“I can get you a phone.” She stared at him in confusion before remembering her request. For some reason, he decided to have mercy on her and change the subject, or at least pretend she hadn’t tried to paw at him. “Poof.” He held his hand out like a magician, a phone sitting on his palm. He smiled at her, white teeth flashing before he became serious again.
At a loss, she held out her hand and he dropped it in, never once touching her skin. “Thanks.” He disappeared before the words left her mouth.
More than a little embarrassed, she went into the room, dialing her parents’ number as she closed the door behind her.
“Lucia Maria.”
Only one person would know who was calling from an unfamiliar number. “Zia.”
“You stay away from the man. I read the cards, Lucia, and he’s not for you.”
“No shit,” she mumbled.
“Watch your mouth,” Zia scolded and then sighed. “You okay?”
Lucia laughed, imagining her aunt’s face if she told her how she was really doing, who she met, and who she was currently crushing on, hard. “Well enough.”
“Your parents are worried sick.”
Of course, they were. “I may be home sooner than I thought.” Especially if she was homeless and jobless. “I need to figure out some things. I have Delia now.”
“The girl?”
“Yeah. She’s an orphan, but she’ll stay with me.”
Her aunt sighed, long and suffering. “She can’t stay with you, Lucia. You eat all your meals in a dining hall.”
“Zia,” she warned.
“I know. I know. Everyone does it. What do you need, piccola?” Her aunt’s voice warmed, reminding Lucia that for all her attitude, her aunt would do anything for her.
“Let Mom and Dad know I’m okay.”
“I will. Don’t want to talk to your mother?”
Lucia shuddered. That conversation would be unending and would probably lead to her mother asking the priest to say a mass for her.
Before she could answer, her aunt laughed. “It’s fine. She went to bed an hour ago anyway. I can hear them snoring. But you should probably call your work. The professor, the one with the nose hair, called about twenty times. We told him you were in the hospital, so that calmed him, but I don’t think it’s going to make him happy for long. He said someone else would have to teach your classes.”
“Shit,” she muttered. Still, her family were quick thinkers and probably saved her job. “Thank you, Zia. I’ll call him.”
“No idea when you’ll be back?”
“You probably have a better idea than me.”
“Don’t be a smart ass, Lucia. Just be careful. There are things in this world…” Her aunt left the rest of the sentence unsaid.
“I know. I will be.”
“Follow your heart, Lucia, but use your brain. Don’t be a moron.”
She sighed. “I’ll try. Ti voglio tanta bene, Zia.”
“Ti voglio bene, piccola.”
When she hung up, Lucia had to swallow back tears. Her aunt’s worn, rough voice comforted her, surrounding her with love and familiarity. Now she was alone again, unless Armaros was hovering invisible nearby.
Which was a distinct possibility.
“Armaros?” she whispered, feeling stupid and creeped out.
The sole answer was the wind outside. She really was alone.
“Lucia?”
Leaving the room quickly, she found Delia shivering in the hall.
“You left,” the girl’s voice shook.
“I didn’t want to wake you up,” she explained, reaching for her and picking her up. “You’re heavier.”
“I ate.”
“One day you’ll have to explain how this whole thing works.” Delia shifted, her knees pressing against Lucia’s stomach.
“Hey, Delie?” she whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Is there a bathroom in this place? I’m going to pee my pants.”
Giggling, Delia nodded. “Put me down, I’ll show you.”
The bathroom turned out to be off Delia’s room, and was the warmest place in the building. A step led up from the room to the bath, the floor warm beneath her toes. Radiant flooring. She sighed, did her business, washed her hands, and left.
Delia sat on the bed, a wolf in each hand, barking.
“I’m starving.” The sun was up, and her stomach growled. “Is there a kitchen?”
Nodding, the little one dropped the toys. “Pancakes?”
Lucia grimaced, she’d inherited her mother’s lack of culinary ability. “Cereal?”
“I guess,” Delia grumbled, sliding off the bed and grabbing Lucia’s hand. “But I’d rather have pancakes.”
14
Armaros
When Lucia whispered his name, he almost appeared to her, and when she’d reached for his face, he wanted so badly to lean into her. To close the distance between them and lift her so they were nose to nose.
He could feel her lips beneath his, and it was too much.
Now, he watched them, Lucia angrily mixing a batter that was alternatively too thick and too watery. At the rate she was going, she’d have enough batter to make a hundred pancakes.
Her eyes narrowed as she ladled the mix onto a griddle. Delia stared with interest, one of the wolves he bought her tucked under her arm.
“That’s not how my dad does it.”
The top of the pancake began to bubble. “I warned you,” Lucia replied. “I’m not good at this.”
Delia patted her shoulder and hopped off the counter to sit at the table. He hadn’t noticed before, but she’d set it with three places.
For him.
In the time it took him to wink out of the kitchen and into the hallway so he could walk back, the pancakes burned. Lucia scraped at the griddle, muttering angrily. From across the room, he heard her stomach growl and realized it would be better for all of them if he appeared with some food.
He had the thought and made it happen. “Croissant?”
“Thank God,” Lucia said, switching off the stove and flinging the spatula into the sink.
“I wanted pancakes,” Delia huffed, displeased with the turn of events.
“These have chocolate inside,” Armaros soothed.
“Okay.” Disappointment allayed, she took the croissant and sat.
Lucia took another, and sat, slumping back. “I can’t cook.” Picking pieces of croissant, she piled them on the table in front of her.
“Clearly,” he observed, taking in the splatters of batter along the counter and haze of smoke hovering at ceiling level. He pushed open a window, a blast of cold air shooting inside. Smoke dissipating, he caught Delia glaring at him and Lucia staring morosely at her croissant crumbles. “Why aren’t you eating? I could hear your stomach from across the kitchen.”
“You just need more practice.” Ignoring him, the girl patting Lucia’s arm comforting.
“What does it matter if you can’t cook? Delia doesn’t need food.” What strange turn had this morning taken? Lucia tried to cook. Obviously, she couldn’t. They didn’t have breakfast, he provided breakfast despite only one of the three beings in the kitchen needing food. What was the problem?
Lucia pushed back her chair, the legs scraping against the stone floor. “Is there a laundry here? I need to do a wash. I’ve been wearing the same clothes for three days. I think. What day is it?”
“Here.” Jeans and a sweater, a bag with new undergarments. It was easy enough after all the stores he visited yesterday. Feeling accomplished for solving yet another problem, he readied himself for Lucia’s gratitude.
Her face, when he glanced her way, was a mass of red and white blotches.
“Is she choking? Are you choking?” he asked worriedly.
“No,” Delia answered, her voice strangled before she began to giggle.
“I’m. Fine.” Standing, Lucia swept the clothes into her arms. “Thank you.” She met his eyes briefly, then left, ba
ck straight and stiff.
“You’re welcome,” he called after her, shaking his head. The stress and tension of the last few days were clearly getting to her.
“You shouldn’t do that.” A spray of half-masticated bread landed on his hand and he shook it off.
“Do what?”
“Fix everything. She won’t get better if you do.”
He struggled to catch up. “At breakfast?”
Shrugging, Delia made a sound of ambivalence. “My dad bought me shoes with laces even though I couldn’t tie them.”
“Huh?” Leaning his head on his hand, he massaged his temples. What alternate universe had he walked into?
“I tie my own shoes now, because I practiced. Now, I can tie almost anything.” Turning, she pointed to a ribbon at the top of her ponytail tied into a neat bow. “See?”
“It looks nice. Well done.”
Her red eyes narrowed and she shook her head as if grossly disappointed in him. “Never mind.” She took another bite of croissant, staring at him until he started to wonder if something was on his face or in his hair. Surreptitiously, he raked a hand along the top of his head and along his lips, checking.
“What are we doing today?” Delia brushed the crumbs from her fingers and folded her hands in her lap, watching him expectantly.
Had he said they were doing something? He racked his brain, trying to remember if he’d made a promise he now needed to keep. “Nothing,” he answered carefully.
“So, we’re staying here all day?” The air in the kitchen began to grow heavy as Delia’s eyes darkened.
“Yes,” he replied. His sister was dead, and Lucifer hinted at a murderer with angelic ties. If there was a battle to be fought, he preferred to do it on familiar ground. “It’s not safe to leave yet. You and I will stay. Lucia will need to go soon.”
“No!” Eyes black, Delia leapt to the table and stamped her foot. “Lucia is ours and I’m sick of running away!” To his surprise, she began to change. The blue undertones of her skin darkened, scales, not unlike his own, rose along her cheekbones. Her teeth, always sharp, elongated. Inside the kitchen, a wind gently tossed his hair around his head, swooping into his eyes. He pushed it away from his face, but the wind grew stronger. Soon it was lashing at the tablecloth, knocking down glasses and shaking the cabinets.
“Delia, enough,” he warned.
“No! I’m not hiding anymore. I hate it! I hate it!” Each word was punctuated with a stamp and a gust of wind. Her power called to his, taunting it, challenging it to rise in response.
But he didn’t let it.
“I understand,” he whispered, wondering if she’d hear him.
She did.
The wind disappeared and she deflated, the power leaving her. She collapsed onto her knees in front of him, lost and young and so sad.
“I’m sorry,” he told her, hoping she could see he wasn’t lying to her. “I—” He didn’t get to finish because she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face into shoulder to sob noisily.
“I miss my mom,” she choked.
His arms enfolded her, drawing her closer and holding her tightly. “I miss her, too,” he whispered, rubbing her back. “We’ll figure it out, Delia. I promise.”
15
Lucia
She made it halfway down the hall before turning back, embarrassed. In her head, she went through every excuse she could make to Delia and Armaros, and they all sounded stupid. Especially the truth: she was incompetent. When it came to taking care, real care, the kind of care parents took to make sure their children had vitamins and milk and enough sunlight, but not too much; she failed.
Catching her toe on a sharp piece of stone, she winced, her entire body going hot with pain. She knelt to make sure she hadn’t cut her foot, afraid she’d leave a trail of blood along the floors. As her head bowed, her neck began to burn, as if a beam of sunlight focused on one small patch of her skin.
“You are covered in a Fallen’s aura, but it doesn’t possess you.”
Frozen, Lucia lifted her eyes to the speaker. “Holy shit.”
She couldn’t move even if she had wanted to. She heard a sizzle, smelled hair burning and squeezed her eyes shut. Resting close to her skin was a sword, held fractions of an inch away. If it dropped it would slice through her, burning, amputating, cauterizing.
Eyes, icy blue like Armaros’s, narrowed when she met them. “Take me to them.”
Slowly, the shape of the man began to form. A face, handsome, but dark to Armaros’s pale. There was a close resemblance, and Lucia imagined if the two were split in half each would match perfectly to the other. Dark and light, good and bad.
Unfurling behind the man, curved and feathered, were wings. No. Not feathered. They appeared to be feathers, but they were gold. Bright, heavy, metallic, as if they were armor and a shield.
He had the same strange lack of expression Armaros could adopt, a veil dropping between him and the world.
“To whom?” Lucia’s voice shook, and she waited for the slice of sword through bone. It didn’t come, instead the heat reached a zenith and she heard a crackle before searing pain rocketed through her body. It shocked her, and her body reacted without her direction. Falling to the side, she scrambled away, pushing herself on her heels and palms from the man.
The sword in his hand flared brighter, white like the sun at noon, and he walked toward her, tip pointed toward her face. Here it comes.
But it didn’t. Arms, cool and hard, swept around her, lifting her away from the heat, dousing her in the darkness.
“Jeheol.” Armaros’s voice was as cold as his body, and despite the fire zipping along her neck and veins, Lucia shivered.
“Armaros,” the man answered. “I should have recognized your darkness.” Lifting his sword in the air, the hallway was bathed in light. Next to him appeared two other beings, a woman, taller than any woman Lucia had ever seen, with hair deep black, and another man, shorter but wider, with muscles that stretched the seams of his clothes. Each had metallic, feathered wings of gold. They moved like a unit of soldiers, one stepping forward, one dropping back, while the original held his flaming sword aloft.
“Angels,” Lucia breathed. These were not the angels she pictured growing up. There was nothing soft and caring about them. She couldn’t see them whispering comfort while she slept. These were warriors, ready and primed to do battle. She wondered if they could be reasoned with. “Wait. You don’t understand.”
The woman laughed, and it sounded like bells. Lucia’s eyes closed, the sound was so beautiful.
“You can’t reason with them,” Armaros threw over his shoulder. “They are soldiers and follow orders.”
His words stopped the bells. Each angel spread their wings, scraping the stone, throwing off sparks, and confirming Lucia’s initial impression.
“Run,” Armaros whispered, and before the words left his lips, his own wings, more beautiful than any of the three, or even Lucifer, sprung from his back.
As one, the angels charged him. They were a blur of forward movement. One disappeared, winking into nothing and another flew over her head, ruffling her hair and sending her curls whipping around her face. The original, Jeheol, sliced his sword at Armaros’s head, but Armaros manifested a weapon of his own, blocking the incoming attack.
In one hand, Armaros held a black shield, light reflecting images Lucia couldn’t quite make out, and in the other, his sword. She wasn’t sure what to expect, the hum of light sabers, the crackle of fire, steel against steel?
Instead, when the swords met, the earth shook. Cracks appeared in the stone floor, spider webbing along the walls and reaching across the ceiling.
“I said run!” he yelled, and Lucia jumped.
Delia. Her mind was so overwhelmed with angels of biblical proportions, she’d forgotten the child she was supposed to protect.
She took off, running as fast as she could away from the battle. With no way to get past the
two warriors, she’d have to run around the perimeter of the monastery, taking the long way to the kitchen.
If I could only poof myself there. She swung her arms and pumped her legs, willing her short limbs to move faster than she’d ever made them move before.
Sunbeams trickled through thick glass, glowing in small squares along the floor and doing little to light her path. Light, dark. Light, dark. Her body alternatively flashed hot and cold, she pushed herself to get to Delia, praying she wasn’t too late.
Hide. If she couldn’t get there in time, that’s what Delia needed to do. Hide. Run away. Disappear.
She turned a corner, and put on a burst of speed, racing through the light before slamming into something hard and flying backwards. Her head cracked against the floor, teeth clacking together and blood filling her mouth. Groaning, she moved onto her side to push herself to her feet.
She never got the chance, a foot pressed against her back, pushing her down. Pinned like a butterfly to velvet, appendages flailing, she was held fast.
“You stink of darkness,” a voice whispered. How could words holding such hate sound so lovely?
The foot left the center of her back. Before she could move, hands wrapped like steel around her arms and lifted her, slamming her again into the wall. “Foul,” the voice said again and like the Cheshire cat, a figure formed in front of her. Blue eyes blazed, teeth bared, the female examined her in disgust. “You betray your creator, and are found guilty. Prepare yourself.”
“I’ve betrayed no one,” Lucia whispered, panicked. Betrayed who? God? Delia wasn’t evil, and despite his best efforts to prove otherwise, she knew in her heart neither was Armaros. “You’re wrong!” Her voice came out a little stronger and she hoped with everything inside her that Armaros had won his fight and got Delia to safety.
The female’s hand left her arm, but Lucia couldn’t move. Something unseen kept her in place, her muscles paralyzed.
But she could feel everything.
A blade traced her arm to her shoulder and down her chest. One long line of hurt. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t make a sound, instead she shrieked inside her head.
Matched With A Demon Page 9
