Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory Book 2)

by Lauren Gilley

  She put her arms around his neck and pressed their bodies flush together; his arm hooked around her, and held tight. He was still lean, and hard, all sculpted muscle, and not enough meat.

  He smelled different, though, when she pressed her face into his throat and sought the old cedar, ink, and smoke. Now she caught a whiff of brimstone; of ash; of char. A dark spice like incense, musky and heady. His skin was warm, almost too warm, feverish. As was his breath as it rustled through her hair.

  He pressed his face to the top of her head and breathed in slow, shaky draws; a purr rumbled in his chest, vibrating through her own, reverberating along every nerve ending.

  Tears flooded her eyes, and she closed them; she could do that now. She could rest, at least for a moment, for this brief span in the shelter of his wings.

  Beck must have felt them, because he stroked her hair and her neck, and hummed a soothing noise, his purr deepening. “Don’t cry, my darling. Not for me. Not when I’m here.”

  She fisted her hands in the fabric of his shirt, and swayed when he swayed, breathed when he breathed.

  “I found you,” she murmured.

  “Of course you did. My clever girl.”

  ~*~

  She knew that her team was hanging back – partly out of respect, but mostly out of fear, she figured. They’d worked alongside a conduit, and seen the post-Rift horrors of the world – but sight of Beck had rattled them, she could tell. And so they gave her some time alone with him.

  She knew it wouldn’t last.

  They sat now inside the church, in the chapel, on a creaky wooden pew that smelled of lemon oil and beeswax. On the altar, the candle flames whipped and flickered, the wicks grown long, the dripping tails of wax hanging off the altar’s edge like stalactites.

  Beck sat with his wings carefully folded, draped around him like a cape, tail coiled on the pew beside him. He held her hand in his – hadn’t seemed willing to let go of it, so far – and stared up at the cross on the wall.

  “I thought it might burn,” he murmured. “To look at it. To be in this place. To touch any part of it.” He rested long, claw-tipped fingers on the back of the pew in front of him, staring at his own hand in a kind of blank wonder. “It doesn’t.”

  “Why would it?” She squeezed his hand. “You aren’t a vampire in an old movie.”

  One corner of his mouth twitched upward in the restrained, close-lipped smile she remembered so well. “No. But I’m not exactly divine.”

  “Beck.”

  He turned toward her, and she’d always thought his eyes had glowed before, always gleaming in the firelight, honey-warm and crackling with withheld emotion. They actually glowed now; pulsed with yellow, leonine light.

  “You aren’t a demon.”

  His wings rustled, an abortive move to lift them. His tail flexed, sinuous and muscled as a healthy snake. “Look at me.” His smile was full of self-mockery. “What else could I be?”

  “Brother Eustace said that you would be changed. That being there…” Her throat threatened to close when she thought of it; the fire and pain and torture. She’d seen what had come from the pit; they’d chased its evil back and forth across the country, and that was only after a small portal had been open for a short while.

  “I don’t feel changed,” he said, reaching to touch her face again. He kept doing that, like he was afraid she wasn’t real. “Only tired.” His thumb stroked her cheek, and his smile this time broke softly, gently. “And glad.”

  They tipped together, drawn as if my magnets, and she realized she hadn’t kissed him yet, and that she needed to rectify that right now.

  He angled his head, his breath feathering hot across her lips.

  Someone cleared his throat behind them.

  Rose sat back.

  Beck had a much more violent reaction.

  He stood and whirled in an instant, wings opening wide, blocking off her view of whoever stood in the aisle – protecting her, she realized. He was shielding her from the interloper. His tail lashed against the flagstones, and he growled like an animal; a deep, resonant, big-cat sound. An unmistakable threat.

  “Whoa.” She recognized Lance’s voice. “Easy there. It’s only me.”

  The growl repeated, and Beck didn’t back down.

  “Beck.” Rose ducked under his wing and climbed up onto the pew on her knees. Lance stood halfway down the aisle, both arms lifted, empty palms toward them. Beck had his head ducked, and his teeth bared, fangs long and gleaming in the candlelight. “Beck, it’s okay. It’s just Lance.”

  When she glanced toward him, she saw that Lance was staring at her, brows lifted in silent question. You gonna do something about this? Can you?

  She shuffled around and put her hand on Beck’s chest; she could feel the growl, like the chug of an idling engine. “It’s okay,” she repeated. “He’s a friend.”

  Beck glared at him a moment longer, eyes glassy with aggression; nothing about his expression was human in that moment. It wasn’t even the thrill of the hunt she remembered from before; this was a predator with prey in its sights.

  I don’t feel changed, he’d said only moments ago.

  But he was.

  Finally, Beck snorted, and straightened. Closed his wings. Standing, with the hooks linked behind his neck, it fell around him like a cloak. It made him look imperial, regal; a fitting look.

  He schooled his features to a mask of polite disdain. The growl died away. “Lance,” he said, coldly. “A friend. Of course.”

  Slowly, Lance lowered his hands, but made no move to come closer. He darted another look toward Rose, uncertain, questioning.

  “Tell me, Lance.” Beck said his name like it was a form of bacteria. “How did you manage to go from one of Castor’s thugs to being Rose’s friend?”

  Lance started to answer, but Rose dug her fingertips into Beck’s chest and said, “He was working undercover back then. It’s a long story, but he was never one of Castor’s people, not really. He’s military.”

  “A Rift Walker,” Lance added, “if that means anything to you.”

  “He is.” Her chest tightened, and she breathed through it. “And so am I.”

  His eyes widened, and his gaze slid toward her, gilded and burning. She felt his pulse give a hard bump beneath her palm. “Well, then. I suppose you’d better explain from the beginning.”

  ~*~

  She’d known all along that there were things she wasn’t going to tell him, when he asked about the five years he’d missed. She had always been so honest with him, before, but there were times when secrets were a blessing. When they prevented hurt, and preserved love.

  She’d known that, but she’d been fixated wholly on the ritual. The sacrifice. The crazy chance of it all. And now here he was, and he wanted answers – some of which she couldn’t give him.

  She relayed what she could. Told him about Lance getting her out of Castor’s mansion that night. About the way, even then, the cracks were already appearing in the fabric of the world; hell open, and the Rift on the verge of cleaving the sky again.

  Told him about going back to the house. About finding Kay. She stumbled over that bit when she was reminded of the fact that she hadn’t tried to drag Kay’s body to the car; hadn’t tried to give her a proper burial.

  “It wasn’t her anymore, sweetheart,” Beck murmured, his hand warm and grounding on the back of her neck.

  She told him about Lance’s offer to join up, and about the way, after a few weeks on the streets, amidst the rain, and the screaming, and the fighting, and the ugliness, she’d sought the recruitment office.

  “It was a way to stay alive,” she explained. “A way to maybe, one day, get you back. I knew you weren’t dead.” She lifted her face to seek his gaze, and found it troubled, poorly-disguised. “And now here I am.”

  “Here you are.”

  “I came as quick as I could.”

  “I know you did.” He fingered a strand of hair that had come loose from her br
aid. Coiled it around his finger, his expression softening fractionally. “You learned that it suited you, though, didn’t it?”

  “What did?”

  “Soldiering.” He let the hair slip free, and drew his hand back into his lap. “You’re a ferocious little thing. You needed an outlet.” He nodded. “I understand.”

  “It was something to do,” she hedged, shaking her head. “I was – I was so angry. And I thought if I could just figure out…The military was access to resources I could never have gotten on my own. It’s the reason I’m here now. Why you are.”

  He smiled. “Well, that’s worth something, isn’t it?”

  “It’s worth everything.”

  He took both her hands into his, staring down at the way their fingers laced. The claws were there, hard and black, in place of his regular nails. But, as she watched, they lengthened, sharpened, and thick, black veins crawled beneath his skin, streaking back across his knuckles, his wrists, disappearing up his sleeves.

  “Well. That’s a trick,” he murmured. Let out a breath, and the veins faded. The claws shrank back to a manageable size.

  “What else can you do?”

  “I’m not sure, yet. Fly, I’m assuming.” His wings twitched, and they sounded like the rustling of her leather coat. “This must be good for something.” The spade tip of his tail lifted up like a periscope, startling a laugh from her.

  One that quickly threatened to dissolve into sobs. He was here, Beck was here, and she couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it had worked.

  When he reached for her, she went readily, let herself be bundled like a little girl onto his lap, her face against his throat again, breathing in the new brimstone and ash smell of him.

  “You remembered Derfel,” he murmured, wondrous, stroking her neck and shoulder. “You found him, and you sent him. My wonderful darling.” He rocked her, his silky hair tickling her face, his heartbeat strong and steady against her. Slowly, his wings curled around her, around them, closing them in together.

  She drifted like that a while. She’d been so tired for so long, sleeping in fitful snatches, never allowing herself any slack with her training. She’d honed her body into a deadly weapon; had studied and studied, until there was no room for anything but tactics and practicality in her mind.

  Beck threatened to shatter her with only this simple touch.

  Nearly asleep in his arms, it took her a moment to register the question he’d asked. “What?”

  “You haven’t asked me yet,” he said, quietly, and she realized that he’d tensed.

  She sat up a little, so she could search his face. “Asked you what?”

  “To join your war efforts.”

  She blinked at him, startled. “But I’m not going to.”

  A small, rueful smile graced his lips. “Maybe not now, maybe not even in twenty minutes. But when Lance returns…eventually, you will ask me.”

  “No, I won’t. All I cared about was getting you back.”

  “Rosie,” he said, chidingly. “You’re a terrible liar.”

  But it hadn’t felt like lying. He truly was all she’d cared about for so long. Finding her way here, to Wales, had been a culmination of all her longing. All her wants and needs.

  He traced the edge of her chin with a claw. Drew her in close; close enough to see each gold filament in his eyes. To see the infinitesimal twitch of his lips that betrayed a resigned sort of sadness. “You want to try to save the world, don’t you?”

  She took an unsteady breath. “I don’t know if it can be saved.”

  “Hm. Maybe not. But there’s no harm in trying, is there?”

  “I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want to,” she said. “You don’t owe anyone anything. But I don’t – Beck, I don’t know if I can step back. Not right now.”

  “I would be a hypocrite if I expected otherwise. I had a crusade of my own, remember?”

  All too well. His vow of vengeance against Tony Castor. He’d known it wouldn’t bring his brother back, but he hadn’t been able to stop, either.

  “I made a commitment,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” He closed the distance and kissed her.

  She’d imagined this moment a thousand times in the past five years. Had envisioned a desperate pawing at one another; a tangle; a heated race to tear into one another. How many times had she closed her eyes, when there were hands mapping across her body, and lips against her throat, and she was joined with someone – with Lance, only Lance, who had to have so many questions, who’d let her come here, and attempt this. Had walked away earlier when she’d asked him to. How many times had she been with him, closed her eyes, and pretended it was Beck? Beck with her, in the hot throes, skin slick with sweat, whole body throbbing to the pulse of want.

  But this kiss – their first in five years – was gentle as thistledown. A brush of closed lips against hers; the soft, warm rush of a breath across her face, while he held her by the chin with the barest pressure. It was sweet, and bristling with restraint – on both their parts. Like their first kiss ever, in the library of the old Gothic townhouse. When he’d told her to tell him to stop, because he didn’t know if he could.

  She was surer of herself now, though. Wanted to take his face in her hands, and tease his lips with her tongue, and show him that it was okay; that she wanted anything and everything.

  But.

  “Rose,” Lance said behind her, his voice strained.

  Beck pulled back first, eyes narrowed to golden slits as he stared over her shoulder at Lance.

  “We need to go.”

  She sighed, and nodded. “Right.” To Beck: “There’s a plane waiting to take us back Stateside. If you want to come.”

  He shifted his gaze to her face, and studied her a long moment. “Wherever you are, that’s where I’ll be.”

  “The city – our city. Things are really, really bad there. Our orders were, if we could bring you back, to head there next. The military’s all but given up on it. But we – we said we’d try to take it back.”

  “It’s probably a suicide mission,” Lance said, gruffly. She could envision his scowl, and his folded arms, the way his biceps would be straining his shirtsleeves. “Little chance of success.”

  Beck cocked his head, and grinned with all his teeth; a smile that didn’t begin to touch his eyes. “Well. I specialize in those sorts of missions. When do we leave?”

  FOUR

  Before

  The conduit said her name was Morgan. She refused to tell them the name of the angel occupying her consciousness, but not in a defiant way.

  “That’s not important now,” she said, prosaically, with that odd, ringing voice.

  Standing behind their chairs, Rose watched Lance and Tris share a guarded look.

  “Okay,” Lance said. “We’ll skip that for now. Tell me why we should trust you.”

  “Well. I didn’t kill you.”

  “She has a point,” Gavin murmured.

  Lance said, “I heard that.”

  Morgan claimed not to know the specifics of the Rift; it was all very nebulous and idealistic, rather than practical. But she was adamant that she disagreed with the conduits they’d encountered so far: she didn’t feel it was her role to punish mortals for their mortal sins. “It isn’t up to angels to pass judgement and then deal out a sentence. Our feud is with the armies of hell.”

  “You fought with one of your own kind,” Lance pointed out.

  “He was beyond reason.”

  She wouldn’t speak to a master plan. There were no secrets to divulge, she said.

  “I will help you, if I can.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re fighting with hell, too. And have been for a long time. I believe it’s a losing fight, without divine intervention.”

  She showed not one ounce of ill will or violence, but still, Captain Bedlam ordered her contained. She was put in a windowless, lead-lined cell with the barest creature com
forts.

  “She’ll burn through that body, eventually,” Rose pointed out. She could still close her eyes and see Daniel phasing his hand into a man’s stomach; could still see the man whither and crumple and turn to greasy ash.

  “I’m not feeding her people,” Lance said, harshly, mouth curved downward in a frown she’d come to learn meant he felt helpless.

  He was pitifully easy to read.

  All of them were: her new team.

  Gallo she’d met in cadet training. With his bouncy curls, and his big, puppy dog eyes, she’d dismissed him straight away. Too soft, too weak; he’d be the first to dissolve into tears in the field; crouched behind a bit of rubble, rocking back and forth and sobbing, crying out for his mother. He looked like someone who’d actually had a mother, rather than a string of terrible foster parents, and then a crotchety old woman, and a killer.

  But his determination had proved unbeatable. Beneath the bouncy curls and puppy dog eyes, she’d glimpsed steel in him. He did get frightened; always the first to jump, to swear, to spook. But he didn’t run away, and he was the first to offer a hand, too. When the others had shied away from her, still nursing bruised egos from the day she’d signed up, openly sneering at her because she didn’t play their little social games, he’d walked right up to her in the gym, and said, “If you’re the best, then I want to learn from you.” His gaze, when she’d finally met it, had been earnest, rather than mocking. She’d begun thinking of him as a barnacle that couldn’t be scraped off. Now, she supposed, he was more like a friend – as close to a friend as she was capable of having these days.

  Different people handled unfortunate circumstances in different ways, and Gavin she’d pegged as the sort to offer a heartfelt pat on the shoulder, but a joke designed to help you laugh off some of the pain. He hadn’t tried to do so with her – she got the impression he didn’t really think much of her, though she detected no outright hostility from him – but he gave off the aura of a man who’d seen a lot, perhaps suffered a lot, but who soldiered on anyway, because it was the only, and the best thing he could do. She respected that. There was a lot to be said for resilience in times such as these.