“I’ll pick you up at nine sharp tonight.” Jarod’s voice broke me out of my musings. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
“I know. I know.” As I rose, I skated my palms over my thighs to smooth out my dress. “Your time’s worth a fortune.”
Jarod shot me another one of his disarming looks before turning his attention to Celeste. “Will you also be joining us later?”
“If Leigh wants me there.”
“I don’t.” As much as I appreciated her support this morning, I didn’t know what to expect from the last part of my mission. If it happened to be dangerous, and Celeste got hurt in the crossfire, I would never forgive myself.
“Well then, au revoir, Celeste.”
“To our paths never crossing again, Monsieur Adler,” she said sweetly.
“Celeste!” I chided her.
Jarod observed her with a quiet smile. “I like your friend, Leigh, and I don’t like many people. She’s honest. Most people aren’t.”
I wondered if he liked me but then stopped wondering this, because one, it was strange, and two, I didn’t need Jarod to like me. I just needed him to like doing good deeds so he would keep doing them once I ascended.
As I curled my fingers over the door handle, Jarod’s voice cut through the study. “Is it with you that she made the bet?”
Celeste glanced over her shoulder at him. “Excuse me?”
“Her bet. To marry some formidable male specimen.” His tone smacked of so much sarcasm my shoulder blades tightened.
Keeping my gaze on the cool bronze handle, I waited for Celeste to answer, praying she wouldn’t tell Jarod there was no bet, since our kind didn’t make wagers.
“Wasn’t with me,” she said at last.
“Have you met the man Feather wants to marry?”
I looked back at Jarod, found his gaze sliding up the peach waves of my hair before settling on my chin.
“I did,” Celeste said.
“And do you approve?”
“They’re perfect for each other.”
A blush crept into my cheeks. I forced the handle down before I blazed any redder. “I’ll see you tonight, Jarod.” In my haste, I bumped into Tristan.
“Leaving so soon, Leigh?”
“Yes.” The word came out slightly strangled.
“So, this is adieu?” Tristan’s eyes shone like pieces of cloudless sky.
“Not quite yet.” I glanced back at Jarod who was staring intently at his right-hand man as though trying to glean from his mind what had happened to the torn-jean lady. “I’m coming along tonight.”
“Are you?” He looked at Jarod. “How . . . exciting.” He didn’t sound very excited that I was coming; he sounded miffed. I supposed they were rarely shadowed by outsiders.
“Will you be coming along too?” I asked, as slow footsteps sounded on the marble.
The elderly woman with a dollop of gray hair hobbled into the foyer, leaning heavily on her grandson.
“Allez-y, madame.” Tristan gestured to the study.
Celeste slinked behind me as I stepped aside to let them pass.
Tristan closed the door behind them.
The wood was so thick it ate up the voices inside, yet I heard Jarod’s deep timbre seep through. “What happened to the other woman, Tristan? The one you escorted out of here.”
“I put her in a cab.”
Celeste cranked her head to the side. “You didn’t hurt her, then?”
Tristan snorted. “No, I didn’t hurt her.” Since he didn’t flinch, I assumed he was speaking the truth. Unless he was an exceptional liar.
I breathed a little easier. Even though I should’ve left then, let them work, I couldn’t help myself from straining toward the study to hear what was being said. “How many people do you usually help out on days like these?”
“I’m not at liberty to disclose that sort of information.”
“Do you help people, or is this some pretty front to hide what you actually do?” Celeste asked.
When Tristan’s eyes snapped to hers, my heart leaped right into my throat. Undermining the Mafia was probably not recommended.
I stepped in front of her to shield her from Tristan’s serrated gaze. “What she meant to say—”
“Is exactly what I said. I’m sorry, but I have a hard time believing you guys are do-gooders.” I knew she meant because of their sinner scores. Well, Jarod’s score. Unless she’d looked up Tristan on the holo-ranker.
A soft, unsteady voice whispered through the wood. Although I couldn’t catch all that was being said, I heard the word—prison.
I itched to press my ear against the wood, but Jarod’s demand that we leave twisted through me. It wouldn’t be right to eavesdrop. Still, I tried to collect a little more of the conversation while Tristan and Celeste stayed locked in a staring contest. The air crackled between them.
I laced my fingers around her wrist to break her concentration. “Does Jarod usually go help people out in person?”
Tristan unfastened his gaze from Celeste’s. “Depends on the help we sign up to provide.”
“So, what we’ll be doing tonight . . . it’s not out of character?”
The door behind me groaned. Hand curled around the boy’s neck, the older woman tottered out, her gait seemingly wobblier than when she’d entered, but that could’ve been due to the tears flowing into her wrinkles.
Were they tears of relief or disappointment? As they shuffled past us, I hunted the boy’s face, hoping he’d be easier to read than his grandmother. Although his long blond bangs obscured his downcast eyes, they didn’t hide his matching wet cheeks.
Whatever they’d come for, they hadn’t gotten.
Soles squeaked on the marble, and then Tristan blurred past me, going to the woman and boy, and preceded them across the sunlit courtyard.
“You can’t help everyone in this life, Feather.” Jarod’s deep voice rumbled toward me like a swell of thunder.
Did he mean him or me? I supposed it didn’t matter who this you was. He was right, it was impossible to help everyone, but he had the power to help so many. Had the woman and child not been worthy of kindness?
A new theory blotted out all the others: his score had never wavered, because dangling hope that wasn’t obtainable was the epitome of cruelty and negated any good act he might perform.
Wordlessly, I stepped out of his line of sight and then out of his realm.
Chapter 22
I hadn’t packed many clothes, and although laundry was an easy task in the guild thanks to our angel-fire hampers, I found myself spending my allowance on a dress in a cute French boutique that afternoon.
It wasn’t the sort of thing I would’ve normally picked—emerald-and-gold leopard print over two layers of gauzy black chiffon—but today was not a normal day. Today was my last day on Earth, and I wanted to wear a beautiful human creation. Besides, it seemed to be the sort of dress Parisian women sported, and since Jarod and Tristan were always so impeccably dressed, I didn’t want to stick out like a sore thumb.
As I clopped down the pedestrian street in black stilettos, the airy layers of chiffon swirled around my calves. What if Jarod and Tristan showed up in black cargo pants and black tees?
Too late to change outfits now. Soon, Jarod would arrive, and like he’d reminded me, he didn’t like to be kept waiting.
When I reached the main boulevard, the chauffeured vehicle, which had trailed me home, already hugged the curb, hazard lights carving the dark street.
My stomach rumbled, reminding me I’d skipped dinner. Then again, I’d devoured a giant pink macaron stuffed with sweetened whipped cream and raspberry confiture after my shopping expedition. My taste buds still tingled with its delectable flavor. Since food could be conjured into existence in Elysium, I’d wish for that pink morsel of paradise often.
Elysium . . . I was so close I could almost taste the brine and sunshine ricocheting off the quartz walls of the capital wreathed by the smoking Nirvana Sea; I cou
ld almost hear the celestial tongue, which would become more familiar to me than any human language.
The white-haired driver stepped out of the car and drew open the door to the back seat. I stole one last lungful of oxygen before folding myself into the black sedan. The first thing I noticed was that Jarod was wearing a black suit, which meant I wasn’t overdressed. The second thing I noticed was that his eyes were stained by shadows and fatigue.
Had he given an audience to all the hopefuls lined up outside his home?
I touched his knuckles. “Are you okay?”
His dark gaze lowered to my bold fingers. I pulled them back and curled them into my lap.
He sighed. “It was a long day.”
“It’s almost over,” I reminded him with a smile.
He lifted his gaze from the spot of skin I’d touched and set it on me, or rather on my neck and then lower. His expression darkened as it skated back up my body. “We’re not going to the theater, Feather,” he all but growled. “We’re going to the Twentieth, one of the sketchiest neighborhoods in this Goddamn city. What the fuck got into you to wear . . . that?”
“You and Tristan are both wearing suits.”
“I’ll give her my jacket,” Tristan offered, his fingers already dropping to the button.
Jarod shot him a glare before shrugging out of his own jacket and lobbing it at me. “She’ll wear mine.”
Once I’d recovered from the shock of the woolen slap, I speared my arms through the sleeves, the platinum silk lining warm against my bare skin. “Did you find anyone worthy of saving after I left?”
He stared out his window at the ebb and flow of cars around us. After almost a full minute, he turned back toward me, and then almost a full minute after that, he said, “Perhaps.”
My lungs filled with Jarod’s mineral, sweet scent. “Why do you always have to be so enigmatic? After tonight, we won’t see each other anymore.”
My argument backfired. “Why would I share details of my life with someone I won’t see again?”
“Forget it,” I grumbled.
We rode in silence after that. Well, not in complete silence. Tristan, at least, chatted with me, asked me where I was going next. I told him back to New York—not a lie. Then he enquired as to my plans once I got home, and I glanced at Jarod, wondering if he’d informed his friend about my bet.
“I’m not sure yet,” I said.
Jarod, who’d seemed lost in thought, deadpanned, “She’s going to settle down as one does at . . . how old are you again, Feather?”
“Twenty.” I ran my fingers through my hair, which lay in gentle waves against his jacket. The color might’ve been jarring, but at least, my angel-blood made my locks naturally glossy and soft.
Tristan twisted around. “You’re getting married?”
“I’m thinking about it.” But it was Asher, not me, who needed to be thinking about it. The choice wasn’t mine.
“Who’s the lucky man?” Tristan asked.
The gold accents woven throughout the leopard print glinted as I rolled the fabric between my fingers.
“Yes, Feather, who’s the lucky man?” Jarod repeated tauntingly.
I nibbled on my bottom lip, not feeling like discussing Asher any further, because it wasn’t making me happy. “You don’t know him.”
My gruff tone made Jarod smirk. “Perhaps we do know him. We know a lot of people, don’t we, Tristan?”
Tristan’s teeth gleamed in the dim interior.
“Not him,” I said.
“What’s his name?” Jarod needled me.
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“Why not?”
I decided to use his exact words. “Why would I share details of my life with someone I won’t see again?”
Jarod’s eyes seemed to spark in the obscurity. “Touché.” After a beat of silence, he asked, “What would happen if I didn’t help Sasha tonight?”
His question, coupled with his heady cologne, had my lungs struggling for air. “You promised him. And me.”
“But what happens if I tell Francis to turn around and drop us off at L’Ami Louis instead?”
I didn’t know who this Louis was; all I knew was that his place wasn’t our destination. My knuckles whitened on the fabric. “You’re having second thoughts?”
“I’m hungry, and considering the sound coming from your stomach, so are you. L’Ami Louis has the best foie gras in all of Paris. Do you like foie gras, Feather?”
I gaped at him. “You’re thinking of going back on your promise because you’re hungry?”
“Don’t look so outraged.”
“I’m not outraged; I’m shocked that you’d let your stomach take precedence over your soul.”
“There you go about my soul again. My soul is unsalvageable however many good deeds I do.”
“That’s not true, Jarod!”
A dark lock fell into his eyes. He pushed it back, but it tumbled over his forehead again. “Feather, you don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve done. All I’ve done.”
“I’m sure it’s all very terrible, but everyone can change. You just need to want to change.”
“Maybe I don’t want to change. Francis—”
Sensing he was about to tell his driver to double back, I said, “Jarod, please.” I wasn’t past getting on my knees to beg. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that. “Sasha is counting on us. On you. Please let’s go to him.”
He regarded me a long time, as though weighing the pros and cons of keeping his promise to the restaurant owner.
“After we get rid of his unwanted solicitors, we can go to dinner. I mean you and Tristan. You don’t have to take me to dinner.” Sweet Elysium, could I sound any lamer?
Again, Jarod evaluated my plea quietly. I’d rarely met anyone as comfortable with silence as Jarod Adler.
“Monsieur Adler?” Francis asked.
Gaze not wavering off mine, Jarod flicked his fingers toward the windshield. “Proceed to Rue Levert.” Once his driver gunned the car back into the right direction, the mob boss crossed his ankle over his opposite knee. “I’m holding you to dinner, Feather.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
We rode the rest of the way in silence—Tristan typing on his phone, the driver concentrating on avoiding motorized scooters, and Jarod staring out his window.
Soon, we were traveling down a street lined with pale rectangular buildings devoid of ornate carvings and a crowd that didn’t glitter like the one swarming Saint-Germain. The car slid to a stop in front of a restaurant with a red awning inscribed with loopy white letters forming the word Layla.
Our arrival attracted more than a little attention. I was suddenly glad for Jarod’s jacket. As the driver opened my door, Tristan pulled something out of his jacket pocket—a little black gun. He checked the barrel, then slid it into the waistband of his pants.
Guns caused so much damage. I was about to ask Tristan if it was truly necessary when Jarod said, “Try not to shoot yourself this time.”
Tristan snorted. “T’es drôle.” You’re funny.
Jarod grinned, which knocked some of the earlier worry off his face. When he saw that I was still planted on the back seat, he mused, “Having second thoughts about tagging along, Feather?”
I pulled the jacket even tighter and hopped out. Tristan joined me first, then Jarod circled the rear of his car and walked straight into Layla’s, and we followed.
A woman toting a slab of slate covered in chalked scribbles gasped, her fuchsia-tinted lips forming a perfect “O” on her otherwise colorless face.
“Sasha!” she called out, her voice a tad strangled.
Sasha looked up from a bottle of wine he was uncorking beside a table of four.
She wrenched her head toward us.
I smiled at her, which just seemed to deepen the fine lines puckering her brow.
Sasha poured the wine at record speed into his diners’ glasses, then set the bottle on their table before
hurrying to greet us. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Adler.”
“Have they arrived?” Jarod asked, pleasant as usual.
Sasha’s eyes darted nervously around him. “Not yet. Please, sit. Layla chérie, la bouteille.” Layla darling, the bottle.
As he led us to a table propped against the roughcast wall, his wife all but tossed the piece of slate on a chair before bustling toward the L-shaped wooden bar in the back and through a swinging door. Jarod selected the seat facing the street and leaned against the coarse wall, examining the small space and the two dozen or so people crowding it. The conversations hadn’t picked up again, everyone still much too busy gaping. I loosened my grip on the jacket, the attention fanning heat through me.
Tristan pulled out the chair opposite Jarod’s for me, then sat beside me just as Layla bustled over holding a dusty bottle of red wine with a tattered label. Jarod gave the bottle a cursory glance while Tristan read the label slowly.
“Château Montrose ’01. You spoil us,” he said, flashing Layla his customary flirtatious grin.
Her cheeks pinked as she uncorked the bottle in one quick pull and tipped it toward my glass. I was about to refuse but remembered alcohol hadn’t cost me any feathers. Besides, declining their gift might offend them, so I let Layla pour.
Once she returned to the table she’d been taking the order from when we’d arrived, Tristan raised his wine. “À la tienne, Leigh.”
“To all of our health,” I countered, lifting my glass and clinking it against his. I waited for Jarod to pick up his glass, but he was still assiduously observing the room, from its timbered ceiling to its clusters of bare bulbs that puddled light on each square table.
“Leigh,” Tristan said, pointing to his eyes, then to mine. “I’d rather dodge seven years of bad sex.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s customary to look into someone’s eyes when you cheer. To prevent bad luck in the bedroom. Or wherever else you enjoy getting naked.” He added that last part with a lascivious wink that I’d come to understand was part of his arsenal when interacting with members of the opposite sex, so I neither took his words nor his wink personally.
Feather (Angels of Elysium Book 1) Page 13