The Angel's Fire

by Holley Trent

  Lola dragged a hand down her face. Time hadn’t managed to age her appearance, but one frustrating angel and a handful of Cougars in petticoats were possibly going to do the job handily.

  “Let me be perfectly clear,” Lola said. “He is not the kind of creature who can so easily be wounded.”

  “Well, what kind of creature is he?”

  “That isn’t—”

  “I was an angel once,” he said as his heavy footfalls made the rickety stairs creak. That building hadn’t been constructed with giants in mind. She’d worried he’d fall through the floor of his room, and how would she fix that with no money? Her landlord wasn’t going to make any repairs to the place until they’d quit it. She already knew that.

  “An…angel?” Rachel gawped, dark eyelashes fluttering spasmodically against her cheeks.

  “Once,” he emphasized. “No longer.”

  “Well, why not?”

  “Because I misbehave.”

  “On purpose?”

  “Generally.” Tarik leaned against the bar near Lola and dug his hands into the pockets of his ill-cut britches. Too short. If he hadn’t been wearing boots, she would have been able to see his ankles.

  The thought was somehow preposterous—an angel’s ankles. Lola almost laughed.

  She rarely laughed. She found very little amusement in the company of mortals. Just stress.

  “The establishment is empty, save for your staff now, yes?” he asked Lola.

  “Until around four, yes. I would close for the day if we were not so close to earning enough to cover our expenses.”

  “Day off would be nice, but I need the money,” Rachel said.

  “Saving up to go farther west?” Tarik asked.

  Rachel snorted. “No. Never gave that any thought. My daddy died three years ago. Was just me and Mama and the girls left on the ranch with Bertie. Don’t want to sell it, so here I am. Mama doesn’t ask where the money comes from, and I don’t volunteer the information.”

  “Who’s Bertie?”

  “My nephew.” Rachel put special emphasis on the word. Lola knew why. She was surprised the young woman would mention him at all. Usually, she skirted the issue. It was a hard one, having to lie to one’s child, especially knowing it was a lie she would probably never be able to overturn. Bertie thought Rachel’s widowed older sister was his mother. She’d reverted back to her maiden name after her husband had died so there was no confusion.

  Some lies were told in good faith, but that didn’t make the results any easier to swallow.

  “Your mother is a practical woman,” Lola said softly. “Perhaps she will surprise you.”

  Rachel shifted her weight. “I’d rather not have that chat with her, but I feel better knowing that you think she would.”

  Elizabeth poked her head out of the kitchen. “He gone?”

  Lola grunted.

  “Didn’t want to make a fuss while the sheriff was in here, but while Ted was tapping out my telegram, he was telling me a little bit of news, and I didn’t like it.”

  “News about Sheriff?”

  “Yup. I figured you’d want to know in case he tries to pull anything over ya. He sent away for one of those mail-order brides from back east and she’s supposed to be here in two or three weeks. I guess he talked himself up as being some kind of good and decent Christian and—”

  Rachel interrupted with a snort and passed by Elizabeth in the doorway. “He’s going to want us to keep our mouths shut about how much he likes his whiskey and playing with his little gun, hmm?”

  “She’s rich,” Elizabeth called after her. “Ted thinks Sheriff wants her money pretty bad. Wants to make himself some kind of cowboy baron so he can take over the place. Wants to buy out the building the saloon is in, too.”

  Lola sat quietly, pondering as the ladies continued their chat in the kitchen with Bertha.

  Tarik’s large lands splayed on the tabletop in front of her.

  “Do not interfere,” she warned him.

  “You enjoy this needless stress, then?”

  “It is not my stress. It is Rachel’s and Elizabeth’s. And Cook’s and the Foyes’ and all the others. I do not control the game. I simply move through it.”

  “You care about them, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  He snorted. “Okay, Butterfly. You don’t care.”

  “You think you know me. You do not. If I were capable of such tenderness, I would have shown it on the Yucatán that day.”

  “Perhaps you have regrets.”

  She set her teeth together and stared at the wood nailed up where the left front window used to be.

  “Do you ever think about them?” He knelt. It was a long way to kneel.

  Foolishly, she met his gaze and was reminded of that rebellious glowing ore on the beach that destroyed things with such casual ease. He was trying to destroy her, she suspected, one interaction at a time.

  Many had tried. They had all failed. So would he.

  She looked away, ignoring his question.

  Of course she thought about the Jaguars. How could she forget? She thought of them every time one of those damned Cougars got sick and she got an unwelcome reminder of just how fragile they all were. Life was such a fleeting thing. Attachments were dangerous to her inner peace.

  “He’ll want leverage,” he said.

  It took her a moment to realize he was talking about the sheriff. Her thoughts always seemed to congeal so much slower when he was around. She needed him to go away so she could think.

  “You have evidently forgotten my agedness if you truly believe I have not yet encountered men like the sheriff,” she said. “There is nothing new under the sun.”

  “It may not be new to you, but what about them?” He gestured toward the kitchen. “You don’t wish to interfere? You hold all that knowledge and speculation in your head, but what of them? Do you want to see how they will react and feel sorrow when they fail? Or do you just assume they will fail?”

  “I did not ask for a lecture.”

  “This isn’t a lecture, Butterfly.” One of those massive hands inched toward her folded ones.

  She held her ground in that small way, not ceding one millimeter to him.

  He didn’t touch. Just floated his hand just over hers. Teasing her with the scald of his heat.

  It didn’t matter. Fire couldn’t burn fire.

  “You can’t live amongst them and not interfere,” he said softly. “Be it in small ways or larger ones. Your lives are intertwined. You interfere simply by being their friend.”

  “I am no one’s friend.”

  “Fine. Fine.” He pulled his hand away and stood. Hands in pockets, he strolled to the hastily covered window and peered at the wooden slats. “So you are not their friend. You cannot reject the notion, however, that you have grown comfortable in their proximity. Why do you think that is?”

  She had no response.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Gulielmus extended a sealed envelope to Tarik but pulled it back before he could take it. He tapped the corner against his smooth chin and narrowed his eyes. “What are you using the money for?”

  Tarik snatched the envelope and folded it into the pocket of his duster. “You don’t need to concern yourself with that.”

  “Oh, I think I do. You haven’t accepted a job from me in well over a hundred years. Have you suddenly acquired an appetite and need a more reliable income in which to feed yourself with?”

  Tarik looked over the job specifications Gulielmus had earlier handed him, committed them to memory, and sent the paper they were written on sailing toward the wastebasket.

  Gulielmus watched the arc of the ball in the air, sighing. “You never tell me things anymore.”

  “What would you have me tell you?”

  “Where do you go? What do you do?”

  “If you were so curious, you could follow. You could track me in a blink.”

  “Ugh, but that’s so much effort. If I expend my
energy doing angel things, my glamour is less effective.”

  “So stop using the glamour. You hardly need it.”

  “On human quarry, no, but the creatures with magic are harder to seduce. I prefer them. They’re much more interesting.”

  “I find it hard to believe that you never get attached. Are you truly so closed off?”

  “I compartmentalize. That’s how I survived ancient Rome, and that is how I will continue to endure.” Gulielmus grinned. “Anyhow, that’s half the funds in your pocket now. You get the other half when you complete the job. The deadline is one week.”

  “I’ll be back in an hour. Be here so you can pay me.”

  Gulielmus’s brow furrowed. “An hour? That’s not necessary. I only need that—”

  Tarik vanished from Gulielmus’s salon before the demon could get another word out. There was no reason to hold off on the chore. He wanted to be back at the saloon before nightfall and the place got crowded with too many demanding drunks.

  He didn’t like that sheriff. Lola may have claimed that nothing he did could surprise her, but that didn’t mean she should wait and endure. Tarik believed in being proactive.

  Having been near the London address indicated in Gulielmus’s missive before, Tarik was able to land discreetly in an alleyway near Arlington Street. Although he was in a hurry, he didn’t like wasting energy to move through spaces invisibly and thus chose to maintain his solid form. Losing the ability to change forms without consequence was one of the eternal punishments attached to him when he’d been cast out of heaven. He may have been immortal, but his energy wasn’t unlimited. If he tired himself out, he’d actually have to eat something, and that was a nauseating chore he tended to avoid. He didn’t like the way his body felt when it did the work of digesting.

  After a minute of quiet observation, he confirmed there was no one lurking about. He unfurled his wings and took to the air for roof access of the townhouse. His shoulder blade throbbed as he thrust upward. As always, he worked through the pain the best he could. There were shards of bone and bits of cosmic dust colliding and grinding together under his flesh. If it hadn’t been for Gulielmus grabbing onto him during their careening fall through the atmosphere, he might have lost the wing altogether.

  On some days when the throb was at its worst, Tarik wondered if that would have been better.

  From the roof, he descended onto third floor window ledge, pushed in the unlocked sash, and climbed silently into a well-appointed bedroom.

  At the sound of a lady’s shriek, he swore under his breath at his carelessness. Given the early hour and the darkness of the manse, he’d assumed the household was abed.

  The shrieking woman was, technically, in bed. She was peeking through the bed curtains and looking like she was about to let out another of those ungodly screeches. He needed to silence her fast, or every maidservant and footman in the damned house would be hurtling toward them.

  She wasn’t his quarry, and he had rules about harming the associates of his victims. He wasn’t going to draw his sword on her. Instead, he pulled away the ever-present defensive magic that concealed his wings from strangers.

  Her mouth had already been opened wide to shout, but somehow, her jaw managed to drop even more. Her eyes went round as the untouched teacup left on the bedside table. Some little noise of strain creaked from her throat as her skin went ashen.

  He raised a brow. She didn’t look well.

  She blinked several times before drawing in a breath and rubbing her eyes. “You’re…not truly here.” Once more, she peered at him, blinking rapidly. “Or have I died?”

  “Not dead.” He put his hands up and turned three hundred and sixty degrees for her to get a better view. “Not your imagination. Not the opium, either.”

  He could smell the perfumed evidence on her breath even from across the room—evidence of months of use, or more.

  She sniffed. “I’ve been ill. Female troubles. The doctor gave it to me.”

  “Of course he did.”

  Tarik didn’t care. It was her life to demolish as she saw fit.

  Perhaps, even in her impaired state, she caught the tease of cynicism in Tarik’s voice. She sat up straighter, jutted her chin out, and narrowed her eyes at him. “They’re the wrong color, you know,” she accused.

  “What are you talking about?”

  She waved a hand in his general direction, lips quirked with triumph. “They’re not supposed to be that ghastly sooty shade.”

  “My wings?”

  “Exactly those.”

  “I see.” He stretched them open a few inches and peered back at them. He could humor her for a spell. The opium would probably befoul her memory of the evening anyway. She wouldn’t trust that he’d really been there. “They’re the color they should be. What do you think I am?”

  “Well, you must be some sort of angel, but I thought angels were more…” She released the curtains and made a gesture of inarticulateness. “I don’t know. Heavenly. Where are your magnificent robes? Where’s your halo? Dear Lord, those trousers are appalling. And do you not know you’re supposed to take your hat off in a lady’s presence. My, you’re tall. Are you that color on purpose? My friend, Lady Eugenia, she has a companion from the colonies. A little orphan girl from Virginia, supposedly. You remind me of her. Come closer so I can have a better look. Goodness, is that a sword?”

  Odd woman.

  He hoped whatever batch of opium she’d last consumed hadn’t made it into wide circulation in the ton. If it had, there were probably dozens of aristocrats forgetting their childhood lessons of keeping their dangerous mouths shut.

  Tarik grunted and studied the hilt of the weapon he’d pulled from the sheath at his back while she’d been doing all that talking. “I imagine you’re the sister. Is your brother here?”

  “My brother?” Her brow creased deeply. “Why?”

  “He needs killing.”

  She grabbed the curtains again, appalled, but then her brow smoothed, and she went oddly calm. “Well, yes, I suppose he does. What was it this time, then? Was it that maid that disappeared? Or because he cheated that architect out of his fee? He’s a duke, you know. It’s not like they’re going to hang him for it.”

  No. They wouldn’t. His luck had run out, all the same.

  Tarik’s assignment was due to the fact the duke hadn’t paid off the devil. People really shouldn’t have made deals they knew they couldn’t afford.

  “You don’t seem distressed enough,” Tarik told her, smiling.

  She scoffed and settled down on her loft of pillows. “If he goes away, I’ll go to the States. Or maybe Jamaica. There’s sun there, yes?”

  Puzzled, Tarik nodded.

  She straightened up even more in a hurry. “Can you wait until I’ve gotten my maid to pack a trunk and gotten my carriage ready? There’s a boat leaving port tonight.” Her grin was positively treacherous.

  Tarik took a moment to consider what to say. He wasn’t entirely sure if opium was all he should be worried about. Revenge was sometimes a more powerful drug than those that could be ingested.

  “If you leave too quickly,” he said levelly, “people will suspect you had something to do with his demise.”

  “Oh no.” She wagged a finger at him. “Not if I have an alibi. Lady Constance will insist that I was visiting at her home all evening.”

  Tarik quirked a brow. “Will she?”

  “Mm-hmm.” The lady scrambled out of the bed and hurried to the bedroom door. She screamed down the hall for someone, likely a maid, and then closed the door, still wearing that wicked smile. “If there is anyone who wants my brother dead more than me, Lady Constance does. He’s a terrible sort, isn’t he? Bad blood.”

  “Which you share.”

  She wagged that finger at him again. “Oh, no. Everyone knows I’m a bastard, but my mother brought too much money to the marriage for anyone to make a fuss.”

  The maid stepped in, took one look at Tarik, and promptly
fainted.

  The lady sighed and nudged the young woman with the tip of her slipper. “Oh, she’s going to have to get over that meddlesome weakness quickly, isn’t she? Hot where we’re going. I don’t know quite where that is yet, but it’s going to be hot there.”

  “I would suggest Bermuda.”

  “Splendid!” She padded over to Tarik and gave his arm an experimental poke. Feeling resistance, she squealed, “Ooh, you’re real!”

  “Evidently.”

  “Do they all look like you?”

  “No.”

  “Pity.”

  Odd woman.

  He took a seat on the settee at the foot of her bed and extracted his watch from his pocket. “An hour, then?”

  “Oh. Yes! Yes.” She gave the maid another nudge with her foot. “Get up, dear! We’re going on a splendid adventure.”

  A plaintive groan croaked from the lady’s maid on the floor.

  “Get up or I’ll dismiss you without a reference.”

  Smelling salts wouldn’t have been as effective as that threat. The maid sprang to her feet with renewed vigor and got to work.

  ___

  Tarik pushed the wad of bills across the saloon bar and catalogued the proprietress’s expressions with keen interest.

  Normally, her face didn’t move much. All of her curiosity was in her eyes. The tiniest of creases between them. The very slight narrowing. The way the pupils shrank or dilated. She wore her emotions on a microscopic level, and he happened to be equipped with vision acute enough to see them, and also enough curiosity to look for them.

  He was curious.

  “What is that?” she asked, nodding to the money.

  “Money. For the room and for your window.”

  Not touching the cash, she peered up at him.

  “Take it. I told you. It’s not charity. It’s compensation.”

  “Windows do not cost so much.”

  “Perhaps you’ll need to buy a spare.”

  “A spare?” Her eyes spun in her head. “What are you doing?”

  “I thought that was perfectly clear. I’m compensating you. Besides, I may decide I need the room for more than three days.”

  “Why?”