by S. M. Reine
“I’m Franklin,” he said, swatting everything off of the counter into an open trash bag on the floor, including the unplugged toaster. The loaf of bread fell out onto the floor and he nudged it aside. “Sorry about the house. Been hard keeping up with my arthritis the way it is lately, and it’s only getting worse as it gets colder. Nights are long now. Seems like they’ve been long for ages.”
Elise frowned. “Let me take care of that.” She piled everything into the trash bag and pulled the yellow cords to tighten it.
She kept an eye on him as she collected garbage. It was so strange to see this man who looked like Neuma, but so many years older, with skin so much darker than hers. He smelled like he hadn’t showered in weeks. The scent of aging hung around him—foot creams and sweat and decaying skin.
And this was Neuma’s younger brother.
Franklin kept talking. “Haven’t seen Neuma in a while. Guess that’s why you’re here? She finally dead?”
“Neuma’s fine,” Elise said.
He grunted. “What’s her excuse, then? Where she been?”
“She asked me to bring this to you,” Elise began, holding out the envelope.
She was interrupted by a door creaking open. A short, heavyset woman shuffled into the room. Her hair was like brambles. She clutched an over-filled purse to her chest, out of which bulged three paperbacks and a roll of tattered toilet paper.
Franklin wheezed a sigh of annoyance. “Hey. Hey, Lorena!”
She didn’t look at him. She walked into the living room, picked up another book, and tried to fit it into her purse. Franklin gave Elise an apologetic look, like this embarrassed him.
This woman looked even more like Neuma than Franklin did. She was beautiful in a way, somewhere under the mess of her hair and the terrycloth robe. She was graceful, too, even as she attempted to jam one more book into a purse that already had too many.
“Get back to bed, Lorena,” Franklin said, waving the rolled up newspaper at her. “You’re not supposed to be outta bed this late. You know that.”
“Go fuck yourself,” she said. It took obvious effort to shape the words properly, and the words still came out slightly slurred.
He waved the newspaper more emphatically. “Don’t you go talking like that! You’re stupid, not blind. I know you can see we got a guest with us!”
“Fuck you,” Lorena said again, pivoting to shuffle back toward the room.
Franklin kept the newspaper raised, as if considering swatting her with it. He didn’t lower it until she was out of range. Lorena had shut the door behind her when she came out; now she struggled with the door handle.
“Schizophrenic,” Franklin said with a shrug. “Probably demented, but we ain’t got a doctor to say it. And retarded. Like some fucked up in the head eight year old, ain’t never grown up, though she sure whored herself around good enough. Two miscarriages and one abortion and three adoptions, two of ‘em just as retarded as she is. Had to get her plumbing yanked out to stop her and she still got gonorrhea and all that other stuff. Ain’t that a fuckin’ life?”
Lorena was still struggling with the doorknob to her bedroom. Elise set the envelope on the counter, keeping it away from a sticky meat wrapper that hadn’t been swept off by Franklin’s quick attempt at cleaning.
“Let me get that for you,” she said, reaching around her to twist the handle.
The woman reared back with a look of horror, mouth twisted and eyes wide. She saw Elise now. Really saw her. “Don’t touch me! Don’t you fucking touch me!” Her voice reached a high, shrill pitch, almost like a scream.
Elise jerked back, every line of her body going tense. Her adrenaline spiked. Her instincts told her she was about to be attacked. But the woman only stared at her, chest rising and falling as she panted, with a white-knuckled grip on her purse.
“I won’t touch you,” Elise said.
The panic faded from Lorena’s eyes, fraction by fraction.
“All right,” she said. And then, “Neuma?”
Elise touched her hair self-consciously. Her features were nothing like Neuma’s, but with the same pale skin and dark hair, she had frequently thought that they could be sisters. But this was Neuma’s sister here. This old, frightened woman in a bathrobe.
Before she could think of what to say, Lorena slipped into the room. Through the doorway, Elise could see that there was a lantern on the table between two twin beds, one of them stained with human effluence. That was the one that Lorena approached. She started to set her purse down, then shot a suspicious look at Elise and clutched it harder.
“I thought you weren’t coming back,” Lorena said. “What are you doing back? Are you here to help?”
“Yes,” Elise finally said. “I’m here to help.”
“Get me into bed.”
Such wild swings between suspicion and trust, recognition and confusion.
Elise stepped in close, but didn’t help Lorena sit. Her stomach twisted at the sight of the soiled sheets. She didn’t want Neuma’s sister sitting in it.
“Do you have clean sheets?” Elise asked. Franklin was watching from the doorway.
“Think so,” he said. “In the linen closet.”
She left Lorena clutching her purse and checked the so-called linen closet—a cubby in the bathroom, the floor of which was scattered with cat litter, although there was no cat to be seen. There were towels that smelled like mildew but no sheets. She found a pair on top of the laundry basket that were dusty, though far less dirty than what Lorena already had. It looked like nothing had been washed since Neuma left Reno.
Elise changed the sheets on Lorena’s bed. Then she took Lorena’s elbow and helped lower her to the edge of the mattress.
“Don’t touch my purse,” Lorena said by way of thanks.
Elise bundled the sheets up and shoved them into the laundry basket. There was so much that needed to be done, just in the bedroom—crumpled toilet paper collected from the floor, the windows opened so that it could be aired out, the patchy brown carpet vacuumed, the tobacco-stained walls scrubbed. But for now, Lorena wasn’t resting on soiled sheets, and that would have to be good enough.
“You’re a beautiful woman,” the woman said as she wriggled down in bed. Her movements were slow, pained. “Very beautiful. I used to be beautiful, but you’re still beautiful, and you’ll always be beautiful.”
The compliment wasn’t meant for her, but Elise said, “Thank you.”
Franklin closed the door softly behind her when she stepped out. He shrugged again without speaking, as if the gesture were an apology.
“Why haven’t you left Sun Valley?” Elise asked him, keeping her voice low so that Lorena wouldn’t hear it through the thin walls.
“On what horse?” he scoffed. “The Union didn’t bother evacuating us. They barely bother feeding us. We never had a car, don’t have any family to stay with. It’s fine. This is our home.”
It was a rotting mausoleum.
Elise picked up the envelope again and put it firmly in Franklin’s hand.
“Neuma wants you to have this,” she said.
He squinted at it. “What’s this? Wax?”
“Open it.”
Franklin broke the seal and looked inside. It took a long time for his expression to change, as though he wasn’t sure what he was seeing, but then his features slackened. “Lord Jesus,” he said, setting down the newspaper so that he could pull out the money. Neuma seemed to have fit as many hundred-dollar bills into the envelope as she could. They were all crisp and new, probably never circulated on Earth. “Is this real?”
“Yes,” Elise said.
He put the money back. Closed his eyes, took a deep breath.
“Lord Jesus,” he said again.
“You can buy a car,” she said. “You can get to an evacuation point.”
He swiped a hand over his cheek, trying to hide that he was crying. “I knew baby girl would pull through. I knew it. I knew she wouldn’t leave us. Praise the Lo
rd. Praise Jesus.”
“Praise your sister,” Elise said.
Franklin hugged the envelope, smoothing a wrinkled hand over the address. “You’re an angel. God sent you to us. Thank God for you.” She frowned as he yanked a photograph off the refrigerator and pushed it at her. “I always thought she was an angel. Look at her, beautiful thing. Look.”
It was an old, yellowing photo of a young girl, maybe nine or ten years old, in front of a farmhouse. She had glossy black hair, black eyes, and white skin—Neuma as a child. Just as Elise hadn’t given much consideration to how old she might be, she also hadn’t considered that a half-succubus must have been born at some point, been a child before she grew into the woman she had been for the last several decades.
What kind of life had she led, this half-demon raised by humans? Elise had known Neuma for years, yet…hadn’t known her at all.
“Can I keep this?” Elise asked.
“Yes, yes, please go ahead. Bless you,” he said. “Heaven above, bless your heart.”
He kissed her hands cupping the photo, fingers digging into her biceps, as if he needed to hold her for support. She tried to back away, but he was surprisingly strong for his age, and he only stepped forward to close the distance between them.
He tugged her down and kissed her face, too. His stubble was rough on her cheek. “I’ll pray for you, and—”
Elise never heard the rest of the sentence.
With a thought, she phased out of Sun Valley.
Sixteen
Nash returned from Hell smelling of brimstone. The instant that he crossed the fissure, he was shocked by the cold, wet mountain air, and he lifted his arm to watch curls of steam lifting from his wrist.
The sky was redder now than when he had left, and smoke from the fissure was settling into the valley. Hell was bleeding into Earth faster. Elise was right—there was no time to waste. If he hoped to have enough time to coerce the angels into cooperating with him, it needed to be done now. But he needed one thing before he could go home to Shamain. Or, to be precise, one person.
At his feet, Ace growled and pawed at his nose, trying to remove the muzzle. Nash jerked the chain to make him stop.
Elise had mentioned that she wasn’t sure what to do with the dog in the coming battle, since his injured paw limited his mobility, and Nash had agreed to take Ace somewhere safe against his better judgment. He could think of no better place for the dog than a pack of werewolves.
Ace wouldn’t let Nash touch him, so they walked together to the sanctuary.
Rylie met them on the road into the valley as if she had known he was coming. She was looking pale and thin, but she still found a tremulous smile at the sight of him. “I was worried when you didn’t come back with Abel. I was afraid you were hurt.” She noticed the chain he was holding, and her eyes widened.
“Not hurt, but I come bearing bad news. Where is your mate?”
Abel strode down the path to join them. “I’m here,” he said. “Are you ready to go back to the bridge? Are we going to destroy the bridge?”
“Not yet,” Nash said, “but I’ve found someone who will. I’ve been in contact with Elise Kavanagh.” He jangled Ace’s chain. “Obviously.”
He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Rylie paled further at Elise’s name.
“What about her?” Abel asked, eyes narrowing.
Nash gave them a quick breakdown of the situation: the assault on the Palace, the slaves that were fleeing, the need to protect and relocate them. “And if by some miracle we accomplish all of that, Elise will disassemble the bridge,” he finished.
The Alphas exchanged looks. The distance between them was terribly conspicuous—they looked like they wanted to be close to one another, yet couldn’t bridge the long inches of air. “‘If’ Elise knocks over the Palace, ‘if’ the slaves get out, ‘if’ the angels help. That’s a lot of ifs,” Abel finally said.
“That sounds like a big battle,” Rylie said, chewing on her thumbnail.
“Northgate’s about to get ugly. I wanted to give you enough warning to evacuate the pack. I’ll leave the organization to you—I must get to Shamain.” Nash hesitated. “Will you take Elise’s dog with you?”
“Of course,” Rylie said, reaching for the chain. Ace growled at her as she took it. She gave him a sharp look, and he flattened his ears to his skull. Even a pit bull couldn’t stand up to an Alpha stare.
“Where’s Summer?” Nash asked.
A smile traced over Rylie’s lips, then faded. “Your cottage.”
Nash gave them a small bow in thanks. He could hear them arguing in low voices as he walked away, but he chose not to listen. Instead, he focused on the task to come.
He had been back to Heaven since his exile ended once, only long enough to gather a few of his old friends to try to save Las Vegas. But he hadn’t been before the ethereal coalition in far too long, and he also hadn’t been to Shamain, the ethereal metropolis. Nash didn’t need to take Summer with him to Heaven, but the idea of leaving her was completely unbearable—and the idea of facing the angels that had cast him into exile without her by his side even more so.
He made sure his wings were completely dimmed before entering the cottage. Summer wasn’t at her usual workstation in the server room, but he found her in their bedroom, curled up with her cat and a travel magazine. Sir Lumpy, the ugliest black hairball Nash had ever seen, was perched on her hip and purring loud enough to make the walls shake.
The cat stopped purring when Summer looked up.
She gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “You’re bleeding,” she said. When she stood, her cat fell from her lap to the floor with an annoyed squeak.
Nash looked down at his shirt. He had forgotten that one of the nightmares had gotten a lucky hit during the fight at the edge of the bridge. “Yes,” he said with mild surprise, “I was. I should be mostly healed now.”
She tugged the hem of his shirt out of his belt and lifted it up to look. She sucked in a hard breath when she saw the wound. It was worse than he remembered—it cut from his pectoral all the way down to the hipbone. “You got this when you went off fighting with Abel, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he said.
Summer punched him in the arm, a good, safe distance from the wound. And then she kissed him just as hard. “Dammit, Nash, you didn’t even tell me that you were going off to fight with him, and you went and got stabbed while you were at it? You are not allowed to get stabbed,” she said, each word broken up by another kiss pressed to the corner of his lips, his chin, his cheek. “Do you hear me? No—more—stabbings!”
“I’ll keep that in mind next time I impale myself on a nightmare’s cleaver,” he said, returning her kiss.
“Very funny.” She snuggled her head under his chin, arms wrapped around his ribs. Sir Lumpy walked between their ankles with chirping meows, as if to demand that they give him attention and affection, too. For once, Summer ignored him. “I should have been there with you.”
“That’s why I’ve returned. I have to fight another battle, and I want you by my side for this one.”
“But you haven’t let me come with you to any of these other battles,” she said.
“This won’t be a physical confrontation. I need to go to Shamain to appeal to the ethereal coalition. Allies in Hell are attempting to liberate human slaves and destroy the bridge, but they need help from the angels if they hope to survive the confrontation,” Nash said. “I want you to stand in front of the coalition with me.”
Summer’s face brightened. “You want to take me home to meet your family.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
She wouldn’t have looked nearly so cheerful if she considered that “meeting the family” really meant facing down an entire city of his brethren that still believed him to be a traitor—a loyalist to Adam, someone unbefitting the glory of Heaven. But she looked too excited by the prospect for him to want to remind her of cold reality.
“You can’t go
up there looking like you lost a fight against a bum with a sharpened toothbrush,” Summer said. Her fingers flew down the buttons on his shirt to open it. The brush of her skin filled his mind with dirty thoughts—the kind of thoughts that his brethren would have found appalling.
Nash was far too tempted to act on his sexual urges. He took her wrists gently to stop her. “We need to make haste. If you undress me, we won’t be hasty.”
“You can resist my sexy body this once,” she said, but the press of her lips against his collarbone made it obvious that wasn’t the case.
At Nash’s gentle push, she stepped away, grabbing a fresh dress out of her closet. She dressed in the bathroom where they would be safe from what she liked to call their “wild animal urges”—the slightly cuter way of saying that they couldn’t keep their clothes on around each other for longer than five minutes.
He changed his shirt and paced through the server room as she prepared herself, rolling Eve’s ring over in his fingers.
Elise had thrown it at him without even a glance at it. She may have had Eve’s heart inside of her, but that, more than anything else, reminded him how far she was from Eve. When his mother received the gift, she had exclaimed over it as though it were the most beautiful thing she had ever seen—as if the garden and the shining ethereal cities were nothing in comparison to this ring forged by one of her children.
Nash remembered giving the ring to her perfectly. He also remembered the long hours he had spent forging the metals in angelfire, twisting the wires in the band into elaborate curlicues, and selecting the perfect opal for its center. It had been the pinnacle of the years he spent learning the craft—and all to make Eve smile.
His fist clenched around the ring.
If Abraxas hadn’t already been dead, he would have killed the demon for insulting Eve’s memory by stealing it. The fact he had it meant he must have plundered Eve’s grave, her private rooms in Shamain, perhaps a museum. Nash wasn’t certain. He didn’t know where the ring had ended up after her tragic death.
