Before he met back up with us, he wanted to speak with Alyksandre and Kevin, and give them very strict orders for the Nephilim from the church. Sorting the factual wheat from the chaff.
Olin and the Templars had left town, unsurprisingly.
Eae now sat before us beneath Abundant Angel, sipping green tea as we caught Roland up on the night’s events. My old mentor studied Eae off and on, looking amazed to meet a real Angel. The feeling had left me quite a while ago, but I didn’t rain on his parade. Once finished, he began speaking about his trip to Italy.
But I was too tired to pay attention for long, and actually dozed off at one point.
I dreamed of my silver tears, recalling another dream I’d had with Nate. Because I’d worn a bandage over my eyes and had also had silver tears. Had it been a premonition of some kind? A warning? What did it mean?
And Samael being free…
I had expected that to be practically world-ending, but Eae – although definitely concerned about it – let me know that it would be quite some time before the Fallen Archangel was capable enough to do anything more than terrorize the neighborhood dogs, let alone find a body strong enough to contain him.
And he had been free before. Many demons were free, apparently, and since Eae was the Demon Thwarter, I kind of took his word for it. He seemed to be very familiar with it all and promised me that we had time.
Perhaps I could bond Samael to my finger like I had with Nameless. Thinking of that ring of smoke around my finger, though, was horrifying. The tip of my thumb was constantly cold to the touch, even when the rest of my fingers were warm, which was unnerving. Maybe it was his halo.
But he wasn’t answering my calls, even though I was his landlord, now.
Eae had reassured me that the shadow ring held absolutely no power over me, but that he wanted to do a longer study of the statue we had left behind in the center of Roland’s church. It would probably need to be moved at one point, and Eae was adamant that I be there when they tried.
Just in case.
I woke to Roland shaking me with a smile on his face. “We have company,” he said with a grin. I sat up, wiping my face. I had been drooling and my hair was matted with both silver and probably spittle. I wiped my chin, staring down at my hand nervously, but let out a relieved breath. No silver drool. That would have been creepy.
A heavy thump made me snap my head up to see a large beefy man standing a safe distance away from me, grinning like an idiot.
“Meatball!” I shouted, grinning from ear-to-ear. Then my smile faltered. “Wait, am I in trouble for being down here?” I asked warily.
He rolled his eyes. “Get over here, Girlie Penflower,” he muttered, holding out his arms. I ran over to him, throwing my arms around him – well, trying to. He was a big, hairy Italian Shepherd, and he was the one in charge of running the other Shepherds in Rome.
“I love the smell of marinara after a nap,” I said, squeezing him tightly.
He grumbled unhappily, but I could tell he was still smiling.
He finally held me back and I realized Arthur was standing a few paces away, smiling. Then it hit me. “You’re here to train Arthur?” He nodded. “Kick ass!” I hooted.
He growled at my language, but the sound cut off into a gasp as his eyes widened.
“Good lord, woman! Why do you look so old?”
I stepped back and punched him in the diaphragm, nodding satisfactorily as I knocked his breath away, leaving him wheezing in surprise at the sudden attack. Roland roared with laughter and Phix jumped to her feet arching her back with a hiss at the sudden commotion.
Arthur’s eyes widened, apparently not having noticed the Sphinx until that moment.
I calmly turned and walked back into the sleeping area, deciding I was going to take a very long nap. And let the bravest of them dare to try waking me before I was good and ready.
But I heard the familiar padding of feet behind me and knew that they would have to get through Phix first.
Chapter 61
It had been a week since the christening of Roland’s Church. I had begrudgingly let him choose the new name.
I sat on a bench in a seedy part of town, enjoying the light rain. Almost like déjà vu.
“What are we doing here again?” Nate asked in a curious voice. “Strange place for a date.”
I frowned. “This isn’t a date, Nate. I’m… broken inside. Not really dating material.”
He snorted. “We’re all broken inside, Callie,” he said, dismissing my concern. “I’ve found the secret is to find the person with the glue.”
I smiled at his strange solution, turning to look at him. “Excuse me?”
He nodded, soaked hair swinging at the motion. Neither of us had brought an umbrella, and it had turned into almost a contest of wills – who would break first and suggest heading inside. And it sure as hell wasn’t going to be me who broke first.
“You see,” he explained, “we’re all broken wretches inside, trying to glue our own pieces back together, to become what we always thought we were supposed to be. But we have the wrong glue,” he said, turning to wink at me. He turned back to the night, smiling to himself. “The reason so many people fail is because they don’t understand that somewhere out there in the world is another broken wretch with the right glue. She just doesn’t know it because her glue didn’t work for her, just like his glue didn’t work for him.” He let that sink in for a moment, grinning at nothing in particular as he continued to stare ahead. “The glue you have inside you is to help put someone else back together, not yourself. Chances are, that person probably has the glue you need.” He laughed suddenly – a bold, challenging sound thrown at the world in general like a glove marking a duel. “Everyone is holding the wrong glue.” Then he began laughing, wiping water out of his eyes.
I blinked at him. “That’s… ridiculous. We all have glue, but it’s not the right glue? You mean people can’t fix themselves? I refuse to believe that,” I said, folding my arms.
Nate held up a hand. “We can put the pieces in the right places on our own, but without the right glue, it might break again someday. Maybe even worse than before. But with the right glue, it will never break again.” He shot me a serious look. “Never ever break. It’s the balance. Those who choose to only use their own glue don’t ever understand that they could be so much more if they found the right partner… the right glue.” He sighed. “Like someone claiming they are the best roof maker in the world because the thatch roof they made hasn’t leaked. Yet.” He shrugged easily, tucking his hands behind his head and leaning back, closing his eyes. “To everyone with a tile roof, his boasts sound ridiculous.” Silence stretched between us before he said, “It’s just a theory. But I’m usually right.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t hold back my grin. I studied him for a few moments, remembering my dream as I watched accumulated rain drip off his stubbled chin to splash against his throat before rolling down under his collar. I remembered Phix’s conversation about Hope and Despair, and my strange dream with Nate in that other place…
I had ordered a book online yesterday but wasn’t sure if I would ever give it to him.
A Tale of Two Cities. Like Nate’s comment from the strange dream.
But if my dream had just been a normal dream, I would look like an idiot when I tried to explain why I had bought it for him. But if he had really shared my dream…
Well, I didn’t know what to do about that, either.
Because I was still putting my pieces together, trying to figure out what my picture was going to look like. Apparently, I lacked the right glue.
I quickly turned away to study the night. “An idiotic… romantic theory,” I admitted, smiling.
“Speaking of idiotic,” he said, opening his eyes. “Why am I holding your stuffed unicorn again?” he asked, patting the drenched unicorn in his lap.
When I didn’t immediately answer, he turned to look at me and my breath caught at the sudden
intensity in his eyes. It was just how he looked at people sometimes, but it felt like an accusation after fantasizing about the water on his skin. I pointed at the small huddle of thugs loitering against a brick wall across the street. “Hold it up so they can’t miss it, and then stand up,” I told him, smiling in anticipation.
He frowned at me curiously, but finally complied. He waved the stuffed animal at them, then stood up from the bench. I joined him, straightening my jacket as I watched the thugs.
As if it had been a gunshot, they took off at a dead run, screaming and shouting in a panicked stampede.
Nate turned to me, bewildered. Then I was running after the thugs. “Now, you hopeless romantic, let’s go hunt down some Freaks!” I shouted back at him.
And we ran off into the night, chasing down shrieking monsters, laughing, and thinking about the right glue. And maybe even some dreams.
I made my decision to mail the damned book. Let the pieces fall where they may.
Turn the page to continue with Callie Penrose in SINNER…
SINNER (BOOK 5)
Chapter 1
The penthouse overlooked the glittering streets below. I watched the people walking from storefront to storefront, taking advantage of the cool evening air. Expensive cars cruised past, likely blaring music in an attempt to impress any single females walking by—like a bunch of hairy fishermen running a large trawling net across the ocean floor to pick up some crabs.
Pun intended.
Other cars cruised by shining with opulence and elitism, showing off the size of their bank accounts—or the weight of their monthly lease—as they struggled to compete with their uncaring neighbors in the never-ending contest played by most Americans.
I took a sip of my champagne, envying their ignorance. They had no idea that a horde of monsters in tuxedos and dresses was hosting a ritzy party high above their heads, discussing how best to slaughter the humans with impunity. That every single one of the attendees behind me was liable to rip their ignorant human throats out for the slightest offense.
Or just for fun.
And right now, I seemed to be the only one standing between the two parties—between the would-be Lords and their cattle. I grunted at the observation. Then I took another healthy sip of my champagne, hoping to absolve myself of the responsibility for at least a few more minutes. Like any good Catholic, I thought drinking was a sensible coping mechanism.
I sighed wistfully, realizing my glass was now empty. Before I could find some depressing symbolism in that, a waiter with a hint of Asian descent whisked by like a ninja to replace my glass and then slipped away so as not to disturb me too greatly. If he had been one heartbeat slower, I would have told him I preferred the champagne over the rosé he had given me. But I didn’t want to be that girl, so let it go, resigning myself to accept the unasked-for new experience with the grace of a lady.
I gasped as the pink alcohol touched my tongue in an explosion of crisp, sweet strawberry. It was shockingly good, much better than the champagne had been. Bastard waiters, able to read into my alcoholic soul without even a word, broadening my horizons with their demon-juice.
I shook my head in begrudging appreciation of the posh service. The monsters knew how to throw a party—that was undeniable. The gentle sounds of violins behind me and the smells of the savory food lining the catered tables—raw oysters, lobster bisque, and dozens of other expensive dishes meticulously parceled out into bite-sized samples so as not to stall conversation from the tuxedo and gown-wearing crowd—was enough to make a girl momentarily forget about her problems.
I didn’t want to be here, but it was an unfortunate requirement of my recent self-inflicted punishment—a small job I had undertaken. Rather than turning back to the firing squad of socialites, I continued staring through the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling window before me, envying those fishermen and crabs on the streets far below. That was where I belonged. In the trenches. The front lines—
“Against stupidity, the very Gods Themselves contend in vain,” a voice said from beside me.
I turned to see an exotic beauty studying me over the rim of her champagne flute. She wore a cute little black dress that hung below her knees and her black hair was done-up in a perfectly tight bun. She lowered her glass, smirking playfully. Her big brown eyes flicked over the room in a swift assessment, indicating the guests huddled in groups of three or four drinking, talking, and likely making deals.
“Friedrich Schiller?” I asked, surprised to hear someone quote the abstract German poet.
She nodded, giving me an impressed once-over. I wasn’t that familiar with Schiller, but he was a favorite of my mentor, Roland Haviar. It was his favorite way to unwind after a stressful day of slaughtering monsters—seated in his favorite chair, reading Schiller by the fireplace at Abundant Angel Catholic Church. Well, it had been a favorite pastime.
Before he’d become a vampire and been relieved of Shepherd duty for his conflict of interest.
“It may have just begun, but I’m certain it will all be over soon,” the woman added with a playful grin.
“What will all be over soon?” I asked, masking my instinctive trepidation as idle curiosity. Because I was standing in a room full of monsters, thank you very much—none were card-carrying members in my ever-so-small circle of trust club. Thankfully, the woman’s playful tone appeared to be mocking but authentic, not setting off any rational reason to alert my mental alarm bells that she was really some sociopath casually informing me she had poisoned the buffet tables. But I remained hyper-aware just in case. Because paranoia was a card-carrying member in my circle of trust. The bitch hardly ever lied to me.
And one never truly knew what one faced with these types of crowds. And I’d assumed wrong before. Been played by an innocent smile.
Fuck happy, smiling people. That was a good mantra. They were often lying about something.
“Materialism,” the woman replied with an easy shrug, showing off a delicate collarbone. I cocked my head at her answer and used the motion to quickly scan the room full of guests behind us. There was a lot of money represented here, but there was even more power. Magical power of several flavors.
Many of the guests had acquired other forms of power over the years, as well, hedging their bets—whether it was political, monetary, or a vast number of followers. And no one knew every single secret their fellows held up their sleeves. Like a game of poker, they were all bluffing, calling, raising bets, folding, and using social cues to feign ignorance, to mask their true machinations, or to find an advantage—a tell—to capitalize on.
Not a single one of them looked truly happy. Momentarily pleased, yes. But that was it. With all the power at their disposal, I still sensed a frantic desperation in their eyes, and a profound emptiness in their souls.
It was all so…trivial.
But I kept my face blank as I turned back to my new friend, the pretty scholar.
She was beautiful in a fashion, her black dress more professional than alluring. She wore delicate golden bands on her biceps that glittered with semi-precious stones. Her bronze skin seemed to glimmer in the light—likely some kind of lotion to subtly attract wandering eyes. Her face was long and narrow, and her harsh cheekbones stood out in the dim lighting, making it almost impossible not to stare. And her choice in makeup told me she had seen the dreaded smoky eye YouTube video.
“Materialism…” I repeated, neither confirming nor denying I agreed with her comment.
The woman jerked her chin out towards the street below us. “As above, so below,” she said demurely.
“As above, so below. As within, so without…” I quoted. It was one of the seven principles of Hermes, and had been adopted in the Catholic arena, like most clever quotes had over the centuries. Roland had often used the phrase in my weapons training as well as my meditations.
The woman nodded appreciatively, the flash of excitement in her eyes telling me that I was now officially adopted into her nerd-herd where w
e would change the world with cryptic quotes, one bored college kid at a time. Her plan was flawed, though, because my ability to recognize her quotes was just a coincidence.
Or…
She was playing me, knowing more about me than she let on, tossing out specific quotes she knew would be familiar to me—like laying out a trail of small candies to lead me to her gingerbread house of death in the nearby woods.
Paranoia made a girl feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
“As above, so below,” the woman repeated. “They just don’t know it. Everyone competes in this unspoken game to prove how much better they are than their colleagues. Of course, there are different levels to the game…” she said, glancing back at the room around us. “Some more beneficial than others. But no one openly talks about those things. They just dance back and forth, back and forth, side to side, all along for the ride. There should be more to life than this.”
I found myself nodding thoughtfully, wondering what flavor of power I was talking to. Some bored socialite looking for thrills? Or perhaps she was a powerful witch or shifter angling for a crumb of influence in Kansas City.
“You sound like a friend of Dorian Gray,” I told her, taking another sip of my delicious rosé.
She scoffed gently. “Hardly. Different circles.”
I watched her eyes for any sign of deceit, but all I saw was amusement. Dorian seemed to have good relations with the witches through the Hellfire Club parties he hosted, so if she was being honest right now, she likely wasn’t a witch. “I’m sure he would love to meet you. Would you like an introduction?”
“It isn’t necessary…but I wouldn’t turn it down,” she admitted with an interested grin.
Chapter 2
I realized I was still gauging her response, wondering if the entire purpose of our conversation was her angling for an introduction. Or maybe it was to avoid an introduction with Dorian. Circles within circles. I knew I hadn’t met her before and I couldn’t decipher what kind of supernatural—or Freak, as we were sometimes called—she was. She wasn’t a wizard like me. And she wasn’t from the Heavenly crowd. Maybe she was a witch of some variety and was lying about knowing Dorian. She could have also been a shifter.
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