Resuming his search, Avian checked the other rooms of the house. They were empty too. Silent as a grave. It wasn’t until he went back outside that a faint light from the church caught his eye.
As soon as he took the first step in that direction, he felt the wrongness emanating from the building. The pallor of death hung over the gabled roof like a storm squall.
He quickened his pace, and with every step he took, steam rose up from his skin. His horns lengthened. And the scars on his back burned.
It was going to hurt like a son of a bitch to actually step foot inside the church—the demon side of him always reacted most strongly there—but if Father Montgomery was in trouble, then there was no question he was going inside.
A single beam of light spilled feebly onto the ground, as if pointing the way. But Avian could have closed his eyes and kept moving. The darkness trying to pull him back was like a reverse compass. It showed him exactly where it didn’t want to go.
Fighting every natural instinct he had, Avian stepped into the church. The light was coming from the pulpit. The pews lining both sides of the room were covered in darkness, and the irony of moving out of the dark and toward the light was not lost on Avian.
A forgotten memory of Father Montgomery trying to teach him the Lord’s Prayer rose in his mind, but he would not say it. That prayer was for those who needed it.
Those who needed Him.
As the bastard child of two Revenants, Avian had sworn long ago that he would never ask for help. It always came with strings.
The scars on his back—a permanent reminder of his heritage—tightened again, and the ones covering the rest of his body rose to the surface. Breaking through his skin. Burning him from the inside out. Hellfire and damnation rode him hard, screaming for him to turn back. But Avian kept going. Lunging toward that single light.
It was only when a whisper of a psalm reached him and the shape of a body draped over the pulpit came into view that he staggered to one knee and dropped his weapon.
“Father . . .”
The frail priest was covered in blood, the life force draining out of him with every slow beat of his heart. A trail of droplets showed that he’d been attacked nearby and had tried to crawl to safety, but only made it to the pulpit.
As Avian rushed toward him, he could see the blood on his head and clothes was already stiff. The priest had been lying there for hours.
Gathering him as gently as he could in his arms, Avian flinched when Father Montgomery didn’t recognize him.
“Demon,” he whispered feebly.
Avian had never thought he had a heart to break. Even after Shelley died right in front of him.
But when he heard that, he knew he was wrong.
Realizing what he must look like, he bowed his head and willed his eye color to change back to brown. It was the least he could give him; the scars and horns wouldn’t recede. “Father, I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
The priest closed his eyes, and when he opened them again recognition was there. “Avian? My boy . . .” A tear rolled down his cheek. “I didn’t think I’d get the chance to say good-bye.”
“There’s no need for that. This isn’t good-bye.” Avian smoothed back a wisp of bloodstained hair that lay across Father Montgomery’s forehead. “Who did this to you?”
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil” were the priest’s only words.
“You’re not walking through death’s valley. I won’t let you.”
Father Montgomery chuckled, and it turned into a wheeze. “Avian, I haven’t told you . . . how proud I am of you. . . .” His eyes widened, and he started coughing.
Avian wiped the blood away from the priest’s mouth, but it kept dribbling out like a slow leak of air. “You can tell me tomorrow. As you practice one of your sermons that always turn into a theological debate between us. You’ll have lots of time to tell me whatever you want, and I promise to be there for all of it.”
“I won’t . . .” The light in Father Montgomery’s eyes started fading.
“You can’t die,” Avian demanded. “You aren’t dying. I can feel when that’s about to happen, and I don’t feel it with you,” he lied.
“A . . . gift,” Father Montgomery said slowly. “From our . . . heavenly Father. The gift of . . . peace.” He shuddered and then said, “The angels . . . are . . . singing. My . . . favorite Christmas song.”
Father Montgomery’s favorite song was “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.” It was the only thing he ever requested Avian play for him on the cello.
The crack in Avian’s heart deepened. And the black wings that he kept so tightly bound suddenly ripped through his leather jacket and wrapped gently around them.
Taking a final breath, the priest looked up into Avian’s eyes. “The angels are beautiful. But none are more beautiful than you.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Cyn ducked behind a Dumpster to try to lose whoever was following her and waited for the footsteps to pass. Her gut instinct told her that it was Declan. She’d seen him with a cigarette that first night in the diner, and he had plenty of reasons to want to question her, since he knew she’d been involved with his brother.
When it sounded like the footsteps had finally passed, Cyn peeked her head out to scan the area. It looked clear. But her wig got snagged on the bottom hinge of the Dumpster door when she tried to stand.
“Son of a bitch,” Cyn said under her breath.
Delicately trying to untangle the short black strands, she almost had it free when Declan’s voice came from behind her.
“Need any help?”
Cyn frantically pulled the wig loose and shoved it back onto her head. Smoke drifted past her, and she turned around. “Nope. I got it.” She could feel the edges of her forced smile wavering.
“Shouldn’t you be back at the diner?” Declan asked, tapping the edge of his cigarette so that the ashes floated to the ground. “I thought you worked the night shift.”
“I do. I was just taking a walk.”
“Taking a walk.” He gave her a hard look. “I thought maybe it was something I said.”
He took a step closer, and Cyn willed her legs not to shake. When he glanced down at her ring, she couldn’t stop her thumb from rubbing the back of it nervously.
“You know, when they found my brother’s mutilated body, I asked if they’d also found a knotted gold ring. I didn’t think he’d had the chance to give it to you yet.”
Declan brought his cigarette up and held it right next to her cheek. The glowing red end hovered an inch below her left eye, growing brighter and brighter until he suddenly pulled it away.
Cyn flinched, and he laughed. “Guess I was wrong.”
The look in his eyes was something Cyn had never seen before. A chill ran down her spine, and the back of her neck tingled. Why didn’t she see the danger in front of her sooner? She’d thought he was just flirting with her, maybe looking for a date. . . . How could she have been so stupid?
Declan’s expression suddenly changed again. The wild look disappeared, and he was nothing more than a charming young man. He dropped the cigarette and then stepped on it. “You should be careful out here all alone, Cyn. You never know what might happen.”
~ ~ ~
Cyn didn’t go back to her apartment, just in case Declan was still following her. She didn’t know what legal rights he would have to enter the premises, but she didn’t want to chance it. As soon as the sun came up, she would return for her stuff. Then it would be time to steal another car and leave town.
She found herself heading toward Father Montgomery’s house. She might not be able to tell him why she was leaving, but he deserved to know that she wouldn’t be coming back. Rubbing her hands over her arms as she walked, Cyn was glad to see the glowing light of the rectory finally come into view.
But it wasn’t Father Montgomery’s house that had all the lights on. It was the church.
Candelabras li
ned the pathway leading up to the open doors, and she could see candles dotting the windowsills inside. It reminded her of a Christmas Eve candlelight ceremony that she went to once when her mother was dating a Methodist.
Wondering why the church was all lit up at four o’clock in the morning, Cyn cautiously stepped inside. A large white shroud covered the pulpit. A shadow caught her eye from the left, and she slipped into the dark recesses of an empty statue alcove, watching as a red-robed figure walked up to the pulpit.
The robed figure pulled back the shroud, and as soon as Cyn saw what was beneath it, she couldn’t stop herself from running to him. “Father Montgomery!”
Her voice broke as she said his name. With the exception of several dark bruises that marred the side of his face, he could have been sleeping as he lay there.
But Father Montgomery wasn’t sleeping. He was dead.
“What did you do?” she screamed, launching herself at the robed figure. She began to pummel his chest. The blows didn’t seem to faze him, but as her fists made contact, hazy memories of a bar fight came flooding back. She slowly looked up. “You’re the guy from the bar. The one who had red eyes and horns and smoke coming off of him. You killed that octopus-arm guy.”
His eyes weren’t red now, but brown.
She stopped hitting him. He was the one to turn her away from Father Montgomery’s house too, the first time she went to tell him what was happening to her.
“What happened to Father Montgomery?” The church was silent except for the faint echo of her voice. But he refused to answer.
Cyn widened her eyes, pupils dilating, and looked straight at him. “You will tell me what happened. You’re going to tell me why Father Montgomery is—”
He just crossed his arms and shook his head. “That doesn’t work on me.”
“Please?” she whispered, leaning forward to put a hand on Father Montgomery’s arm. He looked so very much like he was just sleeping and would wake up at any moment. “Please tell me what happened.” Tears clouded her vision, and she scrubbed a hand across her face to wipe them away.
“I found him, but I was too late to save him.”
She shouldn’t have believed him. Not coming across such a strange scene like this. But something deep inside told her he was telling the truth.
The look in his eyes was sorrow.
“What are you going to do with him? I want to help.”
“I don’t need your help.” He gave her a scowl. “Just stay out of my way.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
They kept vigil in the church for the rest of the night. Cyn retreated to a pew in the front row and curled up against the hard surface, while Thirteen stayed near the pulpit. She was far enough away from him to stay out of his way, but still close enough to keep watch over Father Montgomery.
She should have been using this time to recite whatever prayers she could remember so that his immortal soul would find comfort in the arms of God. Or something like that. But all she could think about was what he’d said about that squirrel.
I hope there are squirrels in heaven for you, Father Montgomery. I hope you have a nice window with a big backyard and lots of squirrels.
It wasn’t a prayer in the traditional sense, but as she closed her eyes and softly said those words, it felt like one to her.
When sunlight started filtering through the windows, Father Montgomery’s protector finally rose and left the church. Cyn followed him to the rectory. Her brain felt sluggish. She really needed to get a couple of hours of sleep before she went back for her stuff.
“Can I crash on the couch? I’m beat.”
He turned to face her, and she was stunned by his appearance. A slant of sunlight angled across his face and revealed his chiseled cheekbones, a sharp chin, and dark, shoulder-length hair. His eyes were the color of melted chocolate.
Cyn’s voice faltered.
He shrugged off the robe and hung it on a coat rack. He was wearing tight black leather pants and a black T-shirt. “And why would you be crashing on the couch?”
“Because I’m tired. I need to get some sleep.”
“So go home. Sleep there.”
“I can’t.”
He cocked his head at her, clearly waiting for an explanation. But Cyn wasn’t in the mood to give him one.
“Look, I won’t bother you, and I won’t get in your way. You won’t even know I’m here.”
“If I want to sit on the couch, you’ll be in my way.”
Cyn tugged on the back of her wig, and it pulled up high on her forehead. Quickly readjusting it, she said, “Fine. Then I’ll sleep in one of the bedrooms, and you can have the couch.”
“Not his.”
She was this close to telling him to go fuck himself. “Are you serious? I just spent the last three hours staring at the body of the only person in this stupid town who’s ever tried to help me, and you think I want to sleep in his bed while he’s growing cold out there? Jesus Christ. I’d rather sleep on the floor.”
“Suit yourself.” He turned his back to her and went into the kitchen.
Cyn didn’t know what to make of that, but she wasn’t going to stand here and argue with him about it. The couch it was, then.
At least until he came and forcibly moved her off of it.
~ ~ ~
The sound of police sirens woke her up, and Cyn panicked. She’d forgotten where she was. Her leg was tangled in a crocheted blanket, and she couldn’t get free. When the fog finally lifted and her brain really woke up, she recognized Father Montgomery’s house.
Shoving the blanket all the way off, Cyn went to go look out one of the windows. A bunch of cops were standing around outside the church. Then a stretcher was rolled out and loaded into a nearby van. It was covered with a white sheet.
One of the police officers gestured to the house, and she pulled back from the window. She couldn’t go outside while they were there, but she couldn’t stay here if any of them decided to come check things out. Cyn glanced at the stairs. There had to be somewhere up there she could hang out while she waited for them to leave.
She went to the attic. It was filled with boxes marked CHURCH CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS and a couple of old pieces of furniture. A large black box shaped like an oversize figure eight was the only thing not covered in dust, and Cyn realized it was some type of musical-instrument case. Obviously well taken care of.
Pulling one of the Christmas boxes over to a small window that overlooked part of the church parking lot, Cyn took a seat. It was a long wait, and she kept dozing off. When she finally heard a door open downstairs and saw that the lot was clear, she went down to the kitchen.
Thirteen was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee in front of him.
“I can make a fresh pot if you want,” she offered.
“Do whatever you want. I’m done anyway.”
He stood up like he was going to leave. Because of course he was. It wasn’t like they were both trying to deal with a murder or anything that just happened.
“Can you just sit with me for, like, five minutes?” Cyn exploded. “I’ve had a really bad night. Actually, a week of bad nights, and I need—” She stopped and rubbed her temples. A monster headache was forming behind her eyes. “I think I need a drink.”
“There’s nothing here but cooking sherry. Father Montgomery was old fashioned that way.”
“I should have known you would have checked.” She moved to a bread keeper on the counter and lifted the lid. Maybe some toast would make her headache go away. “And how can you talk about him so . . . matter of fact like that?”
“Death is pretty matter of fact. You get used to it.”
Cyn found the toaster under a cross-stitched appliance cozy and pushed down two pieces of bread. “Death isn’t something I ever want to get used to. Death isn’t something most normal people want to get used to.”
She gave him a pointed look so he would know what she was referring to.
“You already know I’
m not human, so what is this?”
“What exactly are you?” she said bluntly. “With the smoke and the red eyes. Not to mention the horns. . . . Are you the devil?”
He smirked. “The devil. How original. I haven’t heard that one in two centuries. I thought this was supposed to be a politically correct day and age.”
“Politically correct?” Cyn stared at him in disbelief. “Since when do devil guys worry about being politically correct?”
“Since I’m technically a Revenant and not the devil, I’d say that falls under the politically correct category. The horns come from my father’s side of the family.” He crossed his arms, and the action made his T-shirt stretch tightly across his biceps. He saw her gaze shift down. “The burns are another gift from dear old dad. To remember where I came from.”
She should have been asking why the burn marks were there before but weren’t there now, and why his eyes turned red but didn’t stay that way, and if he’d really been around for two centuries, but the word “Revenant” made something twitch in the back of Cyn’s brain.
It was familiar. Like she’d heard it before.
Abruptly pushing that thought to the side, Cyn realized that she’d never met someone like him before. Someone who was like her—different. Granted, his case was pretty extreme with the horns and all that, but maybe she could tell him about the faces she’d seen beneath hers.
Maybe he could even help her.
Suddenly, darkness rimmed the edges of her vision and her hearing started to fade. Right before she blacked out, Cyn heard herself groan, “Not now, you son of a bitch.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
She went down hard and hit the floor with a thud.
“Jesus Christ. She. Just. Won’t. Shut. Up.”
The voice came out of Cyn, but it wasn’t hers. It was a voice Avian hadn’t heard in a long time. She pushed herself to a sitting position, her features shifting to reveal another soul trapped inside her body. Just beneath the surface were hints of another face.
The Beautiful and the Damned Page 7
