All That Falls

by Kimberly Frost

  “I was supposed to—I just wanted to be numb for a while. Life’s been so screwed up; I needed to forget about everything. Just for a little while,” Jersey whispered to her soup. Cerise moved the tray and sat closer, taking Jersey’s hands in hers.

  Cerise infused her voice with persuasive power and felt a surge of triumph when the magic coursed through her as she said, “You’re not afraid. You know that no one will be upset with you. You want to tell me everything.”

  Jersey’s lids drifted to half closed. “I called Griffin’s dealer.”

  What the hell? Griffin had a dealer? Cerise’s pulse quickened. Griffin told her he’d tried a few recreational drugs, but that he’d never used regularly. While they were together, he’d sworn he wasn’t taking anything except his prescribed Klonopin. She’d asked about it because of his mood swings, but she’d never come across any paraphernalia in the apartment…And he’d sworn up and down.

  He swore on his music.

  Had he been an addict and too afraid or ashamed to confide in her?

  “Was he using while we were together?” Cerise asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jersey said, but Cerise heard the hesitation in Jersey’s voice. She knew. She just didn’t want to trash Griffin’s memory.

  “So what happened when you went to meet the dealer?” Cerise asked, trying to keep the anger from leaking into her voice.

  “When I went to meet him, she was there. That scary ventala woman with the short black hair. And she said—she said Griffin owed her money. She’d only let me buy if I did something for her. I said I’d made a mistake. I told her to forget it, and I tried to go, but she wouldn’t let me.” Tears welled in Jersey’s eyes. “They held my arm and shot me up, made me drink something.”

  Assholes! Don’t tell me some of the ventala aren’t dangerous fucking criminals! And who’s the black-haired ventala woman? Tamberi Jacobi? The daughter of the syndicate leader? She’s rumored to be more predatory than any animal on earth.

  Cerise held tight to Jersey’s hands.

  “I don’t remember how I got back here,” Jersey continued. “I just remember the roof. There were a thousand whispers in my head. I had a vial clutched in my pocket, and I was supposed to break it over the blackbird. I climbed onto the ledge and walked along. I saw the painted blackbird, but I didn’t want to do what she said. I felt like I hated her and hated the whispering voices. I didn’t want to help them. So I just stood there, feeling dizzy and tired and sick. Then I lost my balance,” she cried. “Lost my balance and fell. I couldn’t breathe, and then I saw these facets of light, like I was looking through a diamond. He had giant wings. He caught me and a bunch of blond hair hung down around his face and mine like a cloak. I heard a low voice, not vicious like the whispers, just peaceful. I felt myself dying, but I wasn’t too scared because the angel was holding me, and I remember thinking that I’d finally get to see Griffin again. Even when my heart stopped, the angel stayed with me so I wasn’t afraid.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. Jersey stared at Lysander. “Thanks.”

  He nodded, and Cerise had to blink away her own tears and swallow against a throat so tight it burned like a thousand flames. If she’d had any doubts left regarding Lysander, they evaporated in that moment. No demon would’ve hovered over a dying girl to ease her fear. Lysander might be fallen, but there was still goodness in him.

  “I told Hayden about the vial. I thought maybe I’d dropped it on the roof. He went up there and smashed it on the ground, not near the picture of the bird. I don’t know who painted that ledge or why, but I know it’s bad. I didn’t think we should leave it, which is what I told Hayden. He got the glossy black paint you guys used on the trim in the teal bedroom and went up to the roof and painted over the picture.”

  Cerise nodded. “You guys were probably right to do that, but I needed to see it. Are you sure you don’t know who painted it? Could Griffin have done it?”

  “No way. Griffin couldn’t draw like that.”

  “Have you ever seen artwork that looks like it?”

  “I think the painting on the fourteenth floor looks kind of like it. When you get off the elevator you turn right and go to the end of the hall and around the corner. There’s a big mural.”

  “The top floor. Right under the roof,” Cerise said, exchanging a look with Lysander. Cerise leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Jersey’s forehead. Infusing her voice with power, she said, “Rest now.”

  Merrick has definitely gone soft, Tamberi thought, sitting at her desk whose top was made of recycled cut-glass windows and whose wood was stained with varnish infused with blood, à la The Red Violin.

  By now Merrick had certainly heard that she’d been telling everyone that he’d killed her father. He should’ve offered a swift denial and attempted to put a bullet in her brain by now, but there’d been only silence from his patch of the Varden.

  She’d heard it had taken him all night to mop up the casualties and hunker down. Let’s see how he manages a battering again tonight, she thought. With Merrick there could be no middle ground even if she’d wanted that, which she didn’t. She wanted him headless, heartless, and permanently dead.

  She’d heard that Cerise Xenakis had gotten back to the Etherlin by chopper. That pissed Tamberi off, but she had to keep the big picture in mind. Taking Merrick out and working with Reziel would be game-changers. She wouldn’t let temporary setbacks distract her.

  She looked over the maps again. She really wanted to blow up Merrick’s building and reduce it to rubble, but getting someone inside would be tough. The word was that the place was completely locked down, and there were rumors that he had an underground bunker with a separate exit. Of course that might be bullshit. Everyone gave him too much credit. No one could plan that far in advance. If he had, why would he have set up house in his apartment with his muse girlfriend and her derelict father? He could’ve taken them anywhere in the world. Only a moron would’ve sat around waiting for Tamberi to come for revenge. Unless Merrick hadn’t been worried. Unless he’d believed his own press and considered himself invincible. He wasn’t. No one was. And she was just the bitch to prove it.

  When her phone rang, she answered by demanding, “What?”

  “It’s Lane week.”

  She licked her lips. “The little girl’s back for more?”

  “No, the brother. Hayden Lane would like to know how much money his brother owed you.”

  Tamberi laughed. “Tell him fifteen grand.”

  “Shit, that guy was into you for fifteen grand worth of smack when he died? No wonder you were pissed when they found his body.” Griffin Lane didn’t owe me a fucking cent when he died or I’d have gotten paid long before now.

  “Tell the kid he has to deliver it in person.”

  “Will do.”

  Tamberi replaced the receiver. There now. Things were getting easier all the time.

  Chapter 15

  Cerise boarded the elevator with Lysander, but her mind wasn’t on the mural they were going to examine. Her racing pulse was driven by the muse magic that still flowed through her. Her power was definitely getting stronger. She subdued her smile, but couldn’t keep the rush of excitement from her step.

  There were two elements to muse magic. The first was the power to inspire, which was the most important skill, the one they all tried to cultivate and hone. The other was the power to influence people outside the realm of creativity. All of Cerise’s magic had been extinguished by Griffin’s death, but since the night in the retreat, she’d felt her power of persuasion returning. It hadn’t been strong enough to be of consequence until she used it on herself after Lysander left her alone and burning for him.

  Her magic was being slowly restored to her, and the catalyst for its restoration seemed to be contact with a seven-foot angel with stormy green eyes and a mane of tangled gold hair.

  “Lysander, is it possible that when I came into contact with Reziel’s follower, he or she did something to impair my memory?” A
nd my muse abilities?

  “When a human being comes into contact with an angel or demon, their memory is affected. People are not supposed to have access to the other side until their lives are over. We’re part of that other side, so we can influence what’s recalled. And heaven can influence it. For example, the rituals for raising a demon fade from memory. They have to be written down and carefully preserved. Even the ink or blood that those spells are written in degrades faster than it would normally. Hell-bound demons must work extremely hard to raise themselves to conscious thought in a human mind. They do it with one goal in mind. To be brought forth in the flesh.”

  “What happens when they become flesh?”

  “They can do whatever a human being can do and more. Many of them have wings and the knowledge of ages behind them.”

  “Could they interfere with a witch’s magic? Steal it or suppress it?”

  “If the witch raised the demon, then yes. Entering into a pact with a demon strips a person of heaven’s protection. Any supernatural power, any divine gift, including the soul, is forfeit and the demon can claim it at will.”

  “What if one met a demon and didn’t know what it was? If a person helped a demon unknowingly and without breaking any divine law, would that still make them vulnerable?”

  Lysander shrugged. “I’m not sure. To forfeit the soul, a pact must be entered into knowingly. The law is absolutely clear on that point. But whether someone’s supernatural abilities could be hijacked without some kind of compact…I can’t say I know. There are so few people with true supernatural gifts that I don’t imagine it comes up very often. I’m not a demon nor was I in heaven when the laws that apply to demons were laid down, so I don’t know all the restrictions that bind them.” As they exited the elevator, he added, “How long have your abilities been gone?”

  Obviously her questions had been too thinly veiled, but there was no one in a better position to provide her with information than Lysander. As far as most of the muse scholars were concerned the only way to amplify a muse’s magic was to commune with other muses or to wear the Muse Wreath. Neither thing had helped where her missing magic had been concerned. “My power isn’t gone,” she said.

  “But you’ve had trouble using or controlling it?”

  “For a time I did.”

  “When?”

  Until I met you. “It’s not important,” she said.

  He caught her arm and stopped her progress toward the mural. “It could be. We’re trying to discern with whom Reziel has made contact. If the person who’s helping him impaired your ability to inspire your aspirants, maybe we can pinpoint when you met him and who he is.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t someone we knew. Maybe he just broke into the house Griffin and I rented.”

  “You remember that? You remember a burglar?”

  She held out a hand. “As I said, my memory of that night is very vague, but I get flashes of terrible memories. Something was done to us…” She trailed off as she resumed walking.

  “When I saw Griffin’s tracks in the snow, I had this strong feeling that he’d been running from someone, but there were no other footprints. What if it was Reziel in the flesh? With his wings, Reziel could’ve flown through the woods without ever touching the snow and chased Griffin right off that cliff.” She stiffened as a feeling of dread coursed through her.

  “It’s possible. I’ve battled most of the demons who’ve risen, but there’s another archangel of the flesh who could have vanquished a risen demon before I got to it. It’s more likely that there was no demon, and the musician fled the house to escape Reziel’s human follower.”

  Cerise rubbed her hands together to warm them. “Even a person under demonic influence must be monstrous. Griffin must have been terrified.”

  “He was a coward.”

  “Hold on—”

  “By running, the musician abandoned you. The malignant force could have returned to the house where you were alone and incapacitated. If he loved you, he should never have left you.”

  “Griffin’s not you, Lysander. He wouldn’t have stood a chance against a demon.”

  “Whether he could’ve won is not the issue.”

  “We don’t know what happened. Maybe he left to draw the danger away from me. Unless I can remember more of that night, there’s no way of knowing. And why don’t you ever use Griffin’s name?”

  Lysander’s jaw tightened.

  “Lysander?”

  “I don’t respect him.”

  “God didn’t give men the courage of lions, Lysander. You can’t expect everyone to stand and fight. Especially in the face of something really terrifying, like a demon.”

  “Would you have run? Would you have left your lover to face a demon alone?”

  “I have no idea what I would have done.”

  “Yes you do, and so do I. You wouldn’t have deserted him or anyone you cared for. You would have stayed and died if necessary. He wasn’t worthy of you,” Lysander said with such contempt it made her wince.

  “Don’t say that. Don’t attack him when he’s not here to defend himself. I think Griffin might have left the house because of something I did or said that night. We had a fight. Maybe I kicked him out, and some kind of evil was lying in wait. Maybe it’s my fault.”

  “Maybe he deserved what he got.”

  “Lysander!” She stopped walking and scowled at him.

  Lysander stopped, too, and she noticed his hands were balled, like he wanted to put a massive fist right through something or someone.

  Clenching his jaws hard enough for her to see his muscles working, Lysander stood rigidly still. Then after a deep breath and a moment of silence, the tension seemed to ease and his hands opened.

  “There’s perhaps another reason that I despise the mu—that I despise Griffin Lane. As I mentioned when I told the story of how we fell, archangels aren’t immune to jealousy.”

  She cocked her head.

  “The closer you and I become, the less I like hearing about your feelings for him.”

  Because he looked sweetly dejected, Cerise stepped forward and put her arms around him. She grazed his cheek with her lips, hugging him.

  “It’s all right for you to have a little humanity in you. If you didn’t, I don’t think I’d be able to relate to you. Or that you’d be able to relate to me.”

  His arms snaked around her, creating a fierce embrace. Being pressed against his rock-hard body, which smelled so delicious, made things low in her body tighten. She felt her resolve cracking. It wasn’t just Lysander’s beauty and strength that drew her. They shared the same philosophy about love and friendship and loyalty, the same feelings about music and dance and who knew what else? At moments, she felt like her soul was a lock to which Lysander might hold the ultimate key, and all he needed to do was to slip it inside and turn it to open everything she was. She didn’t know whether that strange impression came from them being bound by his blood or if they really were just that well suited to each other. No matter the reason, it scared the hell out of Cerise.

  You could back away…

  She didn’t move.

  Or not.

  Moments ticked by, her body heat rising. She tightened her grip even as she murmured, “We should probably look at the mural.”

  His breath ruffled her hair in the most intriguing way, and her own breath caught. She wanted a kiss. And much, much more.

  He brushed his lips over her temple. Blood pounded through her veins.

  I want—

  No! You can’t have him right now. You’re in a freaking hallway!

  She sucked in a breath and twisted her upper body, struggling against his grip and against her own instincts.

  “You were going to tell me what happened to your magic,” he said, clearly stalling.

  She smiled. So he was burning, too. Well, at least they were in lust together.

  “Yeah, but I can walk and talk at the same time as you may have noticed.”

  He relea
sed her. She stepped back, tingling with unsatisfied cravings. She licked her lips and straightened her shirt, and all the while he watched her with an “I want to devour you” look that pleased her and made her wary.

  “There’s not much more to tell,” she said, walking farther from him. “After Griffin died, my magic wasn’t the same. At first, I thought it was grief, but that wasn’t the problem. Even when I started to recover emotionally, my magic didn’t.”

  He lengthened his stride and kept pace with her. “You said you’ve had a return of your powers though. Since when?”

  She hesitated, flushing. He raised his brows in question.

  “I’m not sure exactly when.”

  He cocked his head and looked faintly amused. “But you have an idea,” he pressed.

  “It seems to have started to really come back since we were alone in the apartment. Maybe when we danced.”

  “Or maybe when I made love to you?”

  She shrugged.

  His lips curved into a smile. “You’re welcome,” he murmured.

  She rolled her eyes. “All right. If it is because of you, then I’m glad. And grateful.”

  He nodded and added smugly, “So my supernatural presence trumps whatever evil Reziel visited upon you. I’ll remember to tell him that when I face him next. Right before I cut his throat and force him back into that sewer they call hell.”

  His mix of righteous fury and icy menace awed her. She couldn’t take her eyes off him and paused without realizing it.

  “Here, Cerise,” Lysander said, striding the rest of the way down the hall. He stood in front of a brightly colored mural of writhing vines. It was a tree house in the middle of the rain forest. “This is the same style. And here,” he said, nodding. He crouched down to the lower right corner. “This is the same symbol that was on the ledge mural. I think it’s how the artist signs his work.”

  She studied the logo of intertwined letters, I and R. “Her work,” Cerise said a little breathlessly, drowning in dread.

  “You know it,” Lysander said triumphantly, but his expression turned grim when he looked up at her face. “You know it,” he repeated, his tone flat.