The Taken Page 18

  And he’d have lunged after her, had his fingertips entwined in that glossy, sable hair, if only he hadn’t wanted to do just that so very badly. But he’d just dreamed of Evie—his darling, his wife—and worse, seen her drop to the floor, and death. How could he have woken from that and immediately started pawing at some other woman?

  But her touch—oh, her touch. Just like the suit he’d been wearing when he was thrown back onto the mudflat, it fit. Even his dream—Evie and him in the shower, the bed, in his arms—hadn’t had the punch of power that Kit held in her fingertips alone.

  Because she’s alive, he thought, mind latching onto the memory of her lips pressed hotly to his.

  But you’re not, he reminded himself, and pushed the thought away. He wasn’t human, not fully, anyway. He wasn’t angelic anymore, either.

  He wasn’t anything.

  Flicking ash onto the over-manicured green, Grif turned back to stare at Tony’s home. It was a good distraction. Grif could almost pretend he was back in the fifties, with the same desert breeze playing at his back, the same stately homes rising from the earth with their butterfly rooftops and giant windows. Back then, guys like Tony hadn’t just run the show, they were the show. And they’d been good neighbors, too. Even if they did work nights and sleep days. Even if they did park in their driveways with their Cadillacs’ noses facing out. Even if you did have to worry when one of their packages ended up on your doorstep.

  Still, they put their hearts in the city, gave it its bones, and kept the town clean even as they wiped away dirty palms. Tony loved it, too. He still talked about Las Vegas like it was his best girl.

  Yet these days the town’s greatest attraction was Caleb Chambers, who seemed to treat the city like a street whore, tossing money at her, tearing her down, using her up.

  A movement at one of the large windows caught his eye. It was Kit, silhouetted behind the curtain and struggling to hook the back of her dress. She managed it, then smoothed her fingers down in a practiced gesture, obviously facing a mirror.

  Turning away, Grif forced himself to stare into the abyss of the course instead. Damn it. What was going on with him? Because it wasn’t just the sight of her, the visual punch of her lily-white skin and berry-stained lips. Or the earthy, sweet scent when she stood too close. Or even her taste, though Grif would never loose that one from his mind now. He’d been able to ignore all of that, and thought he could continue to do so, too. She’d already said she wouldn’t kiss him again.

  But he couldn’t ignore what he was feeling, not alone beneath the bare, honest sky. Katherine Craig had slid inside his new skin, nestled right in next to his renegade heart, and he had no idea how. She was nothing like Evie. That woman could hold a grudge like a badge, flashing it as needed.

  Kit Craig flashed winks and nods, but if she held anything, it was a smile, the corners of her generous mouth ever curved upward with hope.

  “Why the hell is she so chipper all the time?” he muttered into the dark. She’d lost both her parents young. She’d been played by a two-bit sot who wouldn’t know a good thing if his life depended on it. Her best friend had been killed practically before her eyes. And even if her fight to keep the family paper humming panned out, she’d already learned that money couldn’t keep you safe or healthy or happy.

  So what on earth, he wondered, kept that swivel in her step? What made her dust herself off after getting knocked down? Why the hell did she insist on gifting him with that damned magnificent smile? Why did she taste like his own forgotten hope?

  All Grif knew was that Kit Craig was vibrant and alive and she wanted him in a way a woman hadn’t in over half a century. Even with what she called his grumpiness. Even given the way he’d mysteriously barreled into her life.

  And he had kissed her back. He wanted to kiss her again, too. To go into that bedroom, clasp her face on both sides, and crush his mouth atop hers. He also wanted to protect her.

  Yet what he needed to do was let her die.

  Looking up into the star-pocked face of the cold night sky, he considered that for a moment longer. “Not a chance,” he finally said, and the place where his wings should have been tingled.

  Then, turning his back on the darkness of the empty course . . . he ran right into the chest of a Pure.

  Angels—Pures—were always depicted as full of light. And they were light, comprised of the same particles and elements that imbued the entire universe with color. But the painters and sculptors who decided that “full of light” meant blond, blue-eyed cherubs never properly considered that the spectrum of God’s universe was vaster and wilder than anything the human eye could envision. Angels were an untamed natural wonder.

  And they were not created in God’s image. That was an honor reserved only for his children. It was why Centurions could never be considered true angels. Why true angels, Pures, would never be able to comprehend humanity’s plight.

  It was how Grif knew this one had been forced to don ill-fitting flesh against her will, against her nature, against the existing caste system of the angelic realm, where even the soulless Pures were divided into orders.

  She didn’t look happy about it, either.

  A perfectly round dark head sat atop shoulders with collarbones that flared. She—unmistakably female—was dressed in black cotton from neck to ankles, so seamless Grif could barely discern where her body stopped and the fabric began. Though it was night, sunshades were wrapped around her temples, perched on a straight, lean nose; she’d have looked severe even without the downturned mouth. She waited until he was done studying her, and had recovered somewhat, before speaking.

  “We meet again.” She also didn’t sound happy.

  And Grif recalled these features—not this face, but the underlying features—pressing through a thinning membrane of filmy Everlast and splintering walls. He had to fight not to back away from her, though every renegade cell in his body was telling him to do just that. “Anas.”

  She looked different than she had when casting him back into flesh and the Surface, though when she whipped her glasses from her face, Grif caught sight of eyes slanted with flame before her true angelic form flashed. Twenty-two-foot wings of downy gold blazed behind her, illuminating the dark body in silhouette. Her close-shaved head prevented singeing, but her neck was suddenly too long, and the air crackled around her when she shifted.

  Grif’s cigarette fell from his fingers, and he involuntarily stepped backward.

  “You will call me Anne,” she said, shading her eyes again with the glasses. Her eyes and wings instantly snuffed. Darkness reclaimed the golf green, but this time it sat upon it heavily, like a layer of foreboding smoke.

  “Why would I do that?” he asked, blinking hard.

  “Because I do not want my blessed name defiled by human lips.”

  Shakily, Grif pulled out another cigarette. “I mean, why do I have to call you anything, Anne? What are you doing here?”

  “My job.” She lifted her chin, and this time—even with the ill-fitting skin suppressing all that flame—he recognized her. “Unlike you.”

  Grif licked his lower lip. “Frank send you?”

  “You know who sent me.” A Pure wasn’t to do anything outside of God’s express will. Ironically, this made them haughty despite being technically lesser than mortals. It also made them impossible to argue with.

  But if Anne was supposed to take him home, why wasn’t he already wrapped up in her flaming wings and hurtling toward the Everlast? Squinting, he dragged on his cigarette. “I still have free will, don’t I?”

  “You are a child of God,” she conceded, mouth turning down. “And you are encased in mortal flesh.”

  “And did you get to choose your outfit?” he said, gesturing to her flesh. “Because you missed a spot right here.” He pointed to her eyes.

  Her body thrummed with a growl. “Don’t mistake my blindness for weakness. The stimulation of all five senses at once would overwhelm one who is Pure. Mortality takes
what is Pure and makes it defective.”

  Grif ignored the insult. “So . . . what? Blind people, the deaf, the mutes . . . all those people are really angels?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Anne hissed. “They’re God’s children and destined for Paradise. But, yes, some of his children are closer to the angels than others.”

  It matched what he’d seen at the Gates, where those who had physical or mental ailments entered the Everlast to find their sight restored, their bodies and minds whole. And while others marched into Paradise like an army of souls, the newly whole ones rocketed past the Gates as if launched from the mud.

  Grif grunted. “And all this time I thought God had just gotten His wires crossed.”

  “Blasphemy,” Anne snapped, fists clenching at her sides. “God makes no mistakes. He is divine. Angels are pure. And mankind is—”

  “Impure,” Grif finished for her. “Yeah. I got the memo.”

  “This,” Anne said, gesturing furiously to her flesh, “is a demotion. Donning human flesh is like being cast out for a Pure.”

  And she said it in a way that let Grif know she blamed him.

  “It’s an acquired taste,” Grif told her with more boldness than he felt.

  “I’d rather Fall.” With the deliberation of a hungry python, she came closer. “But I can’t return Home until you either kill that woman or let her die. And I can tell you this much, Griffin Shaw, I’m already tired of running into things.”

  “So kill her yourself.”

  Anne sneered. “You know I can’t do that. The angelic host does not interfere in human affairs. I’m only here to clean up your mess, and preserve other souls from your defiling touch. I’ve been watching you, you know.”

  He hadn’t.

  “It’s different this time around, isn’t it?” She smiled knowingly.

  “The coffee is better.”

  “And the women?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he replied stiffly.

  “That’s right. You’re faithful. Determined to find your Evie . . .”

  “Don’t you dare talk about her.”

  Anne smiled, and jerked her head toward Kit’s window. “Let me tell you about these modern-day women, then. They’re vibrant and full of life. Not like you.”

  “Not like you, either,” he said, because if he was out of place on the mudflat, she was doubly so.

  “Thank. God.”

  Grif crossed his arms, and tossed her own smile back at her. “Make yourself at home, Annie. ’Cause I ain’t killing that innocent woman.”

  Anne growled, flashing teeth like stalactites, and began speaking in tongues. It was like rushing water and roaring wind mashed into one vocal box, but Grif, standing there of his own free will, ignored the babble and lit another cigarette.

  “The decision you make here and now will ripple through the tides of the universe,” she yelled, when he turned to leave. “The longer you’re here, the more likely you are to influence events you have no business touching. I’d think hard about what you’re trying to do, Griffin Shaw. And of what you’ve already done. You’ve hurt enough people, but you’ve changed nothing.”

  That was probably true. Blowing out a toxic stream of smoke, he slowly turned back around. “It’s still my choice.”

  “There is only one right choice when deciding between two courses of action, and that is the will of God.”

  As if a Pure could understand true moral dilemma. Grif sniffed. “You know, you could help me find out who’s trying to kill her. Stop them instead.”

  “I don’t care enough to try.”

  No, he knew that. She was here on orders alone. Asking a pure angel to help a mortal was like asking a dog to meow. They just didn’t have it in them.

  So Grif headed across the green, back to the house, and back to protect Kit. His wingless shoulder blades pulsed beneath the Pure’s stare.

  “I will not assist you,” Anne called out, her voice again rumbling like a storm. “But I will thwart you. I will block your way. I will take that divine gift of free will and use it against you so that you’ll know defeat again in this pseudo-life.”

  Grif kept walking. “You can’t touch me.”

  “Doesn’t mean I can’t touch her.”

  Grif stopped dead, shook his head, and turned with fire in his own eyes. “You know what they say about your tribe, don’t you? The other Pures?”

  He waited, but she said nothing.

  “They say that you’re the ones who failed God. You failed to keep order on the heavenly pathways by doing no more than you were told and no less. They say Lucifer and the Third used your rigidity against you. They also say the only reason you were the first of the created angels was because God had to keep going until he got it right.”

  Anne remained stoic and silent, so Grif exercised his gift of free will and headed back to the house. “See you on the flip side, Pure.”

  Anne growled in response, but when she called out to him again, he didn’t turn around. “Kill her, Griffin Shaw. Kill her, and put the world back in order.”

  Whose world? Grif wondered, flicking his cigarette butt into the darkness. Because his hadn’t seen any sort of order in over fifty years.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kit had never been to Caleb Chambers’s lakeside estate before, though she’d read about the fabled parties in the gossips, the glossies . . . even in her own newspaper. Despite his prestige and accessibility, he retained an aura of exclusivity. Do business with Chambers, it was said, and you were practically guaranteed success. He never faltered, never failed. Never a professional misstep, or financial fumble.

  “Too good to be true,” Kit murmured as the tram ferrying them around the still, glossy lake slid past a looming evergreen and the estate came into view.

  “What was that?” Grif asked, tucked in close beside her. The valet had assumed they were a couple, and dropped a fur over their legs before she could protest.

  Not that she’d protest. As promised, she hadn’t mentioned their shared kiss to Grif, or even alluded to the fight that followed. She wasn’t going to lower herself to mentioning that he’d pretend to be an angel just to get away from her touch.

  Grif had been tense around her at first, but was loosening up now that he saw she was keeping her word. And she would continue to do so. She had her pride. She didn’t chase down men like they were game. She certainly didn’t chase moody dangerous strangers who claimed to have wings and dead wives.

  But Fleur was right, Kit thought, now that she’d calmed. The bad-boy gene got her motor running. So it wasn’t Grif. It certainly wasn’t angels. It was something faulty in her—something she was going to put a stop to immediately.

  Maybe I’ll pick up a nice, safe Mormon boy at the charity ball, she thought, as the tram began its final leg up the drive.

  “Did you say something?” Grif asked, and she realized she’d been mumbling to herself. Who’s crazy now? Kit thought, sighing.

  “I was just thinking of our illustrious host,” she told Grif, as they rolled past cypresses spaced like sentinels, and torches mimicking the same.

  “You mean why his name keeps popping up along those suspected of running illegal brothels.”

  “Yeah. I mean, why risk all of this?” she said, as they came to a stop in front of a mansion reminiscent of a Tuscan villa.

  “Well, what do you know about the man?”

  “Facts or hearsay?”

  “I’m not picky.”

  She eyed him in the dark. “It’s quietly rumored that he keeps his wives at the lake estate. Or most of them. The first one lives with him at the Trails. No one is ever invited there.”

  Grif’s expression remained blank. “So he’s a polygamist.”

  “Alleged.” Kit nodded. “Nothing has ever been proven, and though there are whispers, most of Vegas couldn’t care less. Not the most judgmental town, if you haven’t noticed.”

  They followed the other partygoers through an arched courtyard with bubb
ling fountains, naked statues, and doorways flung wide to reveal a foyer dripping with chandeliers. The noise level rose just inside as guests mingled in a social tapestry of conversation, music, and laughter. Tuxedoed waiters bore hors d’oeuvres, while hostesses in tiny black dresses and two-hour heels offered champagne flutes from sparkling silver trays. Grif accepted two from a high-cheekboned blonde who gave him a generous smile before moving on.

  Kit lifted a brow beneath her raven-hued do.

  “What?” Grif handed her a flute.

  Kit couldn’t help herself. “I don’t think she likes guys with wings.”

  Grif gave her a fish-eyed stare. “I was just admiring her dress.”

  “That’s not a dress,” she muttered, sipping, “it’s a plot summary.”

  Grif laughed, a deep chuckle that reverberated through his arm where it touched hers, and since Kit immediately wished she could make him laugh again, she discreetly edged away, resolutely turning her attention to the rest of the room.

  Everything winked and sparkled against a white marble floor, leaded windows, and candlelight as artfully placed as the paintings on the wall. Chambers favored classical and antiques, which fit the villa, but Kit found them overly precious and twee.

  Give me the clean lines of mid-century modernism any day, she thought, eyeing an ugly monkey vase.

  “So you came.” Paul’s appearance was sudden, telling Kit he’d been watching for them, but his expression was drawn, indicating he wished they hadn’t.

  “Wouldn’t waste the tickets,” she said, giving a polite smile to the woman he was wearing, one poured into fabric that had more give than the Salvation Army. Everything was so stretchy these days. Where were the butterfly darts? The pleats? The pin tucks that turned clothes into structured art?

  “Kit, this is my date, Raven. Raven, this is Katherine Craig, my ex.”

  “Oh my Gawd,” Raven said, in a bubblegum voice that trilled like a string instrument. She looked Kit up and down, eyes gone wide. “He wasn’t kidding. You really do dress like June Cleaver. Is that dress . . . old?”