A Devil Named Desire (8 page)

He grinned in return, unable to help himself, for he truly liked her.

“Hey yourself,” he answered easily. “But my name’s not Calvin.”

She laughed, coming closer. “I know—it’s just a little nickname my partner Evan gave you, because he thinks you look like a Calvin Klein model. It’s Gabe, right?”

He nodded, eyeing her curiously. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugged, pausing to talk. “Just visiting a friend.”

He couldn’t help but ask, “Hope?”

Nicki shook her head. “No, I—um—” She looked around, as though expecting to see someone else standing there. “My friend Muriel . . . well, she asked me to stop by and check on her husband.”

A tingle ran down his spine. “Muriel.”

“Yeah, Muriel Qualey.” The grin Nicki gave him now was a bit more forced than the one she’d given him earlier. “She says he hasn’t been feeling well lately.”

Gabe, who already knew the secret that Nicki tried so hard to keep from the world, decided to speak honestly with her. “Mr. Qualey passed away a few minutes ago. His wife, Muriel, passed away long before that.”

She paled.

“I know you see the spirits of the dead,” he told her gently. “I know you often help them with their unfinished business. You were going to tell that kindly old man that his wife forgave him for what he’d done, and that she still loved him.”

“How did you . . .” Nicki took an uncertain step backward. “How did you know that?”

Gabriel sighed, less surprised than ever that his onetime brother Samael had been so drawn to this woman. In her own way—her own
human
way—she, too, was an angel, just as Samael himself had once been. “It’s complicated,” he told her, resting his hands on his hips. “Let’s just say that I have some gifts of my own.”

“The knack,” Nicki said faintly, clearly taken aback. “That’s what my grandmother calls it.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Muriel wanted me to tell him that she forgave him; she regretted leaving the words unsaid. She knew he was dying, and was afraid that his guilt would allow him to be swallowed up by the Darkness, when what she really wanted was for them to be together in the Light.”

“She got what she wanted,” Gabriel said softly. “Trust me on that.”

Nicki smiled, a sweet smile that lifted his heart. Then she turned her head sharply to her right, as though listening to something Gabe couldn’t hear.

“Muriel says, ‘Thank you for being with him at the end.’ ”

In the corner of his eye, Gabe caught a quick flash of light, as familiar to him as his own name.

“She’s gone,” Nicki said softly. “It’s finished.” With a sigh, she looked back to Gabe, and resting her own hands on her hips, asked, “So who are you, really?”

Gabriel laughed a little under his breath, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“You’d be surprised by what I’d believe,” she told him, eyeing him closely.

Tempted as he was to reveal himself, Gabe knew it was a bad idea. Better to let her live her life the way it was going, for the One clearly had plans for her.

“Another time, perhaps,” he said, certain he’d see her again, one way or another.

“Why are good-looking guys always so cryptic?” she muttered, clearly dissatisfied with his answer.

“That’s a question for your husband to answer,” he returned with a grin.

Her face lit up. “You know my husband?”

“No.” Gabe shook his head. “But it’s a safe bet that he’s good-looking.”

Nicki inclined her head graciously in acknowledgment. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Do.” He turned to walk away, thinking once again of his brother Samael, experiencing genuine regret on his behalf.

“Gabe, wait.”

He paused, looking over his shoulder.

“Muriel told me something else, just then . . . at the end.”

“Yes?”

“She said not to abandon hope.”

His breath caught.
Hope, who thought him a murderer.

“Does that make any sense?”

He pictured her, upstairs in her cozy little apartment, all alone. In the distance, he heard the wail of a siren, and knew they were coming for her friend Mr. Qualey. The ache in his chest returned, and with the memory of big green eyes, breath that smelled like pomegranates, the way the skin of her cheek looked like peaches.

“Yes,” he told Nicki, “it makes sense, but I’m not quite sure how to go about it.”

Nicki took a step closer to him. “Listen, I . . . I usually try really hard to stay out of people’s business, but is there anything I can do to help?”

“Not unless you can convince a certain someone that Mr. Qualey’s death had nothing whatsoever to do with her, or with me.”

“Ah.” Nicki’s brown eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. “Girl trouble, hm?”

“In a way.”

She came up, slipping her hand through his arm as though they’d known each other forever. “Walk with me,” she said. “Luckily for you, I’m pretty good at getting people to believe the unbelievable.”

Chapter Seven

T
he police and the ambulance were gone, and the building was once again quiet. Hope lay on her living room couch, Sherlock cuddled to her chest, and cried.

Impossible to believe she’d never see the old man again—inconceivable she’d never wake up in the morning, groggy with the need for coffee, and see him through her living room window, puttering in his garden. How many mornings had he waved her over? How many mornings had she gone, coffee cup in hand, still in her pajamas, picking up his newspaper on her way across the hall?

Life was so cruel, so unfair. The bandages on her wrists seemed suddenly too tight, and she debated ripping them off and leaving them that way, stitches or no stitches. What did it matter if the wounds reopened, anyway? The scars would never go away, and now she had a brand-new one—the death of a friend on her conscience—to add to her collection.

There was a soft knock on her door, but she ignored it, hoping whoever it was would just go away.

It came again, and Sherlock, who’d been content to let her hold him, struggled to be free. She let him go, watching as he padded quickly to the door, gray tail held high. Reaching it, he looked over his shoulder at her with big yellow eyes, as though asking,
What are you waiting for?

She sighed, barely bothering to wonder why he hadn’t pulled his usual disappearing trick under the couch; she had so few visitors that knocks on the door usually sent him running. Sitting up, she grabbed a new tissue from the box on the coffee table and wiped her eyes and nose.

The knock came again, and thinking it probably had something to do with Mr. Qualey, she got up and shuffled to the door.

“Yes?” Putting her eye to the peephole, she saw a dark-haired young woman. “Who is it?”

“My name’s Nicki Styx,” the woman said, speaking directly into the keyhole. “I’m looking for Hope.”

Cautiously, Hope opened the door. There was no one else in the hall, and the woman looked harmless, but one could never be too careful.

“Hi,” said the woman named Nicki. She looked far too cool to be a cop, pink streaks in her hair, short skirt, ankle boots. “Can I talk to you for a second? It’s about your neighbor.”

Hope swiped at her nose again, not really up for it, but shrugged and opened her door wider. “Come on in,” she said.

Nicki came in, checking out her apartment with a quick glance. “Nice,” she said. “Great view.”

Fighting back another onrush of tears, Hope didn’t answer at first. Then she took a deep breath and asked, “What can I do for you?”

“Can I sit down?”

“Sure.” Listlessly, Hope led the way to the couch, where Nicki took a seat. She took a chair opposite.

Sherlock, fickle as ever, leapt up beside Nicki, sniffing curiously at her skirt.

“Beautiful cat,” Nicki said. She let him satisfy his feline curiosity, then scratched him under the chin. “What’s his name?”

“Sherlock,” Hope answered. “Because he’s so nosy.”

Nicki smiled, and Hope couldn’t help but notice how pretty she was. There was a sparkle in her eyes that reminded her of Charity, even though this woman and her sister were total opposites, looks-wise.

“Listen, I know you’re having a really bad day,” Nicki said, “and you don’t know me from Adam, but I’ve got something to tell you—something that you may have a hard time believing.”

Hope leaned back in her chair, resting her head against the cushion. “Go ahead,” she said, too tired and depressed to have any patience with beating around the bush. “What is it?”

“What happened to Mr. Qualey wasn’t your fault,” Nicki said softly. “He had heart problems, had them for years. Today was . . . well, it was just his time.”

The hair rose on Hope’s arms, leaving her flesh goose pimpled. She straightened, still clutching her tissue.

“You knew Mr. Qualey?”

Nicki shook her head, dark eyes full of sympathy. “No. I knew his wife.”

Increasingly confused, she responded, “He didn’t have a wife.”

“Yes, he did, years ago.”

“But she—” Hope thought back to the very few times Mr. Q had ever mentioned his wife. He’d gotten teary every time, and she was one-hundred-percent certain that he’d told her his wife had died young. The woman on the couch in front of her couldn’t be more than thirty, tops. “He said she died a long time ago.”

“She did,” Nicki said simply. “But she came to see me this morning, regardless.”

Any other day, any other time, Hope wouldn’t have hesitated to show Nicki to the door, and tell her not to let it hit on the way out. But today, after everything she’d been through, she just didn’t have it in her.

“So you’re saying . . .” She moved to sit on the edge of the chair. “You’re saying you see dead people.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

Oddly, or perhaps not so oddly, Hope found that she almost—
almost
—believed her.

“Muriel Qualey came into my store this morning,” Nicki said, “and told me that her husband was about to die. She said she’d been hanging around for years, wanting to tell him something, but had never been able to reach him. She was afraid that if he died without knowing what she had to say, he’d give up, and his soul would be taken somewhere she couldn’t go.”

Hope stared at her, remembering whispers and reddened eyes, being on the verge of a Darkness that had nearly claimed her.

“You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” Nicki stroked Sherlock rhythmically as she talked, the motion as soothing as her voice.

Numbly, Hope nodded, then looked away, toward the window, where light streamed in and left bright patches on the floor.

“His death had absolutely nothing to do with you,” Nicki said, with conviction. “It was just his time,” she repeated, “and he’s fine now, just fine.”

Hope put her head in her hands, wanting to believe what she was being told.

Nicki leaned across the coffee table, and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “He and Muriel are together now, and that’s all he ever wanted. You don’t have to worry anymore.”

If only that were true
, Hope thought.
If only that were true.

Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, she once again raised her head, and looked into Nicki’s face.

It was a kind face, an open face, with no shadows or secrets. Only compassion in those brown eyes, understanding and concern.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, grateful, in that moment, that she wasn’t alone. “You didn’t have to come here.”

Nicki shrugged. “It’s what I do,” she answered simply. “Evil wins when good does nothing—if I can do
something
, no matter how small, then why shouldn’t I do it?”

She stood up, giving Hope’s shoulder a final pat. “Here.” She reached in the pocket of her skirt, and pulled out a small card, which she handed to her. “If you ever want to talk . . . here’s my phone number.”

The card read H
ANDBAGS AND
G
LADRAGS:
A V
INTAGE
B
OUTIQUE.
N
ICKI
S
TYX,
P
ROPRIETOR
. “Better yet, stop by the store sometime—we’re just a few blocks away, in Little Five Points.”

Hope knew exactly where it was, having walked past it many times. She’d never gone in, always too busy, and not much of a shopper. A memory surfaced, of Charity dashing in the door to show off a frilly new skirt she’d just bought.

Come out with me tonight
, she’d said.
Let’s go to the Vortex and have some fun; you’re wasting the best years of your life in front of that computer.

That computer pays the bills
, she’d retorted, but her little sister had tossed her head and rolled her eyes.

You’ll be sorry one day when you’re old and gray
, Charity had singsonged.
Life is short, you’ve gotta grab it while you can.

Then she’d left, and Hope had gone back to work.

How she wished she’d gone, while she had the chance.

“Thank you,” she said to Nicki, through a throat suddenly tight. “I’ll stop in sometime, and say hello.”

“Good,” Nicki said, giving Sherlock one more chin scratch before heading for the door. “People can never have too many friends. Life is short, and you’ve gotta grab it while you can.”