “After it won the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe, thus becoming the greatest horse to have tread French racetracks, Uncle got a great kick out of reading the headlines: Le Démon champion.”

  “I imagine he made a lot of money with that horse.” I’d been so absorbed by his tale I hadn’t realized I’d inched closer to the free lounge chair.

  “A lot is an understatement. That horse enabled him to buy this place”—he tipped his head to the side—“and a stud farm in Chantilly.”

  I finally sat down, sensing the story couldn’t have a pleasant ending since the Adlers weren’t known for their horse-breeding skills.

  “About a year later, while Uncle was away negotiating breeding rights, someone broke into their stables and put a bullet through Le Démon’s skull and then another through my aunt’s chest when she tried to save her horse.”

  I jolted.

&
nbsp; “Uncle spent weeks tracking down the assassin. Turns out it was his former boss. The asshole felt like Uncle had gypped him and said my aunt was shot because she got in the way. That it was an accident.

  “Uncle went to the police with the evidence he’d amassed, but they tossed out his case as insubstantial. The thing is, it wasn’t. He’d even recorded the confession, but the chief of police told him he’d obtained it illegally, and so it was inadmissible in court.

  “That’s when he took matters into his own hands. Visited his former boss and shot him—first to wound and then to kill. He was caught and tossed in jail. The government tried to seize his assets, but he’d put everything in my father’s name . . . my father who was still a minor back then. To make a long story short, he spent the next few years collecting valuable contacts and learning skills. He was out on good behavior a decade after he was put behind bars.”

  “Good behavior?”

  Jarod shot me that murky grin of his.

  I observed the pale walls of the house dotted by glass so shiny I imagined it was cleaned daily. “So, prison made him create this place?”

  “No, Feather, injustice made him create this place. Prison simply gave him the tools to build it.”

  I nibbled on my lip.

  “Are you thinking horrid things about me and my uncle?”

  “Actually, I’m thinking what a good storyteller you are, Jarod. You’ve made me feel something other than fear and aversion for your family.”

  His eyes gleamed. “Careful, Feather.”

  I folded my legs. “About what?”

  “You might actually start to like me.”

  I squeezed my knees tight. “Just because you tell a good story doesn’t make you likable. Now, if you let me lea—”

  “Go.” He jutted his chin toward his bedroom. “There’s no alarm.”

  “You lied?”

  “I lied.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s what I do. I lie. I blackmail. I extort. And sometimes, I kill. I’m a bad, bad man, Feather.”

  “Why did you want me to think I was your prisoner?”

  His gaze ran over the orange hair I was twisting into a long rope. “Because it amused me.”

  I released my hair and lowered my hands to the thick cushion. “It amused you?” I croaked, genuinely hurt that he’d gotten a kick out of my turmoil. As my hair unraveled against my shoulder blades, I pushed myself up, the cruelty of his parting words making my movements all jerky.

  He watched me, and the weight of his stare made my eyes heat with aggravation.

  “Have a good life, Jarod Adler.”

  He didn’t speak, not even to say goodbye. Not even to say good riddance.

  I paused on the threshold between his balcony and bedroom. “Was any of the story you just told me true?”

  “Perhaps.” He returned his gaze to the sky. “Perhaps not.”

  Ugh. The man was infuriating. Why couldn’t he ever give me a straight answer? As I turned to go, he said, “See you later, Feather.”

  I looked over my shoulder at his prostrate, relaxed form. “No, you won’t.”

  Although he didn’t gaze away from the deep indigo firmament, I noticed the corners of his mouth lifting.

  The gall of him. Thinking I would come back.

  What was it with him and Tristan convinced they were so irresistible?

  After tonight, nothing and no one—neither altruism nor Celeste—could drag me back to this place.

  Chapter 17

  The first thing I did after I retrieved my bag from the vestibule and exited Jarod’s home was type Le Démon racehorse into my phone’s browser. As the results of my search loaded, a car honked.

  I jumped, almost dropping my phone.

  The white-haired driver from yesterday circled the sedan and drew open the back door. “Monsieur Adler insists I drop you off at your place.”

  I swallowed. I didn’t doubt Jarod had asked his driver to drop me off. What I doubted was the destination. I bet Jarod had instructed the man to drive me out of the city . . . out of the country even.

  “Please thank Monsieur Adler for his generosity, but I’d rather walk.”

  “Mademoiselle, it’s the middle of the night.”

  I found his comment borderline humorous. Warning me about the dangers that might lurk in the darkened streets. Wasn’t he aware of whom he worked for?

  I wheeled around and clip-clopped down the shadowy arcade, checking over my shoulder when I heard the car door shut. Red taillights flared, but the car didn’t move. I bet the driver was relaying my refusal for a ride to Jarod. I quickened my strides and crossed the road. When I looked back, the sedan had vanished.

  Once the Place des Vosges was behind me, I returned my attention to my phone’s screen and clicked on the first article: Isaac Adler and his prized stallion.

  I scrolled down until I landed on a picture of a young man—not much older than Jarod—with a head full of out-of-control brown curls and shiny blue eyes. So this was the infamous uncle?

  I studied his features for similarities to Jarod’s. Their cupid’s bow mouths were the same, as well as the faint squint with which Isaac looked out at the world. But where the squint lent Isaac an impression of youth and carefreeness, it gave Jarod an impression of snark and disdain.

  I read the article, then researched the murder, and read as much as I could stomach. Had the man who’d murdered Isaac’s wife and horse ended up in Abaddon, or had his cruelty earned him a triple score? The Ranking Room didn’t offer information on past sinners, but perhaps, one of the guild workers would know what had happened to him.

  For all his talk about being a liar, Jarod had spoken the truth, and that comforted me.

  As I was about to tuck away my phone and concentrate on not getting lost, it started to ring. I picked up immediately, because the only people who had my number were members of the guild and a few of the sinners I’d helped back in the States.

  “You turned down my driver.” Jarod’s voice almost stopped my heart.

  “How—how did you get my number?”

  “I guessed it.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “Fine. I didn’t.” Something rustled on his end. “Amir retrieved it for me earlier.”

  So that’s what they did to personal effects left in their custody . . . They rifled through them. Had they also planted a tracker in my bag?

  Didn’t matter. I’d be in a Channel on my way to New York in no time.

  “Why are you calling me, Jarod?”

  “To check that you haven’t been attacked at knifepoint. It’s the newest thing in this city. Crazies stabbing you for no reason.”

  I checked the street, my pulse quickening. Getting stabbed wouldn’t be pleasant. Until I completed my wings, I’d bleed like a human but heal quicker. I stopped at a deserted crosswalk, watching the glowing red hand of the pedestrian traffic light instead of scanning my surroundings like a skittish girl.

  “You really expect me to believe you care about my safety? You’d probably reward the person who did the stabbing.”

  For a moment, there was no sound on his end. “If by reward, you mean quarter him, then yes, that’s exactly what I’d do.”

  The red hand turned into a white stick figure, and yet I couldn’t get myself to cross the street. “Why?”

  “Why what, Feather?”

  “Why do you care what happens to me?”

  “Because my city isn’t safe. Because you’re a woman walking alone at night. Because you left my place angry, and for some inexplicable reason, your anger makes me feel guilt. I don’t feel guilt over anything.”

  I pursed my lips, finally setting off across the zebra stripes even though the white stick figure was blinking. It wasn’t as though there were any cars. No, actually, that wasn’t true. There was one car. I squinted to see the driver behind the tinted windshield.

  “You’re having me followed?” I sputtered.

  “I’m havin
g you guarded. For your safety.”

  “You’re unbelievable . . .”

  “I’m told that often but usually after I’ve bedded a woman. Not before.” His voice had taken on a husky quality, which combined with his words, made my steps falter.

  “You’re never going to bed me,” I said.

  “You know what I like more than justice? Challenges. I love challenges. So I accept your challenge.”

  Although the river was still a block away, the sound of it whooshed against my eardrums. “That wasn’t me challenging you. That was me telling you I wasn’t interested.”

  “I know what you said, but I also know what your body said. And you were most definitely interested.”

  I growled a little. “You think the entire world revolves around you, don’t you? Well, let me clear something up for you . . . I’m not interested in getting naked with you. All I was interested in was making you a better man so that I could have a chance at being with the man I actually want.” My breathing had turned labored as though I’d shrieked. I hoped I hadn’t.

  Several windows were open in the buildings surrounding me, and the last thing I wanted was to rouse people in the middle of the night.

  “How would making me a better man up your chances at being with the one you want?” There was no longer anything husky or taunting in his tone.

  I sighed. I didn’t want to discuss Asher with Jarod. Besides, it wasn’t as though I could explain our point system. “Look, you and I aren’t friends. And like I said earlier, we won’t be seeing each other again, so—”

  “How does making me kinder benefit your love life?”

  “I’m going to hang up now.”

  “I allowed you into my home. I shared my family’s history. The least you can do is explain your intentions.”

  “Don’t try to guilt-trip me.”

  “I don’t appreciate being used, Feather.”

  I shut my eyes briefly and squeezed the bridge of my nose. “I was upfront about this being a bet.”

  “I didn’t realize it was to get another man. I thought it was just a silly wager with a friend. Now, I feel like a fool. I don’t like to feel like a fool.”