by Rowan Larke
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Rowan Larke
He kissed her eyelids, inhaled her soul into his being once more. When he exhaled, he aimed toward the sky, though he knew her soul would arc downward. Down into a life more difficult even than her last, to test her soul again. How many times had she tried? How many lives had she been through, losing her battle with despair to have a life like this? Tamiel's shoulders heaved with suppressed sobs. “She needs a Watcher next time, Boss.” The words dribbled out of his mouth like bile.
This was his job—God's shit work. Not one of the Fallen, those angels who had defied God's will, but one of the Dark Angels, the ones who did the work God's Light had no business being near. The ones who sullied their wings and weighted their hearts until they could no longer fly, so they were bound to the earth by the misery of the dead and dying. Tamiel turned, his useless wings dragging behind him through the refuse of the alley. He still had work to do.
There was always more work to do.
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Chapter Four
Clarissa smoothed the skin of her face with her palms, pleased there were no visible lines around her eyes or mouth. Her thirties hadn't been easy so far, though she was only two years in, and she was vain enough to be glad it hadn't marked itself on her face. The rest of her body…
She shrugged. The rest was what she'd made it. A sex machine. A professional masochist. She tossed a damp paper towel into the trash on her way out of her private washroom and made her way to her office. Not the carefully contrived one on the main floor. That one was window dressing for the men. A place to have their fantasies play out. Strangely enough, they always understood the drugs and the girls and the secluded back rooms were provided out of their cover charge, but they never realized she was just as much a part of their experience. Every man she'd ever picked up truly believed she was just an easy fuck they'd found at random. It was part of the fantasy.
She was fine with their confusion. It wasn't every man who got her specialized attention. Just the few who might slip their control if they weren't handled just right. The ones who might just hurt her enough to make her forget. Or kill her and release her from her pain. Just the ones with that dimple when they smiled.
She stood at the window that overlooked the inside of the club. It was one-way glass, rendering her invisible to the people below. Not that there were any yet. The dance floor was empty, for the next few moments anyway, until the front doors opened. This was her favorite time. Just before opening. The club was like a dancer about to go onstage, holding its breath, waiting its turn. Once the doors opened, it became something else, but for this moment, it was suspended perfection.
She looked through her own reflection at the stillness below her and wondered what Jason would have thought of the view.
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She cut the thought off. Jason had died before construction had begun on this area. It was hers and hers alone. He'd never set foot here; there were no photos of him—she didn't even have the CDs they'd listened to together. The bed she'd installed in a small room beyond the office itself was a double, but she'd bought it brand new. The sheets and pillows on it were, too, so they couldn't hold memories of him spooning with her, or the phantom scent of his aftershave. There was nothing that might make her think of him. It was a rule. The place was emotionally empty. Not that it mattered. Everything made her think of him.
The first few patrons trickled through the doors, and she watched them dispassionately. One of them she recognized. Mihai. He'd approached her once, and after speaking for a while, they'd discussed the lifestyle. She'd tried him, tried the lifestyle, but it wasn't for her. What she needed had nothing to do with safe, sane, and consensual. What she wanted was someone as out of control as she was, so she could find what she really needed. Release.
Despite her abrupt refusal of what he offered, Mihai still came to the club once a month or so to check in on her. She wasn't sure if he came to see if she'd changed her mind, or just to see if she was still alive.
She sighed. She was still alive. Still stuck in this same limbo of numbness that was only alleviated by pain. No matter how many of the men she picked up and let use and abuse her, none had taken that single step too far that would release her. She examined the new arrivals for potential troublemakers. At least, that's what she told herself, though she wouldn't deny she was looking for that dimple if there were anyone to ask her. It looked like the typical early birds—college kids who wanted to see if the rumors they'd heard about the place were true, married men who hoped they were, so they could take care of business before going home to the wife. She sighed and shook her head. They were all the same. Looked the same, talked the same, used the same dismissive lingo. They even moved the same, stiff and uncertain, as if they were afraid the wrong way would get their hands slapped. Except one.
He moved with the fluid grace of a dancer, as if he heard music in his head that no one else could hear, and his body rolled with the rhythm it set. Dressed in a pair of black jeans and a white sleeveless shirt, he should have looked casual, even underdressed in the boudoirlike decor
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of the club. Instead, he looked…elegant. Better dressed than the men who wore suits. It was as if he was comfortable in his own skin.
He ordered a drink and leaned against the bar casually, white teeth flashing in the dark skin of his face as he graced the bartender with a wide smile. While he stood offering her his profile, Clarissa examined the lines of his cheekbones, the soft hollows of his cheeks beneath, and the strength of his jaw. If he'd been sculpted out of stone, she'd have said he was too angular, but in the flesh? He was perfection. Drink in hand—something in a lowball, maybe scotch?—he turned to stare at the dance floor for a moment before his gaze lifted. And met hers.
He should only be able to see his reflection, but he was holding her gaze. She shifted position, and his eyes followed. He could see her. Despite logic, the one-way glass, and the distance between them. She shivered. The whites of his eyes glowed under the black light, and his pupils were so dark that they appeared like holes—sucking vortices dragging her into the man.
She shivered but couldn't tear herself away. The feeling that she was being pulled into those eyes—into the man himself—was overwhelming. She jolted when her forehead touched the glass, and she realized she'd been leaning toward him. Falling into him. He smiled, a laugh without sound, and his teeth flashed in the light, distracting her for a moment. But only that—a moment—before she noticed the dimples that dug into each of his chocolate cheeks, framing his smile like punctuation. A flare of desire, followed by a rush of longing, dragged the air from her lungs, and she stared at him in shock. Then she smiled back before making her way down to the dance floor.
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Chapter Five
Jason waited at the base of the stairs, knowing she'd emerge once the members started to arrive. She was predictable now, his Clarissa. He wondered if she'd always been that way. Sometimes his memories of their time—of his life—were blocked out by the memories of his afterlife. He was afraid sometimes that his past would eventually be erased entirely, and he'd become a demented ghost wandering the club in the guise of a nearly thirty-year-old man. He was surprised when the door opened, and he glanced at his watch. He wasn't sure how a ghost had a watch, but it came in handy, so he'd stopped questioning it. It was early. The club had just opened; why was Clarissa down here? She wouldn't want to be out on the floor with the twentysomethings. Jason's stomach clenched. Something wasn't right, and he didn't like it. He followed her, blinking when he passed too close to one of the lights. Still clearing his vision, he held back, far enough that she wouldn't be able to see him. If she could have seen him, that was. He could hear her, though. Her voice was soft—flirtatious but not overly suggestive. He felt the answering twitch of desire and sighed at himself. He wondered what she'd think to k
now she could get a dead man hard.
“Tamiel Kasdeja,” the man answered, and Jason turned toward him. Jason narrowed his eyes as he examined him. Instinctive dislike wasn't changed by the look of Tamiel . Dressed in a white sleeveless shirt that set off the darkness of his skin, Tamiel looked like some sort of television ad. His muscles bunched and moved as he lifted his drink. More than six feet tall, the man was wide through the shoulders. Powerful.
His face was too pretty; he wasn't a football player—he was more likely a model/bodybuilder. Jason knew the type. Pretty…but useless. He rolled his eyes. Tamiel smiled at Clarissa, and Jason's stomach wrenched. Not so useless after all. He had that look. The one Clarissa was looking for these days. The one that said he'd beat her, bruise her, fuck her, and leave her. Only there was something—a dangerous intelligence to him,
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accompanied by a wild, unrestrained energy. Foreboding billowed over Jason like a cold cloud. Shit.
Their words flowed back and forth, and Jason didn't listen, watching their body language instead. In the space of only a few minutes, they moved closer. The man's finger traced a line up the inside of Clarissa's arm, and Jason surprised himself by growling. Tamiel laughed, and the sound rumbled in the air around them like thunder on a summer day—powerful and full of promise. He met Jason's gaze.
No, there was no way. “Can you…see me?”
Tamiel didn't answer. After a long moment, he turned his attention to Clarissa and smiled at something she'd said, and Jason fisted his hands at his sides. He wanted to hit something. Preferably the big man who was now touching Clarissa, leading her across the dance floor. Toward the stairs. Not the fake back office.
Fear seared through him, lancing all other emotions, even his rage. “No,” he shouted. Tamiel turned and looked over his shoulder at the same time, and his grin wavered on his face. Something dark seemed to frame his body, and Jason halted in his tracks. What the hell was Tamiel Kasdeja?
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Chapter Six
Fuck. The night had gone from bad to worse. He'd stopped in the club to drown himself after letting that little girl's soul loose into the universe again. Not ten minutes inside the doors, though, and he'd seen Mihai. Fortunately the little pissant disappeared, so Tamiel had ordered a drink. Then he'd felt her watching. It took him a second to find her through the one-way glass up on the second level. He'd met her gaze through the mirrors, and she'd come down to join him. The ghost had followed.
A sickly green aura tinged the air around the ghost, and it had taken all Tamiel's willpower not to choke on his whiskey. Then he'd fought the urge to grab Mihai and make him face the ghost. See what happened when Dark Angels decided not to do the work God set out for them. Some stupid fucker hadn't made it to this guy in time, and now he was wandering. Lost, and sort of pathetic. As Tamiel had drawn closer, he could see the flat hardness in the ghost's gaze, the tightness of his jaw.
Definitely tormented.
Not with fire and brimstone—Tamiel would be able to see the reflection of the flames in the ghost's eyes if that had been the case. It wasn't by the creatures who wreathed themselves in shadows either. Tamiel felt the first tug of curiosity. What sort of man was tormented by haunting a nightclub?
Tamiel glanced at Clarissa, suddenly glad she had stopped for a moment to talk to someone about club business, although he'd been ready to kill the little bastard at first. At that point, though, he'd just wanted in her pants. Temporary relief from the stress of his life. His anger slipped away like sand through his fingers, while he tried to get a bead on what he'd stepped into here. Something fucked-up, which shouldn't be a surprise, given how things were going for him lately.
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“I just wanted a night off,” he muttered, and the bass line of the music thumped loudly for just a moment, like thunder rumbling through the club. Tamiel rolled his eyes. Sometimes his boss was just so dramatic. “So, it wasn't just chance I wound up here, was it?” The lights flickered, and he took that as confirmation. He'd been shepherded. Manipulated once again. “I couldn't have just a couple of hours? Get a drink, enjoy a pretty lady?” The bass line rumbled again, and Clarissa turned to look over her shoulder at the dance floor. She muttered something to the guy about looking into the equipment and flashed a smile at Tamiel that hit him like a punch to the gut. He shifted his weight, trying to discourage his physical reaction to her. She was definitely still interested. Tamiel just wasn't sure he should be.
“So, what, am I supposed to try to help the long-dead ghost?” None of his frustration or anger sounded in his voice. He sounded defeated. He guessed he was. Having been manipulated into place, he was going to do what he had to do. The bass line completely overwhelmed the treble, and Tamiel thought that, for once, He was frustrated at not being able to speak to Tamiel directly.
The lights in the club flickered. For a brief moment, only one remained on. The one directly above Clarissa's head. It bathed her in a warm yellow glow and picked up the little vortex of threads around her. Tamiel lifted an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “And the ghost?” he asked.
Another rumble, this one like the shrugging of massive shoulders. “Not good enough. Whose was he? Why's he still here?”
The light above him flickered and flared to life. Tamiel swallowed and flicked another glance at the ghost, who stood just a few feet away. “Mine?” There was no way. “I've been working my ass off. There's no way this is my fault.” The rumble deepened, humming along his nerves until his teeth rattled with the force of it. “No.” He felt sick to his stomach. He'd been working so hard. Tonight was the first time he'd taken a break—which wasn't a break, by the way—and God was going to try to tell him this was his fault? “I don't fucking think so.”
Tamiel turned away from the ghost, but not before he saw the way the ghost was staring at Clarissa. In that single glance, Tamiel saw what his torment was. He stole another glance at Clarissa from the corner of his eye. Sometimes the things you couldn't see about a person head 24
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on were easy to spot that way. Sure enough, he saw it. The tether, like a gossamer thread in a shade of crimson, tying her to the ghost.
“I don't…” Understand, he was going to say, but he did. The final moment in anyone's life was supposed to cut those ties. Sever their bonds to the living, so both could move on. For the living—those ties needed cauterizing, time to heal, but they did eventually heal. Except in this case. This tie was just as strong as it had been when the ghost was alive. He closed his eyes and swallowed back the bile that filled his mouth. “Really?” he asked God, his voice breaking with strain. “All because I wasn't there in time?” The fact that he'd wanted to sleep with her—and still did, if he were honest with himself—seemed a little insult on top of injury. “I screwed this one up?” The lights surged and returned to normal. That'd be a yes.
“Fuck.” There was a threatening little rumble that Tamiel ignored. Clarissa turned to him before God gave him an answer. Her smile was tight, as controlled as she was in everything else Tamiel had seen her do. He bit his lip and shook his head a little. What a fucking waste.
He followed her, watching her hips sway with seductive promise, and wondered why his dick wouldn't accept the fact that he should just not be attracted to this woman anymore.
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Chapter Seven
Jason watched, a lump forming in his throat when she smiled at Tamiel. A smile full of vibrancy and light and promise. The smile she used to give him. He managed to follow them up the stairs. Despite the fact the very air of this section of the building seemed to repel him, thickening as he climbed, he continued. And it began as it always began.
Clarissa stepped into the man, molding herself to his body. He kissed her, his mouth moving over hers, claiming her. Tasting her. Jason could see his tongue working into her mouth and swallo
wed rage like a rock in his throat.
Tamiel's hands circled her waist, held her closer against him. When they broke the kiss, he met her eyes with a savage seriousness. “What do you want?” he whispered, and his voice was soft and loud, dark and light—a multitude of sounds that made Jason want to clap his hands over his ears.
It was like the voice of God.
“I want,” Clarissa whispered. She met his eyes but couldn't seem to bring herself to say any more. “I need…” The words trailed off, and tears stung her eyes. Tamiel nodded and kissed her again, tenderly, and Clarissa stepped away from him. “I don't want that,” she said, her voice cold, though there was a tremor through her words. Jason didn't understand what was going on. After three years mourning him, was she finally moving on? Was this man somehow more than just another… Well, whatever it was Clarissa had been doing with men since he died? Why him? The pang of jealousy that accompanied that thought had nothing to do with Tamiel and everything to do with Clarissa moving on. Knowing it did nothing to ease his sense of powerlessness, or the crushing fear or frustration that followed.