All That Falls

by Kimberly Frost

  A maroon light fixture with uneven scalloped edges like it had been formed from melted wax hung from a distressed chain over the bar. Because the fixture was familiar, Cerise stopped walking. The light was similar to the ones hanging over the kitchen counter in Griffin’s Etherlin apartment. His were purple and yellow, like a bruise. She hadn’t liked their asymmetric shape, and Griffin’s lights had an impression etched into them that looked like bats’ wings, which Cerise found creepy. Griffin had denied the pattern’s resemblance to bats, saying it reminded him of an umbrella. He said the fixture had come from a shop in San Francisco. If that was true, how had another piece from the same artist ended up in a Varden bar?

  She stood very still with Lysander’s hand pressed against the small of her back, whether just to touch her or to urge her forward, she wasn’t sure. The question staring her in the face had her rooted to the spot.

  Lysander asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “Too soon to tell,” she said, running a hand through her hair. “I’m going behind that bar.”

  Like blades through flesh, Merrick and Lysander cut through the fray. Cerise strode forward, inclining her head at the bartenders who were splashing liquor into glasses and passing cocktails to the raucous crowd.

  “Need something?” one of the bartenders barked at her.

  Merrick leaned against the bar, saying, “She’s not your concern.”

  The bartenders jerked to a stop, looking over Merrick and Lysander.

  “What can I get you, Merrick?” the bartender asked.

  “The Macallan Twelve on the rocks,” Merrick said. “And a pair of orange ’ritas.”

  Cerise stood under the light fixture examining it for a signature. Instead she found Molly Times lyrics etched on the inner lip. Razor-ending zero, I endanger lives.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” she said flatly. She turned to the bartender who set the drinks in front of Merrick. “Do you know the artist who made this glass?” she asked, tapping it with her fingertip.

  “Don’t know about the artist, but it was a gift to the club’s owner from Tamberi Jacobi. She named the place, too. Di Vetro means ‘of glass.’”

  “Did the lead singer of the Molly Times ever come here?”

  “Griffin Lane?”

  She nodded.

  “Yeah, sure. He showed up with her sometimes.”

  “With who?”

  “With Beri Jacobi.”

  What? No! With that psychotic ventala bitch who raises—he wouldn’t—

  The rushing sound in her ears drowned out the noise, and she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

  The bartender slid one of the orange drinks to her. “Need this?” he asked in a tone that was ripe with condescension.

  She glared at him, but took the glass. Tipping her head back, she hoped the alcohol burning its way down her throat would make her numb.

  “They came in together?” she asked.

  “And they left together. And while they were here, they were together,” the bartender said with a smiling sneer. “He might’ve been your aspirant, but she owned him as sure as if he’d come with a price tag. Wore him like a hat. Don’t know where she bit him, but he walked like it was someplace close to his balls.”

  “Is that right?” Cerise asked, her voice distant and brittle as she felt her heart break all over again. How many other women were there? Did he ever really love me? Or was it an act to get me to help him with his music?

  No. No way. I would’ve known—wouldn’t I have known?

  Feeling humiliated, the lyrics to “Sympathy, Too” echoed in her head. Taken all at midnight, Black berries done all right. It seemed that as Griffin had sworn, those lyrics weren’t a reference to Cerise’s black cherry hair. Black berries…Black Beri’s done all right. Had Griffin actually woven a reference to Tamberi Jacobi into his song?

  Cerise felt sick and precariously close to tears.

  God, I thought he was hurting, that he needed my support.

  He made such a fool of me.

  How did I not see it? Not sense it?

  She slapped the fixture hard, and it swung in a long arc. Unfortunately the chain wasn’t long enough for it to shatter against the wall. She passed the swinging glass on her way out from behind the bar.

  Stop. Just stop.

  He was a liar and a cheat. She’d given him her time, her talent, her heart…All those months she’d grieved for him—that she’d worried that she might have done something to make him hurt himself. She’d felt so guilty, so responsible. She’d even lost the thing that mattered most—her muse magic.

  Her eyes burned and she blinked. Don’t you dare cry over him! Not now!

  “Hey, Cerise—” the bartender said, grinning at her.

  “I wouldn’t,” Merrick said in a low voice.

  At Merrick’s warning, the guy shrugged. “She asked.”

  Merrick’s stare was diamond hard. It held the promise of a painful death. She loved him for that. The remnants of the bartender’s smile evaporated.

  “Get you another Scotch?” the bartender asked.

  Merrick said nothing. His eyes did all the talking, and the bartender ambled to the other end of the bar.

  She swallowed past the pain in her throat. “There are some nights—like this one—when I’d like to be able to crush someone with a look,” Cerise said. “You’ll have to teach me that trick.”

  Merrick nodded. “Need another drink?”

  “No,” she said, glancing at Lysander’s face and then down his chest to the flat muscles of his stomach. The archangel watched her with interest. He hadn’t interfered in her exchange with the bartender, and she was glad. He had faith in her ability to take care of herself in most situations, which meant a lot to her. But she did desperately want to escape the pain and frustration she felt, and Lysander had proven himself an excellent distraction.

  “You know what works better than skulking off to a corner to lick one’s wounds?” she asked Merrick, her voice full of false bravado.

  “What’s that?” he responded.

  “Skulking off to the corner with someone pretty who’ll do it for you.”

  Merrick flashed a smile. “True.”

  “If a fight breaks out and you need a wingman, or woman, give a shout.”

  Merrick nodded toward his glass, and the bartender materialized immediately to pour him another shot.

  “Take your time. I’ll cover my end.”

  “I don’t care what they say about you, Merrick,” Cerise said and pulled out an expression Merrick was rumored to use, “you’re a peach.”

  Merrick laughed and glanced at Lysander. “You’re lucky I met my muse before I met yours. Things might’ve turned out differently.”

  She didn’t believe that for a minute, but when her pride was in shreds on the floor, it was a cool thing for Merrick to say.

  “No, they wouldn’t have,” Lysander said flatly. “You were right all along. She’s mine, and eventually I would’ve taken her away from anyone she was with. Even you.”

  Merrick saluted Lysander with his glass.

  Lysander pulled Cerise to him and tipped his head down to whisper in her ear. “The more we find out about Griffin Lane, the luckier it is that he’s already dead because I probably would’ve killed him.”

  She smiled and kissed the side of Lysander’s neck. “You know, you’ve got a talent for making me forget there’s anyone in the world besides you. I wish you’d do that now.”

  Lysander’s mouth found hers, and his hand cupped the back of her head, drawing her close. The world swirled in seductive sensations. She pressed forward so they were chest-to-chest, heartbeat-to-heartbeat.

  “Come dance with me,” he said.

  They wove through the club and up a curled staircase to a room with cathedral ceilings and enormous metal and crystal chandeliers. The stage was set for a band, but they must have been between sets because a DJ in a cubbyhole controlled the playlist at the moment. The dim room was slightly smoky a
nd an enormous wrought iron birdcage hung about twenty-feet overhead.

  Cerise mouthed the words to Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep,” which roared from the sound system. People turned to stare as she and Lysander strode to the center of the dance floor. They were taller than everyone and the low light fractured around him, so he couldn’t be ignored. Once they began to move in that perfectly matched, born-to-dance-together way, the other dancers formed a circle around them, swaying and staring.

  Songs changed, their steps changed, but she could feel him, anticipate what he’d do and how he’d do it. When “Born This Way” pounded from the speakers, she hit a crescendo of adrenaline and endorphins. She’d danced away from him to the very edge of the large dance floor. People writhed and tapped their feet to the beat. As she rushed forward, she was one with the music. She leapt, and Lysander caught her and hoisted her. She arched her back, taking flight. Sailing upward, ten, twenty, thirty feet. Her fingers skimmed the chandelier, setting it in motion. Screams and cheers rose to meet her.

  Cerise turned in the air, reversing the climb. There was a moment when her stomach clenched as she fell, but she never doubted that he’d catch her. She tossed her head back and watched the distance between her and the ceiling yawn, lights blurring, beat slamming. It was perfection.

  Strong hands and arms guided, then arrested her descent. Her toes and fingers skimmed the floor to massive cheers and foot-stomping. Lysander swung her up and she curled against him, kissing that mouth before sliding down his body to land gracefully on the floor. The applause went on and on.

  He glanced down at her and winked. She smiled.

  Thank you.

  He pulled her up against him as the next song started. The still exploding crowd finally calmed after the first chorus.

  “We could charge for that show,” she murmured, spinning toward him and away. Her hand lay against his naked chest, feeling his heart thud. She slid her fingers down his torso and hooked them just inside his pants. His muscles tightened.

  He grabbed her arm and bumped against gyrating dancers as he led her away from the floor. She didn’t ask where they were going. She didn’t care.

  He pulled her down a dark hall, then shoved the door to the men’s restroom open.

  “Out,” Lysander said to a young guy who was washing his hands.

  The guy raised his brows, but didn’t argue. When he was halfway into the hall, he said, “The door doesn’t lock, dude. Good luck.”

  When the door swung shut, Lysander pushed her against it and slanted his mouth over hers. He smelled of sandalwood and musk, and his skin was cool and damp and wonderful against her hot flesh. She pulled him tighter to her body. His demanding mouth crushed her lips.

  He lifted her, and her limbs tangled around him, her fingers twisting into the waves of his hair, tugging now and again as they rubbed against each other. It quickly became less than enough.

  Her heart pounded like the hoofbeats of racing horses. His breath turned ragged and harsh. She ground her body against his.

  “Cerise?”

  “Yes,” she said, fumbling with her zipper.

  In moments, they were naked enough. He buried his face in her hair, his lips against her neck as he thrust up and into her. He was silent and she tried to be as well, biting her lip and stifling the low groan that escaped her throat.

  Their weight and Lysander’s knee against the door prevented anyone from entering, though a couple of people tried. She would’ve laughed at the wild absurdity of it, but her concentration was focused elsewhere.

  Her body reached for satisfaction, and she raced him there. Digging her heel into his back, her fingernails into his shoulder, she scratched his flesh hard enough to break the skin. He exhaled, but didn’t vary his tempo.

  Moments later, orgasm crashed over her. Her body tightened and wailed with joy, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.

  “I won,” she husked in his ear.

  Lysander ignored the words and kept going for much, much longer, wringing pleasure from her until she shook from the exertion.

  He finally came in a thundering rush. He held her for a while. She dangled from his arms, unconcerned that if he let her go, she’d melt into a puddle on the stone floor.

  “Who won?” he asked, raising her, staring into her eyes. “Me, I’m certain,” he said, his lips curving into a satisfied smile.

  “How do you figure?” she demanded and then tapped her chest to indicate herself. “First and more times. If we’re keeping score, I won. Clearly.”

  He set her on her feet. “A tie?”

  “If you say so,” she said with mock skepticism as she righted her clothes.

  “I love you,” he said in a casual tone as he zipped his pants.

  She gazed up sharply, her fingers going still. “Is that so?”

  “That is so,” he said. He leaned forward and kissed her, then tapped his chest. “First. And most deeply.” His eyes were a brighter shade than she’d ever seen them, moss giving way to forest green. “And more than I’ve ever loved anyone before…so I win,” he said.

  “First maybe, but most deeply? It’s too soon to judge,” she said, feeling dangerously happy. He’d been exactly what she needed tonight. But what would happen if he earned his redemption? Would he love her enough to stay earthbound? She wasn’t brave enough to ask him.

  Instead, she walked to the sink and turned on the taps. Cupping water in her hands, she splashed herself with it, then toweled off her face and neck. Her skin was flushed with evaporating heat, and underneath she felt powerful magic humming through her veins. She felt primed to inspire, primed to conquer the world.

  Yeah, this feels like heaven on earth to me. Is that how he would describe it? He who’s been there? Is this as good in its own way?

  She desperately wanted it to be. She glanced at him in the mirror. He leaned casually against the door, coolly perfect and blindingly beautiful. And the way he looked at her, like she was a slice of heaven, too—it took her breath away all over again. How could she not fall a little more in love with him every minute?

  But will it last?

  A memory of Griffin onstage in L.A. flashed in her mind. How much had she loved him that night while he rocked a crowd of tens of thousands? The answer was that she’d loved him a lot. And now she didn’t love him at all. He’d broken her heart, and she hated him for it. Emotions could turn on a dime.

  Cerise dried her hands. “I guess we should check with Merrick to see if Tamberi Jacobi’s arrived. I need to ask her a few questions.” Like how Griffin got involved with that ventala witch. And how long they were together. Cerise wished she didn’t care about the details, but a part of her did.

  And I can’t forget Hayden. He’s the Lane I should be worried about. This night was supposed to be about protecting him.

  “We can check with Merrick if you like,” Lysander said. “But he’ll send someone for us if we’re needed. We can enjoy the music a little longer.”

  “I’m all for a little longer,” she murmured, walking to him and catching his hand. She laced their fingers together.

  When they walked out though, she felt Lysander’s pace slow, his body go rigid.

  “Wait,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “There’s danger. Approaching fast,” he said, easing forward to draw his dagger. She let go of his hand and slid out her gun, her gaze swiveling from side to side. Then she saw them, black-haired and hulking, with their lips drawn back to reveal fangs. Ventala.

  People scattered, clearing the center of the room until nothing stood between her and Lysander and the half-dozen assassins. Cerise’s heart raced, readying itself.

  Lysander didn’t look at her. In a low voice, he said, “Stay on my right and behind me. If any get by me, fight the way I know you can.”

  She tightened her damp-fisted grip on her gun. In a gym on a mat was one thing. Against murderers with superhuman speed and strength…?

  A chill ran through her as a massive ven
tala snarled at them.

  “Cerise,” Lysander said sharply.

  Her gaze darted to the back of Lysander’s golden head. He glanced over his shoulder and glared at her. “No fear.”

  Easy for you—

  The thought died. Taking advantage of Lysander’s distraction, the monsters charged.

  Chapter 23

  The Skype conversation between Alissa and Dimitri Xenakis had started well enough. There had been sentimental greetings. Then he’d listened carefully as she’d related the details of her relationship with Troy. He agreed to examine everything that she emailed to him.

  When the business was concluded, he wanted to know where Jersey and Cerise were.

  “I’m not going to talk about them.”

  Dimitri frowned. “Jersey will have to make a statement. You say she only defended herself, but you know that ES has to hear that directly from her.”

  “I’m sure an interview can be arranged—when she’s ready.”

  “The EC got the notice that you’ve severed financial ties with the Etherlin and that you’re going to take the compensation from the energy patents directly. Who’s going to manage your fortune from here onward? The ventala?”

  She simply stared at him, mimicking Merrick’s ability to use silence to answer uninvited questions.

  “Can we expect a notice that you’re going to sue for the money you donated to the trust?”

  “No,” she said. “Use it well.”

  “Where will you live? If you stay in the Varden, it’s only a matter of time before something terrible happens. Can you even walk down the street there?”

  “How I live is my concern.”

  “I’m worried about you,” he said, his voice low and sincere.

  Her heart creaked. For many years, Dimitri had been a surrogate father to her.

  “I’m also worried about Cerise,” he said. “I wish…” He shook his head. “I understand your hesitation to trust the council. We’ve had a rigid policy against the fallen, but it hasn’t escaped our attention that Merrick doesn’t seem to have hurt you physically.”