“I know what you mean by birth mother,” he interrupted.
She cocked her head to the side, her smile growing. “Does it gross you out to think about your sister giving birth?”
“What is wrong with you? No. It doesn’t ‘gross me out.’”
“Did you just finger quote me?”
Groaning, he turned away. The human was impossible.
“Armaros,” she called him back quietly. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not funny. You lost your sister…” Her eyes widened. “I have a question.” Face flushing, she clasped her hands like she was trying to contain her excitement. “Is Lucifer your brother? Are all the angels brothers and sisters? How does it work?”
“That’s more than one question.” He rubbed his hands over his tired face.
“Did you make a joke?”
“That’s, yet, another question.”
“Armaros the Fallen, I think you made a joke.”
He had. And he enjoyed it. “Lucifer is not my brother. In fact, my sister isn’t really my sister in the sense humans would understand. Each of us was created for a specific purpose. Two angels for one job, I guess you could say. A back-up in case the first fails.”
“That’s horrible.”
He glanced at her quickly to see if she was serious. She was. Her eyes narrowed and she still worried her lip. Without thought, he reached out, plucking it from her teeth and smoothing the marks with his thumb.
“What were you created for?”
“Worship.”
“What else?”
Nothing. It was hard to say aloud. He and his sister had no other purpose but to serve their creator. It was what drove them, what fed them. Nothing brought them more joy or more satisfaction than carrying out their creator’s wishes. They watched, fought, and existed only for the one who made them.
Until they didn’t.
Until a new being was made. One able to break rules, laws, and find happiness in whatever they chose.
Everything changed after the humans’ birth. Those like Armaros began to question their purpose.
Lucia watched him closely, reading something on his face he didn’t mean for her to see, and mercifully, didn’t push him.
“You said there was nothing like Delia, but there have been. In the Dead Sea Scrolls there’s—”
He cut her off. “‘The Sons of God saw the daughters of man were attractive and they took as their wives any they chose.’”
“Right.” She nodded. “So, it’s not the first time.”
“I’m not saying there haven’t been—” He came to a halt, pondering how best to go forward when she cut in.
“Hookups?”
Close enough. “Hookups. But no children.”
“That you know of.”
The woman was aggravating, and he allowed, correct. “Fine. That I know of.”
“Like I said.” Smiling smugly, she touched the end of his nose with her finger. He caught her hand before she could move away. Her warmth left a physical imprint on his skin, and he wanted to keep it. Slowly, the smile left her face, but what replaced it wasn’t worry or fear, as it should have been.
If he didn’t know better, he’d say it was confusion, followed closely by longing. Fuck.
Lucia
Armaros’s strong, smooth hands held hers, and for the life of her, she couldn’t pull away. She wasn’t sure what induced her to bop his nose. Maybe it was the way he sounded when the word hookup left his mouth.
It was incongruous. He was so distant and formal, but his eyes had lightened with amusement. For a second, he was just a guy, and without thinking, she tapped him. Now, she was stuck, her hand in his, fighting the urge to lean closer.
His fingers released hers and she folded her hands together. Rather than throw herself at him, she studied the room and changed the subject. “France?”
“France,” he affirmed. “Burgundy.”
“I’ve never been here before.” Walking to the window he’d stood at earlier, she gripped the stone sill and lifted herself onto her tiptoes. “The church is in the village?” She humphed under her breath. “That’s unusual.”
He grunted, a noise which could have meant anything.
Snow covered the rocky hillside and the tops of the village buildings she could make out from her position. She moved to another window, hefting herself up with her arms so her feet were off the ground. Frustrated she couldn’t see more, she lifted a knee onto the deep sill, her fingers clutching the lead lattice work holding the ancient panes in place.
“Careful.” Armaros’s voice was low, right behind her, and she startled, losing her grip and tumbling backwards.
He caught her, arms wrapping around her waist and back. Part of her was mortified, but a much larger part appreciated the muscles in his chest and arms and pleasantly recognized the comfortable position she now found herself in.
Their eyes met and locked. “Sorry,” she said.
Slowly, he lowered her, releasing her when her feet touched the ground.
“There are better views in other rooms.” One side of his mouth tilted upward, so minute, she’d have missed it if she hadn’t stood so close, or if his other arm didn’t rest around her waist, tightening enough she could feel his muscles flex, keeping her chest pressed to his. That was fine. She was happy to stay right where she was, but he stepped away. “When Delia awakens.”
“Right,” she replied. No fawning over the fallen angel with a kid in the room.
Fallen angel. Holy crap, he knew God. Before she could open her mouth to ask a billion more questions, her stomach growled.
Lifting one eyebrow, he flicked his eyes to her stomach and back up.
“The last thing I ate were three licks of chocolate ice cream.”
His eyes went to her mouth as if checking for any chocolate she missed and self-consciously she sucked her lip into her mouth, skimming it with her tongue. “Is it all over my face?”
“No.” Was it her imagination or did his voice crack?
Spinning from her abruptly, he went to the door. “I'll find some food. Stay here with Delia. Call me if something strange happens.”
It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. “Strange?”
She hoped to see his small smile again, but it was absent. Instead, he left and she sighed. “‘Call me,’” she mocked. “Into the universe? Not like you have a cell phone.”
A small bookcase in one corner caught her eye and she walked over, skimming the titles. Most were in French or Latin, but there was one in English, newer in comparison to the others. Pulling it out, she read the title, The Secret Garden.
The chair Armaros left looked inviting, and scooping a blanket, she settled herself. The fur draped heavily across her legs, and despite the age of the chair, it was comfortable.
Cover creaking as she opened it, she was immediately transported to balmy India, but found herself wondering if Mary's parents died of typhoid, yellow fever, or dysentery.
I should know this; I wish I had my phone.
The door opened. She hadn't expected Armaros to return so quickly. He carried a loaf of bread and platter of cheese. The smell wafted toward her and her stomach growled loudly. “Ohmygodohmygod, real French bread.”
His smile returned.
“Fresh from the oven.” Hunger and desire twined through her.
Ripping off a piece, he held it out.
She took it with greedy hands, holding it under her nose and breathing deeply. “So worth being possessed.”
When she met his eyes, he wasn't smiling and her stomach soured.
“Choose your words with more caution.” His face was serious and body motionless. “Some might interpret that as an invitation.”
Unable to answer, she took a bite, chewing despite not being hungry anymore. Glancing away, she forced herself to swallow. “I didn't mean it.”
“It wouldn't matter,” he whispered. The cheese board thumped onto the table next to her. “The words alone open your mind. Even now, I
can follow the path I took earlier. I could dig around, seat myself inside your soul. Use you like a puppet.”
Kneeling in front of her, each word out of his mouth hurt her more than his possession had. She realized she thought they'd come to an understanding, or an impasse. Neutral territory. The idea he was out to get her bothered her.
So, she beaned him in the forehead with the bread. “Dick.”
He stopped her when she would have grabbed the loaf and broken it over his head.
“Stop,” he growled.
Twisting, she reached for the cheese, anything.
“I said, stop.” He held both her arms now, pinning them to the side of the chair, shackling both wrists.
Glaring at him, she obeyed—briefly. Panting, she struggled once more, hoping surprise would work in her favor, but he was stone. She wasn't getting away unless he let her.
“I won’t,” he whispered as if reading her thoughts, then he honed his gaze in on her lips. She ground them together, mashing them. “I want to, but I won’t.”
Standing suddenly, he left her. He located the bread behind him and picked it up, blowing across the top of it. Now, her gaze was glued to his lips and the tempting pucker they made.
“Don't take it out on the bread,” the lips said.
Accepting it as the olive branch it was, and the cheese he handed her a second later, she sighed and took a bite. “We're staying here? For however long?”
Finding a space next to Delia, he nodded. “For however long it takes Lucifer to forget about us. She can relax, there's no reason to use whatever powers she has, and hopefully, like you said earlier, she'll start to confide in us. Tell us what happened.”
He stared above her head, toward another window.
“What will you do?”
“Here?” he asked. “I don't know. Read a book.”
She chuckled and choked, holding up a hand when he moved toward her. “I'm good,” she assured him when she could breathe again. “I mean, when she tells us. What will you do?”
“I'll kill whomever hurt my sister.”
It was the answer she expected and she nodded, nibbling quietly. “Then what?”
He watched Delia sleep, drifting his hand over her hair but not touching her. Tucking the blanket a bit more firmly around the child, he shrugged. “I don't know.”
“You're Delia's family.”
“I know.”
Thinking about the future overwhelmed her. She had every intention of keeping Delia with her, but what about Lucifer? Would he track her down? Bother her for the rest of her life? What possible protection could she give Delia?
“Will you stay with us?” she asked quickly. The question was likely to upset Armaros, but she needed to ask. Needed to put all her cards on the table.
“Us?” He shook his head. “You can't still think to keep her. You're no one.”
“I'm the person she chose. For whatever reason, she wants me to be her family, and I can do it. I can work remotely and get a different job. Find an apartment in a good neighborhood. Move back in with my…” No. She wasn't moving in with her parents and aunt again. No way. Though, if there was one sure way to keep the devil away, it was Zia Valeria.
“You can't send a child like her to school. You can’t—” He stopped, huffing out an angry breath. “This is a ridiculous conversation.”
“This is a parenting conversation,” Lucia interjected. “We're co-parents here.” She gestured between herself and Armaros. She admitted it was an unnecessary conversation, at least at this point. But she got a perverse enjoyment out of watching him squirm. Maybe she was part demon, too.
“I'm hungry,” a voice said, distracting them both.
“You just ate earlier,” Armaros answered, his voice kinder than Lucia had heard it.
“I know.” Delia glanced at Lucia, her face dropping.
“It's fine. I'm fine. Go ahead.” She stood, walking toward them quickly.
“Sit down.” Armaros's voice was tired. “You can't do it again.” His attention went to Delia. “Use me.”
Oh, yeah. Delia nodded solemnly and like she had with Lucia earlier, stared seriously at her uncle. “Don't look away.”
Remembering how it felt, she watched with interest. Immediately, Delia's color improved, and her face took on the roundness more typical of young children.
Armaros on the other hand, became paler and paler, dark circles appearing under his eyes which seemed to sink deeper into his skull. His perfect posture disappeared and his shoulders slumped, aging before her eyes.
“Delia,” she warned. “I think it's enough.”
The little girl’s hands dropped, and right away, he sat up straighter and the color returned to his face.
“Are you okay?” Lucia asked, concerned.
Nodding, he raked a shaky hand through his perfect hair. “I will be. I need a moment.” His shoulders lifted and chest expanded with a deep breath. The dark circles beneath his eyes evened out and he opened bright blue eyes. “Feeling better?” he asked Delia.
“Yes,” she answered, her voice shy. “Thank you.”
Hopping off the bench, she held her wolf securely in her arms. “What is there to do?” She shivered and Lucia noticed her clothes. She was still dressed in the cast-offs she'd had in her closet.
“You need clothes,” she mused.
“I have some here,” Delia answered, holding out her hand. “Let me show you my room.”
It reminded her of earlier, she’d mentioned she'd been here before.
Armaros stood as well. “I'd like to see your room.”
Delia offered Lucia her wolf before taking Armaros's hand. “Come on!”
Armaros
Delia moved around his home easily. Clearly, she was familiar with the place. He imagined his sister bringing her family here, settling her daughter into a room, then making one for herself and her human lover.
A spark of jealousy ignited in his chest. Family. She'd made one without including him. Though, if he was honest, he was not the sort who should be in a family made of parents and a child. He'd done nothing since falling except damage and destroy. Vasanthi was smart to keep her new family from him.
He wished he could ask her... His thoughts trailed off. He could. Nothing bound him to this plane, he moved through time and space like he moved through air. He could change everything. Save them, give them back to Delia.
Knowing they ran from him, he wondered if his pursuit may have led to their deaths. He could reassure them they were safe, then go back to his life before all of this happened.
And what of Lucia?
What about her? She was human and her future wasn't his concern. Surely, she'd be better off without a half-fallen, half-human child to take care of.
“One two three?” Delia asked, startling him from his thoughts.
Lucia nodded, peeking over at him. “On three, lift, okay?” she told him seeing he had no idea what Delia meant.
“One... two... three…” At three, both he and Lucia lifted their arms and Delia jumped, swinging between them. The girl giggled and started counting as soon as her toes touched the floor. “One... two... three…”
By the time they reached the room Delia indicated, she was breathless and hysterical. “This one,” she giggled. “Right here.”
Armaros opened it and sucked in a breath. This was definitely a little girl's room. The canopy bed in the center of the room was covered in bright pink sheets and frilly pillows. Nestled among them were a myriad of dolls and stuffed animals. Delia dropped their hands, launching to the bed.
Against one wall was a bookcase packed with books, and next to it, a bureau with silver framed photos on top.
This was their home. It was clear. He bet if he'd studied the place carefully when they first arrived, he'd have seen a thousand different clues of their presence.
Walking to the bureau, he studied the photos and sucked in a breath. His sister was beautiful. She was the way she appeared when they were fir
st created, before he made her dissatisfied with their purpose.
One photo showed her holding a newborn Delia, red-faced and screaming. Another was of her and the human.
The human was not what he’d been expecting.
He associated humans with weakness. He eyed Lucia. Perhaps, she was the exception to the rule, but physically, at least, she was weak. There was nothing she could do to stop him if he wanted to hurt her. Pinning her in the chair, feeling her bones beneath his fingers, reminded him how fragile they were. One push, one too-strong twist, and she would break.
In the photo, the husband wrapped a strong arm around Vasanthi’s shoulders and the way he glared at the camera seemed to suggest he dared someone to take him on. If he had come face-to-face with this man, Armaros would have answered his challenge.
No wonder his sister hid from him. She knew him too well.
Lucia stepped next to him, picking up one of the frames and smiling at the photo. “They look happy.”
His response was a grunt. Lucia's gaze was on him, he could feel it, and he had to force himself not to glance at her.
“That's my dad.” Soundlessly, Delia appeared at his side. “He was bigger than you.”
He placed the frame carefully on the surface and stepped back. “Was he?” he asked distracted, needing to get out of this room where his sister's presence was even stronger than Delia's.
“I'm going to find you some clothes, and then I'll be back.”
“My clothes are here,” the girl argued, reaching for his hand but he stepped back.
Lucia knelt, tickling Delia's sides. “Let him go. When someone wants to shop for you, tell them your size, don't try to stop them.”
Delia giggled, leaning into her.
She knew. Somehow, the human knew it was too much for him, and he had to escape.
“Show me your toys,” she added, distracting her further. “Do you have Barbies?”
“No, but I have these dolls.” Delia left her side, rummaging in a chest at the foot of the canopy bed before glancing at Armaros. “I like pink and purple,” she told him.
He felt his lips split into a smile and he stepped back. “Pink. Got it. What about you?” He didn't know what prompted him to ask Lucia, but it was worth the grin on her face.
The Darkest Fall Page 7
