Now she was back, and even though he’d had almost two hours in which to prepare, he still didn’t quite know what to say to her. Countless millennia on this planet, and he couldn’t even formulate a strategy to deal with one human female.
Not just any human female, though. Felicia.
Who’d managed to reduce him to stalking in less than forty-eight hours. Quite an accomplishment, really. Logically, he knew he should get up, retrieve his truck from its parking place across the street, and head home. In a few days he’d probably forget how her mouth tasted, or the sound of her laugh, or the heat of her flesh beneath his fingertips, or the way she had wrapped her legs around him and —
Crap.
He tossed a couple of dollar bills on the tabletop and stood. No doubt Abigor would laugh if he discovered the predicament his partner had gotten himself into. Emotional connections were foolish, after all. What kind of a future could he have with this woman? Demons didn’t exactly get to settle down in the suburbs with a wife and a mortgage and a couple of kids and a dog. If they were lucky and did their jobs, they got to stay topside and harvest souls. In exchange they could have the odd steak or bottle of cabernet or even a few good lays as long as things didn’t get complicated.
Mouth hardening, he waited for a break in traffic, then crossed the street. Maybe he didn’t have a future with Felicia, but he was damned if he was going to leave things the way they stood now.
• • •
Someone knocked at the door, and for a few seconds Felicia contemplated not getting up to answer it. She’d been in no mood to do any painting after she returned from Sunset Villas, but she didn’t want to prove Lauren right by brooding over her visit with her mother instead of getting some work done. So she’d spent the last ten minutes seated in front of the unfinished portrait, brush dangling from her hand. Getting up from the easel before she’d painted a single stroke felt a little too much like defeat.
But it could be Rosa, who sometimes required assistance with opening jars when her fibromyalgia got the better of her. It wouldn’t be very neighborly to leave the poor woman standing out in the hallway. So Felicia set down her brush and went to answer the door.
Black eyes stared down into hers. Definitely not Rosa.
“Oh,” she said flatly, “it’s you.”
Sam didn’t blink, even though most men would have been taken aback by such a lackluster reception. “Do you have a minute?”
She was tempted to answer, Not really, and shut the door in his face, but she knew she couldn’t quite bring herself to be that rude. Also, he looked reassuringly human standing there, hair a bit tousled from the warm, dry winds outside, the toes of his boots scuffed and a faint whiff of espresso hanging around him. She found it hard to believe that a demon could get all those details quite so right.
“All right,” she replied, then stepped aside so he could come in.
He took a few steps into the loft and paused, his gaze resting on her abandoned brush and easel. The scent of paint was sharp in the air.
“You’re working.”
“It’s okay,” she said, and lifted her shoulders. “I hadn’t gotten very far. I was half tempted to just leave it and go outside to paint for a while. I like the hills this time of year.” She realized he probably couldn’t care less what she did or didn’t like to paint, and stopped herself from going any further.
But she watched his gaze slide past her, to the grouping of landscapes she had hung on the far wall of the loft. “I thought you did portraits.”
“To pay the rent, yes. The landscapes are just for me.”
“They’re good.”
“Thank you.”
He moved away from her, going closer to the landscape paintings. She’d hung them rough, canvas against the brick. She hadn’t seen the point in spending money on frames, and besides, she rather liked the contrast of the sharp corners of the canvases against the unpainted brick wall. He surprised her by asking, “Griffith Park, right?”
“Yes. It’s close enough that I don’t feel as if I’ve wasted a whole day driving somewhere just to get a good view.” She shoved her hands in her jeans pockets. She was pretty sure he hadn’t come here to discuss her paintings with her. “Look, about last night — ”
“About that.”
He still wore a pleasant expression, but once more she thought she saw that odd reddish glint in his eyes. And it was the middle of the afternoon, on a sunny day. She couldn’t blame that crimson spark on a trick of the street lighting or even her imagination. Despite the warm breeze that blew in through her open windows, a chill inched its way down her spine. Somehow she managed to stay where she was, though every instinct told her to run.
“I guess I’m just trying to figure out what happened,” he went on. He sounded rueful, and more than a little confused. “It seemed like we were having a pretty good evening. Then it all changed.”
That’s for sure. Discovering that the guy you just banged might be a demon can do that to a girl. She didn’t reply right away, though. This whole situation was so far outside her frame of reference she didn’t quite know what she should do. She had a feeling if Sam really were some sort of supernatural being, he wouldn’t be all that thrilled to learn his cover was blown.
He obviously expected some sort of answer, though, and she knew she’d better sound convincing even if she couldn’t tell him the truth. “I guess I got a little freaked out,” she said, reassured that at least her voice sounded relatively normal. “It had been a while for me, and I hadn’t really ever done something like that before — you know, with someone I’d just met. I suppose I was thrown a little off balance. I needed some time alone to think.”
His expression didn’t change. “And now that you’ve had time to think?”
What was the usual response in situations like this? “Look, Sam, you seem to be a nice guy, but — ”
He held up a hand. “Don’t. Spare me the ‘nice guy’ speech, all right? Because I have a feeling that’s not it.”
So much for the old chestnuts. Felicia wanted to run a hand through her hair in frustration, but since she’d pulled the unruly curls back into a ponytail as she readied herself to paint, that wouldn’t really work. She settled for crossing her arms. “You want the truth? Okay — you go first.”
His brows drew together. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
Oh, I’m pretty sure you do. “The truth is that the people who know me also know I don’t freak out easily. So what do you think happened last night to make me act the way I did?”
A flash of comprehension in his dark eyes, and a thinning of the mouth that had kissed her so memorably the night before. That was all she needed to see. He knew exactly what had set her off. Whether he’d admit it was an entirely different matter.
And then a shrug, a casual lift of broad shoulders beneath a jacket that was far too heavy for the warm autumn day outside. Then again, he was probably used to extreme heat, wasn’t he?
With that gesture, Felicia knew he wouldn’t tell her the truth. Wouldn’t…or couldn’t. Did it really matter? Besides, did she really want to know?
Probably not.
“Well, here we are, then,” she said, and this time she didn’t bother to keep the weariness or frustration out of her voice. “We hardly know each other, so I didn’t really expect you to tell me the truth. That’s your prerogative. But since I’m trying to get some work done…” She let her words trail off and directed an eloquent glance at the door.
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I really screwed this up, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” she replied, a little astonished at her own boldness. An unexpected wash of anger passed over her. Maybe it was simple rage at having the one guy she thought she liked turn out to be someone she’d be crazy to want. “You did.”
She turned away from him deliberately and went back to her abandoned paintbrush. She didn’t want to look at him anymore. He was too human right now. If she looked at him one
minute longer, she worried that she’d make herself forget what she’d seen the night before.
This time, he did slam the door. Felicia winced at the sound. Then she took a deep breath and reached for her palette.
• • •
“Fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck.”
“Language, Samael.”
He was so wound up he hadn’t even realized that someone was sitting in the passenger seat of the Silverado. A Someone he certainly hadn’t expected to see.
Samael blinked. “Uriel?”
“Drive, Samael. You and I have much to discuss.”
If an archangel tells you to drive, you drive. Samael stuck the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb. He waited until they were headed safely westward on Wilshire before saying, “Can I ask what this is about?”
“You may ask.”
Samael risked a quick sideways glance. Although the angel had taken on a somewhat human guise, he could never have passed in a crowd the way Samael did on a daily basis. A terrible light glowed behind his pale eyes, and his features had a perfection even the best plastic surgeon could never achieve. No wonder he’d been waiting inside the truck instead of out on the sidewalk.
That begged the question as to what he was doing in Los Angeles at all. The last confirmed angel sighting in L.A. had been back in 1983, and even then the angel in question had been a simple messenger, not one of the Seven.
“Slumming, huh?” he asked.
“Hardly,” Uriel replied, his tone unruffled. “Do you mind if I turn on the air conditioning?”
Samael fought back a grin. “Go ahead.”
Uriel flicked a finger, and the dial on the climate control unit rotated all the way over to the right. He let out a sigh. “Better. That interview didn’t go very well, did it?”
“Eavesdropping?”
The angel said smoothly, “I would prefer ‘monitoring.’ Not quite so negative a connotation, and closer to the mark in terms of intention. At any rate, it would seem Ms. McGovern isn’t quite ready to admit the truth of your existence. Then again, neither are you, it seems.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Samael demanded. The light at Figueroa turned red, and he stomped on the brakes.
“Have you ever wondered, in all the time you’ve toiled here on Earth, why you’re allowed so many liberties? Why you’re given the opportunity to live in many ways like a mortal man, including these liaisons you indulge in from time to time?”
Samael shot a quick glance over at Uriel. The angel stared forward, the marble perfection of his profile in stark contrast to the shabby streets around them. “Perks. That’s all. It’s not as if I need a dental plan.”
The corners of Uriel’s mouth turned upward for a brief moment. “To be sure. A question, though — did you ever stop to wonder what happened to Alastor? Or Eligos?”
“I thought they were reassigned.”
“And yet you haven’t seen them in Hell for some time.”
The light changed, and Samael pushed down on the gas a little more heavily than he intended. The Silverado jumped forward like a startled horse.
Come to think of it, he really hadn’t given the two demons Uriel had just mentioned much thought. L.A. had been Alastor’s stomping grounds back in the day when the city was still called “El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Angeles del Río de Porciúncula.” Then Samael got Alastor’s assignment. At the time he’d only been grateful for the cushy topside posting. He’d presumed that Alastor had transgressed somehow and had been banished to the Pit. Same for Eligos, except his jurisdiction once encompassed the modern-day Bay Area.
“So?” he asked Uriel. “Hell’s a big place. I go down, make a drop, and then come back up. I’m not there to catch up on old acquaintances.”
The unearthly smile returned to Uriel’s lips. “Your dedication is admirable, although perhaps it has prevented you from seeing as clearly as you might.”
“Did you come all the way down here just to throw a few insults my way?” Samael tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He was tempted to pull over and ask the archangel to get out — not that Uriel would comply. Still, the angelic jabs were a bit much to take, especially on top of that awkward not-argument he’d just had with Felicia.
“Of course not. I merely wanted to remind you of a concept you seem to have forgotten.”
“And what’s that?”
Uriel turned pale eyes toward him. “Redemption.”
“Come again?”
“You demons are so narrow in your focus. You all think there is no hope of change, no chance to be anything more than what you are.” The archangel faced forward once again, then said casually, “That light just turned yellow.”
Cursing, Samael jammed on the brakes again and managed to keep the truck from going more than a foot or so over the limit line. Goddamn distracting angels and their circular arguments —
“Getting angry serves no purpose,” Uriel commented. “You would do best to listen. It was pride that cast you down before. If you let it, pride will keep you trapped in this existence forever.”
Had it been pride? The Fall had happened so long ago, Samael hardly thought of it anymore. It was easier to do that than to admit he and his fellow demons might have made a colossal mistake. Lucifer could be horribly persuasive, damn his silver tongue.
Well, defying God had seemed like a good idea at the time.
“What does pride have to do with any of this?”
“More than you might think.” Uriel crossed his arms; his fingers looked pale and oddly boneless against the dark sleeves of his suit jacket. “What stopped you from telling Ms. McGovern the truth?”
“I like my job,” Samael replied, and nudged the Silverado forward, since the light had just turned green. “I don’t want to lose it. I also like her. She shouldn’t be punished just because she has spectacularly bad timing.”
“True. But perhaps you fear a punishment that will never come.”
“I’d rather not take the chance.”
“Pity,” said Uriel. “Because until you let go of your pride and your fear, nothing will change. Just because you cannot see your chains, it doesn’t mean they do not exist.”
And then, having delivered this pronouncement, he vanished. A wash of golden light filled the truck’s interior for a few seconds and was gone. Samael reflected it was a good thing they’d been moving at a decent clip when Uriel pulled his disappearing act; even L.A.’s notoriously unobservant drivers might have noticed the yellow light that flooded the truck’s cab if they’d been stopped at a light when it happened.
As for the rest…
“Chains, my ass,” he muttered. Just because Uriel was an archangel didn’t mean he knew what he was talking about. Samael couldn’t have told Felicia the truth about what she saw last night — the risks were too great. Pride had nothing to do with any of it. And redemption? Not a word you’d usually find in a demon’s vocabulary.
All the same, he found himself hoping for a sudden rash of evil-doers’ deaths. Anything to keep his mind off Felicia McGovern and the way she’d squared her shoulders as she turned away from him to pick up her paintbrush. That small gesture told him more than any words could have. She wanted nothing to do with him.
If only he could force himself to feel the same way about her.
• • •
This is impossible. Felicia set down her brush for the tenth time and pushed her stool away from the easel. So much for using her work to take her mind off Sam. She’d already made a few mistakes that could be painted over tomorrow once she got her head screwed on a little straighter. She couldn’t risk the kind of error that would force her to start over. She knew Lauren had already communicated her timetable to the governor’s people, and a delay in starting that set of portraits could result in her losing the contract altogether.
Despite its high ceilings and uncluttered space, the loft suddenly felt claustrophobic. Felicia stood and went to the kitchen for a gla
ss of water. After she poured herself a glass and went back out to the living room area, her gaze fell on the grouping of landscapes that hung on the far wall.
She let out a breath. Of course. She could pack up her portable easel and one of the smaller canvases she’d bought a few weeks earlier, and get herself off to Griffith Park for some therapeutic outdoor painting. It was early enough in the afternoon that she’d have a good three hours or so of daylight before she had to quit for the day. Maybe that was all she needed. At the very least, a change of scenery couldn’t hurt.
Fifteen minutes later, she had the Volvo pointed north on I-5. Light flecks of ash dotted her windshield, and the skies overhead were a dusty dun color. Maybe not the best conditions for outdoor painting. On the other hand, it would be quite a challenge to capture that hazy quality of light and the sky’s sullen hue on canvas. With any luck, focusing on the painting would take her mind far enough away that she could forget about Sam for a few hours.
Hell of a name for a demon, she mused, as she got off the freeway at Los Feliz and headed up the hill toward the park. Not that she actually believed Sam was his real name. It didn’t really matter, since she knew she’d never see him again.
She tried to ignore the pang she felt at that realization. Crazy of her. Even setting aside the entire demon-or-not question, she’d only met the guy the night before last. One great date and spectacular sex didn’t exactly constitute a love for the ages, after all. So what if she’d thought he might be someone she could be with, someone who seemed to laugh at the same things she did and who showed none of the warning signs exhibited by the angst-ridden messes who’d previously littered her love life?
None of that mattered, compared to what she’d seen the night before. Worse, it had all been a lie. He wasn’t who she had thought he was.
Stop it, she told herself. If she’d set out on this little excursion for the sole purpose of excising Sam from her thoughts, she was doing a spectacularly bad job of it.
Playing With Fire Page 6