by Holley Trent
___
“You have a brisk step for a small one in such inadequate shoes,” Tarik said to the prickly little goddess.
“Allow me to worry about my feet,” she murmured. “Worry about your own and be gone with you.”
“Does that usually work on the others? You tell them to leave, and they do?” He shortened his strides to stay abreast of her, which was difficult to do in a body he was not yet comfortable in. The lanky form didn’t suit him, but he tried to blend in when he could. He had other more comfortable forms—his unbound one, for one, but humans couldn’t process that sight of that one without losing their minds. And there was one that his body defaulted to and that had served him well during the millennia he’d been on earth.
That body frightened people in different ways than the one their eyes couldn’t interpret, though.
For a while, pretending to be a son of a Spaniard, he could blend in.
She didn’t look at him. Didn’t respond.
Pity. He liked her voice, even if every word may as well have been a dagger hurled straight at him.
She didn’t have the seed inside her that gave her the innate fear of creatures like him. Usually, he avoided powerful ones who didn’t have it. Everyone was happier when powerful creatures didn’t cross paths, but he’d been curious about her for more than a century and he was long overdue for some amusement, anyway.
“Do you have a name, angry one?” he asked.
“I have had several. I see no good coming of me revealing any of them to you.”
“If I wanted to know badly enough, I could ask one of your cohorts. I am certain one would tell me if only to frustrate you.”
“So go wake one and ask them.”
“Perhaps I will later. For now, I would rather walk this way. Where are we going?”
She didn’t respond.
He peered down at the top of her head and wondered if she’d chosen that height or if it had chosen her. He assumed she could change forms. Most minor gods could to some extent, and most chose to make themselves imposing in some way. He’d seen moths that were more frightening than her.
“If you will not tell me what you are called,” he said, “I will have no choice but to select a name for you.”
She muttered a curse at him in some obscure tongue his angel’s brain needed extra moments to process—something about private parts and misery—but he laughed it off. His body was virtually indestructible. Spoken curses rarely had any physical effect on him.
“Hmm…” He rubbed his chin and beheld the landscape ahead. Nothing ahead for miles except dense jungle. “What shall I call you?”
“Call me gone and go away.”
“Ha, why would I leave now when we’ve just started to get acquainted?”
The glare she pointed up at him was moderately more withering than the curse she’d spoken. Perhaps it worked on most creatures, but on him, it likely had the opposite effect of what she’d intended.
She was mean, but becoming—doe-eyed and softly angled. Clear brown skin and generous lips. He’d never seen hair shinier than hers. She was beautiful in a hauntingly, memorable way. A man could walk to his doom following a woman with that face because he’d be so intent on committing its beauty to memory so he could dream of it.
Maybe it’d be worth it.
That thought brought him up short.
He stopped and watched.
She kept moving, gripping her shawl tight at the throat and not looking back.
Without him even feeling anything or noticing, she’d found a way to bespell him. His body was impenetrable, but his mind wasn’t.
She was a creature he should stay very far away from.
He narrowed his gaze on her until she disappeared into the jungle and adjusted his hat.
He never did what he should and doubted he would start now.
CHAPTER FOUR
1769
Mexico City
The nameless one strolled along the edge of the zócolo, fondling bits of lace and fabrics imported from Spain. Much to her own dismay, she’d taken a fondness to the delicate material. As much as she hated to support an economy built on the backs of the natives, time passed, and the world changed, whether she wanted it to or not.
“¿Cuánto cuesta?” She indicated the shawl draped on the hook nailed into one of the makeshift stall’s support.
She didn’t like the price. High. Deservedly, perhaps, but she worked like everyone else hustling in that city square. Every coin in her pocket was precious to her.
“Volveré,” she told the merchant. I will return.
He didn’t look like he was concerned one way or another if she returned. He probably didn’t think she could pay.
She didn’t care. He could think what he wanted to. Her money was just as good as anyone else’s.
She made her way across the square, pondering returning to work, but the reason she’d left in the first place was that her head was in the clouds and she’d been unable to focus.
She’d been hired by a “historian” who was trying to make his living pillaging artifacts. Her job was to help him make sense of the so-called “crude drawings” the natives had used to tell their stories on their disappearing buildings.
He couldn’t tell if her translations were honest.
They weren’t.
There were some things that needed to be sacred to a people. Their lore wasn’t his.
Perhaps accepting the money was dishonest, but she didn’t really think he cared if the translations were truthful as long as people believed them.
Anyway, he was going to take all the credit for her work and by the time he learned—if the ancient dissembler was even capable of learning anymore—she’d be long gone.
She’d heard her son had gone up north to Texas after the French had left, and she wanted to see how he fared. There was a group of Cougars in that area as well, but she didn’t think he’d stayed with them for long. Being only half Cougar, Yaotl often felt restricted by needs of a shapeshifter group. If people knew he was her son, they would have expected him to be a leader. He didn’t have the fire in him. He was too forgiving.
She had no idea whom he’d inherited that unfortunate trait from.
“It really isn’t so expensive if you account for all the time it spent on its ship.”
Lola stopped in her tracks at the sound of that voice. After so many years, she’d believed she’d never cross paths with that insufferable living relic again.
“Spanish goods are still considered premium,” he said. “There’s a high price for luxury, Butterfly.”
She turned slowly, mindful of the midday crowds. She couldn’t make a scene. Besides, she was far too old for them. Although her magic was as strong as it had ever been, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt inclined to use it for major acts. She’d even been walking the human way for so long that she’d forgotten about shortcuts she could have taken that would have made her movements exponentially more efficient. In the time it took to snap her fingers, she could propel herself to her destination, assuming she’d been there before. She didn’t need to do things the easy way, though. The human way took time, and she had plenty of that.
He was wearing the same face as the last time she’d seen him. Sighing, she figured she should take a good look at it.
It was hardly anything special. She shrugged. Forgettable, like hers at the moment. Changing her appearance in subtle ways was one of the few ways she still used magic. That, and sneaking into Cougar dreams on occasion to see if she could pinpoint where they were.
“What did you call me?” she asked the thing.
“Butterfly.” He draped the delicate mantilla she’d been admiring over one of his broad shoulders and grinned at her. “That’s what you remind me of. In India, I once saw one with deep black and blue coloring that reminds me of your hair.” He took an unauthorized peek under her scarf. She swatted his hand away. “Well, not that hair. Gray doesn’t suit you.”
“And just what are your purposes nowadays?”
“That is hardly any of your concern.” Her gaze slipped from his haughty, fraudulent face to the bit of fluff draped over his shoulder.
He must have caught her gaze’s path because he picked up the ends of the lace and fondled them between swarthy fingers.
Fraudulent coloring, too. That was more obvious now than it had been a century ago. The color was too dull, or too blue, perhaps, like he’d tried to overcompensate for the more natural golden tones his startlingly pigmented irises hinted at. Those blazed with vivid color.
“You could find some rich men to worship you in private,” he said quietly, barely moving his lips. “Let them pay for your comfort and keep you well-appointed with fripperies.”
“In exchange for what?”
“In exchange for you not killing them. You are a goddess. You set the terms.”
She huffed and her traitorous gaze flitted back to that bit of lace. “If I could so endure the attentions of men, I would seek out their company on my own terms. Why are you following me? Does a creature like you not have other immortals to harass?”
He put a hand over his heart and made a sound of indignation.
She rolled her eyes and looked toward the noise in the center of the square. Some musicians were setting up. She wanted to be gone before they got into full frenzy. The din was upsetting to her constitution. She craved peace.
“I had work in the area,” the creature said. “Finding you here was mere happenstance.”
“And what is this work you do?”
“Perhaps the less you know, the better.”
“Well, I know you’re too far from shore to explode any ships, so mass homicide isn’t your goal.” She narrowed her eyes. “Or is it?”
His smile fell off and he leaned in, whispering, “I’ll have you know that insurance handsomely covered the cost of every bit of that so-called property, and I daresay the owners were even more flush after the disasters than they were before. Having learned that, I no longer reward them in that way. I seek other ways to disrupt.”
“Such as?”
He straightened and lifted the mantilla from his shoulder. “You do not need to know that. All you need to know is that I am discreet.”
“And who pays for your discretion, assassin?”
“I don’t always need pay, Butterfly. Do you?”
She considered lying, but dissembling didn’t seem worth the effort. She shook her head slowly.
His smile returned and he handed over the mantilla.
She didn’t refuse it. She didn’t know why. Generally, she would have, just out of spite. Sometimes, spitefulness was exhausting.
“Will you let me see your other face before you go?” he asked, already laughing as though he suspected she’d answer a particular way.
She certainly didn’t intend to disappoint him. “No.”
“Pity. That was your real one, yes? The one you wore on the beach?”
Again, she didn’t see the point of lying. He’d probably never see her again. “Yes. Close enough to real, anyway. I suppose you could call it my default human form.”
“I have one of those.”
“Not the one you are wearing.” She stepped as close to him as was publicly proper and gave his sliver of exposed wrist a poke. The coloring beneath the impression deepened briefly before going artificially paler again.
“No,” he said quietly.
“I know what you are,” she said, backing away.
“Do you?” He raised an eyebrow in query.
“I’ve read their books. The Spanish ones, I mean. Ángel.”
He did not deny it exactly, although his brow did crease in a curious way.
“Is there nothing like me in your lore?” he asked.
“Not quite. No.”
“Are you frightened of me?”
She snorted and headed toward her rented rooms. If she were frugal, she could start heading north in a month. She didn’t want to get to Texas and be without a home or resources. She needed to have her own things and not rely on others to support her.
When she turned back to look, the angel was still there, watching.
He waved her on in a sort of, “As you were, little one,” sort of way.
Huffing, she continued, clutching her purse and new veil close.
The next time she looked back, he was no longer watching. He was striding with purpose toward the north end of the square, eyes narrowed, and jaw set with determination.
She had a sneaking suspicion that he was about to make someone very uncomfortable.
Better them than her.
___
New York City
1812
“To hell with our long acquaintance, Gulielmus, I expect to be compensated in full for my losses.” Tarik put out his hand and waited.
Gulielmus, the wretched shit, rolled his eyes and tossed Tarik a wad of bills.
Tarik tossed it back. “U.S. dollars, friend.”
“Well, you’ll have to wait. I’ve only just gotten back into the country. I haven’t been to the bank.” The blond bastard flopped onto the nearby chair and draped his long legs over the right arm. He made nearly every conversation seem like a performance, whether they be in his salon, like they were at the moment, or out in the streets. The libertine had a certain way about him.
“You need to either get your sons in check or stop having so many.”
Gulielmus shrugged. “They’re spirited boys like their father.”
“Yes, I was there when their father got pitched out of the heavens and I know exactly how odious they’re capable of being.”
“Bah. You fell right along with me, friend.” Gulielmus had the sort of grin that always managed to inspire carnal thoughts. Many of their kind were susceptible to it. Tarik was not. He preferred to take conquests who were somewhat less prone to gloating.
“I needed that carriage,” Tarik informed him. “I can’t do my job discreetly without a human mode of transport.”
“I’ll buy you another.”
Tarik scoffed and took a seat on the other armchair. His legs were fine, but his long-injured wing joint begged for a rest. He needed to drape the weight over the back. “Yes, you absolutely will.”
“Where have you been popping off to, anyway? Tamatsu suggested that you’ve been something of a moving target as of late.”
“Tamatsu did?” Tarik lifted a brow. The third member of their clutch of reprobate ex-angels hadn’t been able to speak for several hundred years. He’d crossed the right woman the exact wrong way. She’d stolen his voice. The end to his plight didn’t appear to be anywhere in sight.
Tarik was surprised no one had yet managed to take Gulielmus down a peg. With his track record being as scandalous as it was, there should have been at least one person annoyed enough to punish him. Perhaps they were too afraid to try. His affiliations, aside from Tarik and Tamatsu, were the exact opposite of what they used to be.
Tarik tried not to judge, seeing as how he certainly didn’t come anywhere close to meeting the strict standard of piousness, but he’d never been able to consort with demons. Their disruptions were for chaos, not progress.
Tarik abhorred pointless chaos.
Gulielmus studied a tiny dangling thread on his waistcoat and scowled. “Well, he didn’t speak. You know that. He simply made all the correct gestures in response to my queries.”
“Ah. Well, yes. I’ve been busy.”
His old friend cut him a sideways look. Bright blue, like the vast majority of his spawn. Tarik never needed to get close enough to sample the brats’ energy to tell who sired them. They all had a certain look, at least to Tarik. He always knew what he was looking at. There wasn’t a major city in the world he hadn’t encountered one in.
Suddenly curious, he had to ask. “Are you still counting your whelps?”
Gulielm
us huffed and spun the ring on his pinky around. “No, I finished that chore. The ones in charge wanted to know. I gave them an answer.”
“And?”
“Less than last time I counted.”
“How is that possible?”
“They die,” Gulielmus said without inflection.
Anyone else might have pressed for details, but Tarik had known him for too long. Gulielmus hadn’t always been so apathetic about the condition of his offspring. There’d been a time before he’d gained so much power amongst the ranks of incubi that he’d check in with each of his children, at least from afar, and ascertain they were well-equipped.
Tarik didn’t know what had happened, but at some point, Gulielmus had stopped getting so close. He’d stopped volunteering information about them.
Tarik had no choice but to suspect that Gulielmus’s change in strategy had more to do with his “employer” and less to do with a change in heart. More than anything, he just wanted to be loved. That was probably why he’d had so many brats in the first place.
“You change the subject.” Guilielmus shifted onto his feet, lithe as a cat. A tall cat. He’d shrunk himself down to a digestible six feet in order to be able to dress himself in the newest trends. Still too tall at times, but he’d always preferred to stand out. “Where are you when you’re not driving fugitives over state lines?”
“Shall we argue again about that word?” Tarik asked low, rolling back his tight shoulder. He couldn’t get the wing joint to pop. If he could, he might be able to get the muscle to relax, but apparently his earthly body wasn’t willing to cooperate.
From the window, Gulielmus sighed and treated Tarik to a dismissive flick of his hand. “Right. Right. They can’t be fugitives if their only crime is in disagreeing that people can own people.”
“I think sometimes you forget about your time in Rome.”
Gulielmus spun around, fire in his bottomless stare. “I never forget a thing, and especially not that.”
“You behave as though you do at times. You fell with almost nothing left of your power.”
