Angel Eyes (8 page)

I step out of the entryway and turn right, intending to head back to my car. Movement snags my peripheral vision, and I turn my head. A man exits the real estate office across the street. He lingers on the stairs, watching. He’s tall. Taller than Dad, even. His hair is black, cropped short. Olive skin. Deep, shadowed eyes. His clothes are dark.

Really, everything about him is dark. I think that’s what keeps me looking. Against the white sky and the weather-faded storefronts, he’s a gigantic blotch of darkness.

I’ve taken a single step when his eyes meet mine. I just have time to shiver before I’m roughly, and very suddenly, yanked backward into the recessed doorway of the theatre. My elbow knocks the wall as I’m pressed against it. Jake’s hands grip both my biceps, holding me tight, but his face is turned away. He looks past me.

“Hey!” I wrap my fingers around his wrists and shove, but he’s stronger than I am. “What . . .”

“Shh,” he says, leaning around me. “Hang on.”

I groan in protest, but I obey. He peers down the street, and I hang on. He’s so warm. The heat in his hands bleeds through my jacket, through my sweater and my thermal shirt. It spreads across my chest and slides into my gut. I’m a snowman melting in the sun. I’m butter in a sizzling pan.

The wind sneaks into the entryway and brushes our faces, blowing a hot, almost summery breeze from his skin to mine. It smells like sugared doughnut. The globe lights flicker overhead. Or maybe my eyes are closing.

“Brielle?”

Yes, definitely closing.

I force them open and find myself staring into Jake’s eyes. Something I try to avoid.

“What was that?” I ask. It’s possible my words are running together.

Jake doesn’t answer. But there’s something in his eyes, and I have no idea how to decode it. It’s not fear. Not anger. It’s . . . fire.

“Jake, who was that?”

“Someone you don’t want to meet in a dark alley.”

I turn my head to the right and look across the street. Whoever it was, he’s gone. “A bad guy? In Stratus?”

“Apparently.”

Jake steps back, releasing my arms. I can’t make myself let go of his, and his eyes search my face. I can’t fathom what he sees there.

“I just need to send a text,” he says.

“Yeah. Sorry.” I let go of his wrists and wrap my arms across my chest.

Can I trap the heat? Keep it locked inside?

He pulls a phone from his back pocket and sends a message. His jaw is clenched, his dark brows drawn together. I’ve never seen him so serious.

His eyes are still on his phone, his fingers still. Waiting, I guess. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

I rub my elbow. “I’m all right.”

His phone vibrates in his hand. He reads the screen and then tucks the phone back into his pocket.

“It’s okay now,” he says, turning his hazel eyes back to mine. “We can go.”

The heat in my chest is fading, but I resist the urge to step closer.

“ ‘Cause the little man in your phone said so?”

His face relaxes. “Something like that.”

I want to argue, trade jabs with him, ask about the “bad guy,” but really. The longer we stand out here, the colder I’m going to get. And it’s Stratus. How bad can the guy be? I turn on my heel and walk back to Slugger—Jake two or three paces behind.

I know he’s there, but I’ve got to get out of this wind. I drop into Slugger, turn the key in the ignition, and jam my fingers into the vents. No heat. Not yet.

Jake’s standing at the passenger door, his eyes pleading.

Leaning across the seat, I unlock it and he climbs in. He fills up my car. He’s got that tall, lean, muscle-y thing going on. But it’s more than his size. I’m used to big. Dad’s big. Jake’s different. Jake’s got stage presence. It’s one of those things—hard to teach, hard to learn. You either have it or you don’t. And Jake has it. In spades.

“Can you do me a favor?” he says.

The car’s warming up, and there’s no way it’s Slugger. I shake my hood off and loosen my scarf. “I’m not stealing you a tutu.”

“Can you put my number in your cell?”

I squint at him but dig my phone out of my pocket and hand it over. “That’s the most unoriginal pickup line ever.”

He laughs. “I didn’t ask for
your
number. I’m giving you mine.”

Can’t really argue with that.

He hands my phone back. “One more favor,” he says.

“If it’s as painful as the first one . . .”

“Call me if you see that guy again.”

And suddenly we’re serious. I feel it.

“Where do you know him from?”

“My ride’s here,” he says, reaching for the door handle.

“Where?”

He nods out his window, back toward the theatre we just left. A tall, silver-haired man stands in the town square. He leans against a bench, examining the theatre marquee. Strong jaw, same tawny complexion as Jake. At least I know where he gets his looks.

“So you’re not going to tell me about the bad guy?”

“I don’t want to keep Canaan waiting,” he says.

“Canaan?”

“My guardian.”

I look past him again. “You’re not related?”

He shakes his head.

“Wow, I’d never guess. He could be your dad.”

“He raised me. For all intents and purposes, he is my dad.”

He’s quiet, his smile soft. There’s no mischief there. No pretense. Another round of wind beats at the car, and Jake waits it out. I’d rather he stayed. It’s comfortable. Talking like this. No games. No snark.

“You’ll call me?”

“Sure.”

He pushes the door open and steps out. The wind slams it, and I wince. I look down at the phone in my hand. His name is still on the screen.

Jake Shield.

When I look up, he’s gone. His guardian’s gone. Swept away by the wind, I guess, like everything else today.

He’s interesting, this Jake Shield.

And he’s warm.

I tuck the phone away and slide Slugger into reverse.

I think I’d like to know what else he is.

6
Damien

D
amien leans against the warehouse. With human eyes he stares—at the burned-out church across the street, at the dark stretch of road before him, at the abandoned half-built skyscraper covering the site in shadow.

This place was perfect.

If it weren’t for that idiot Marco and his girlfriend, he wouldn’t have to relocate. But as it is, the warehouse is too conspicuous, too attached to what happened with the girl. Sooner or later the authorities will trace its ownership. And by the sound of it, later seems to be creeping up on him.

The man next to him has a cell phone to his ear. In many ways the two resemble one another. Same dark hair, dark eyes, olive complexion. And though Horacio’s not nearly as tall as he is, they both wear cruelty as a second skin.

Horacio Santilla.

His voice is silk, flattering whoever’s on the other end of the line. Despite his irritation, Damien chuckles.

The guy has a gift. Charisma. Likeability.

It’s a gift so easily corrupted. A flaring temper, greed, lust. Any of these will serve. Eventually, what was once charisma is transformed into a slippery, manipulative flair.

And Horacio’s been corrupt for years. Like the rest of his kind, Damien’s an opportunist, and when he stumbled upon Horacio, the youth was just begging to be manipulated. Charming, yes, but unpredictable and explosive. At seventeen, an argument with a sibling led him, ruthless and unrestrained, to light his father’s guesthouse on fire. Before it could be extinguished, half the property was destroyed and Horacio’s younger sister killed.

That was a decade ago, and Damien had been just an observer. A silent, invisible observer. But when the time was right, he made himself available to Horacio. Fixing things. Ensuring the investigation went awry. Laying the blame elsewhere.

Soon he had an ally. A human ally. The most valuable kind.

Of course, Horacio knows nothing of Damien’s true nature. Just that he shares a penchant for cruelty and has the means to carry out his whims. And as long as Damien keeps him clothed and fed, housed and moneyed—as long as shiny things are dangled before his eyes, he doesn’t ask for details.

A valuable partner indeed.

Horacio ends the call, and Damien raises his dark brows.

“The detective says they’re understaffed. The investigation’s moving slowly. Nothing to worry about for another week or so,” Horacio says.

“We’ll be cutting it close. We’ve a buyer coming next Friday—Henry Madison. After that, we pack up shop and move. Who we got inside?”

“Mostly young ones. If it’s Henry, we’ll need a few older girls.”

Damien scowls at his man. “I’m aware of that. I meant who’s
watching
them?”

“My mistake.” Horacio dips his head in apology. “Eddie. Eddie’s watching them. He and Juan are taking it in shifts.”

“Fine,” Damien says. “Tell Eddie I’ll have another girl for him.”

Horacio pulls out his phone, opening it to the calendar he keeps carefully updated. “When?”

“Soon,” he says. “Before Henry arrives this weekend.”

His fingers move quickly over the keys. “I’ll tell him.” Horacio tucks the phone away and pulls a cigarette from his jacket, lights it, and hands it to Damien.

Damien takes a puff, looking left and right along the road. “He’s late.”

“Baby Joe’s always late.”

“What’s he got?”

“Redhead.”

Rubber chews asphalt as a brown Cadillac moves up the road.

Finally.

Horacio disappears into the warehouse. A second later the door next to Damien rolls up, and Baby Joe pulls his car inside. Damien follows and the door is shut.

He watches the transaction, leaning against the door. Damien hates this kid. Baby Joe. He never, ever stops talking.

They lift the girl from the car. Her hands and feet are wrapped in duct tape, her head covered with a dark pillowcase. That, too, is taped shut.

But something’s wrong.

There’s no fear here. He can’t smell it. He can’t taste it.

He strides toward the Cadillac. “You drug her?”

Baby Joe answers, “Na. Knocked her with my piece. She’s awake now.”

Then she should be afraid. She should be very afraid.

Damien yanks at the tape on the pillowcase.

“I got it, boss,” Horacio says, pulling a knife from his boot. He cuts through the tape and pulls the pillowcase away. “We don’t want to damage the merchandise.”

The girl stares back at him. Brown eyes, auburn hair. Petite. Attractive. A good fit for Henry Madison. But there’s something wrong with her. She’s not afraid. He can see it in her eyes.

“What’s your name?” he growls.

She lifts her chin, defiant.

“Helene.”

“We can’t use her,” he says.

“What do you mean you can’t use her?” Baby Joe says.

“We need girls, boss, and she’s perfect.”

“I’ve got another girl coming. We’re not using this one.” He pulls the sidearm from his belt and shoots her in the stomach.

The shot throws her against the car, her eyes wide, blood spreading across her shirt.

“Whoa! Whoa!” Baby Joe backs away.

“Boss . . .”

Their indignation builds as Damien watches the girl, completely collected, disappear and reappear within the span of a second. As she rematerializes, she plants the controlled power of both her fists into his sternum. He flies backward several steps, landing in a crouch.

Her shirt is unmarred. There’s no evidence she was just shot.

“Like I said, we can’t use her.”

Horacio just stares. His eyes wide, his lips curled. Baby Joe’s hysterical. He curses and backs away. Damien points his gun at the boy, anything to shut him up.

But Helene moves fast, stepping in front of Baby Joe.

Damien laughs. “You think he’s worth saving? You’re a fool. I’ve had my claws in him for years.”

She doesn’t answer. But Damien knows. He’s encountered this ridiculous optimism before. A sadistic soul like Baby Joe’s still has potential, they think—can still be saved.

She steps toward Damien with an air of authority. “You won’t touch him again.”

Rage shakes him. His natural desires are taking over, and he’ll have to transfer soon. He needs the release of flight, but how strong
is
this little angel challenging him?

“He’s been bought with a price,” she says. “It’s a gift I pray he lays hold of.”

And then they’re gone, Baby Joe’s cries disappearing with the rest of him.

Instinct pulls Damien into the Celestial. He can’t afford to be blind to this realm while there’s a Shield about. His black wings unfurl and push him back several paces, away from her last position. But she’s gone already.