Redemption (27 page)

“We need to go,” Marcas said from above me.

 I looked up to find his gaze on the wrecked carnage behind us. He was right. It wouldn't do for us to be found here. Conor and Monroe flanked me quietly, and I used their hands to help lift me off the ground. Blood rushed back down into my body, and my breathing came easier. No dizziness. The weakness was gone.

“Not with you she doesn’t,” Conor threatened.

 Marcas turned on him, his face coming even with Conor's. The contrast between them was startling. Light and dark.

“The gargoyles failed to protect her. Now she’s stuck with me. Don’t blame me for something I didn’t want,” Marcas said, his voice low. Conor’s eyes narrowed.

“I wasn’t aware of your brother’s intentions,” Conor defended. Marcas never even blinked.

“There is where you failed. We both underestimated him. Now we’re stuck with the consequences,” Marcas replied.

 I watched them both quietly, my eyes moving between Conor's golden frame and Marcas' dark one. Why did it always seem everyone but me was discussing my future?

“I’m voting in Conor’s favor,” Monroe added glibly from beside me.

 I glanced down at my arm before moving my gaze to Marcas’ wrist. There was no sign of injury, but the memory was still there. He'd been hurt, I'd been hurt, and he had healed me. I closed my eyes. We were bonded. It was time I got used to it. Marcas' words haunted me,
"You can turn a deaf ear and a blind eye, but when you open yourself back up, it's still going to be there."
 He was right.

“I don’t think I have a choice,” I said quietly.

Marcas looked over at me and, for the first time, I noticed something akin to compassion in his gaze. The look was gone as fast as it appeared. He swept his arm toward the wreckage.

“We move now,” he ordered, his eyes on the empty car Samuel had left behind. It was damaged but usable. Conor stood defiantly, his arms crossed.

“We’ll take
my
car,” he said suddenly.

I looked up at him, startled. He was going with us? Our eyes met, and I saw the challenge there. He was not accepting arguments. Monroe moved to his side. She looked scared and unsure. Coming as close to death as she'd come, I knew she was feeling insecure and helpless. The fact that she was still here spoke highly of her strength.

“I concur with the gargoyle,” she said, flipping her thumb in Conor’s direction. I think, at this point, anything familiar was less terrifying than the alternative.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Marcas complained, his eyes rolling upward.

“A little break here,” he said Heavenward.

There was no reply. He looked back down, resolved. He could have argued, even challenged Conor to a fight, but he didn't. And I found myself respecting him for that. He was stronger than all of us. And what he may lack in strength, I knew he made up for in experience. His eyes were ancient. I'd watched him kill the Demon Samuel with a cold efficiency that only came with time. Or, at least, I hoped it came with time. I'd rather the kill had been a defense mechanism and not because he had no human emotion. My knowledge of demons was practically nonexistent. Marcas sized Conor up.

“Then I drive, Gargoyle, or no go."

Conor looked like he was ready to argue, but I shook my head. I didn’t like the position we were in, but I did trust Marcas to an extent. He knew more about the danger we were in than we did.

Conor's jaw tightened perceptibly and his gaze found mine, his eyes searching. What he saw there made him swear and he looked away quickly, the car keys jangling as he threw them at the Demon.

"This isn't over," Conor said to Marcas before sliding into the passenger seat.

Marcas didn't reply. He looked pointedly at Monroe and me, and I moved to the car as Marcas slid into the driver's seat. Monroe and I climbed into the back.

“This should be fun,” I mumbled sarcastically as Marcas started the engine.

He shifted into drive and eased the car around the wreckage in the road. I looked at the blacktop and noticed Samuel’s body had disappeared. Where had it gone? The image of Marcas leaning over Samuel's prone figure flashed through my head, and I felt sick to my stomach. I had never seen anyone killed before, and I had been a part of it. I swallowed convulsively.

“What’s a gargoyle?” I asked Conor suddenly, my eyes closed against the image as my mind sought distraction.

I heard Conor shift subtly, and I opened my eyes to find him glancing into the backseat. Monroe and I both stared back at him expectantly. His gaze moved between us.

“They are guardians, protectors,” he said carefully. “It’s an ancient line made up of families assigned by Heaven. We are, in a way, a type of Angel. It’s hereditary. Each family is broken down by crests. We live as mortals live, die as mortals die. Every once in a while when there’s a great need for protection of certain individuals, we are assigned as guardians.”

I stared at him as he explained, each new sentence working its way past the gut-wrenching feeling of disgust I felt over Samuel's death. I concentrated on his words. Assigned as guardians? My eyes searched Conor's, and he looked away. But I had seen the conflict there. I thought of the Cathedral of Notre Dame, and I leaned forward slightly.

“I thought they were gothic statues,” I said.

“We can be perceived as such. I can turn into stone,” Conor said unexpectedly.

I was too numb from everything that had already happened to be much surprised. I just nodded, accepting his explanation with much more aplomb than even I expected. I just couldn’t find it in me to be shocked. I thought back over his words again, over the conflict I'd seen in his eyes, and I sighed heavily as another invisible burden settled over me.

“How long have you been
my
guardian?” I asked.

He looked up, resigned. He knew I wasn't stupid. It wasn't hard to deduce. He'd always seemed to show up at my worst moments, always seemed to have the solution to whatever problem arose. He didn’t argue my conclusion.

“A year," he answered.

 I nodded and laughed, the sound tinged with hysteria. I saw Marcas glance at me in the rearview window, and I kept my expression even.

A year. The next thought came unbidden. "
I realized I wanted you to give me your pain. I wanted to take it away from you,"
Conor had said when I'd had the vision of Marcas and Damon, a vision I now suspected had been caused by Damon himself. Had Conor ever really had feelings for me or had the scene in my bedroom been an act, an attempt to get closer, a
job
even? Monroe seemed to come to the same conclusion.

“Bastards, all of you,” she mumbled.

I looked away, my eyes searching the dark ever-changing landscape through the tinted windows. Shadowy trees made way to street lights and empty buildings. Jackson, Mississippi.

“I didn’t lie,” Conor said. I knew he was referring to the moment we'd shared. I didn’t answer.

“Like you didn’t lie to us about what you were all these years,” Monroe argued in my stead. Her hand made its way into mine and I squeezed. Conor sighed.

“Monroe—"

 She snorted and gave him the hand. It was childish, but I understood why she did it. We’d known Conor for as long as we both could remember, and we'd always believed there were no secrets between us. My mother and his mother had been close friends.
Very close friends.
I stared up at Conor hard, my mind struggling with the idea now taking root. Pain radiated through my stomach. I plunged my free fist into my gut. I hated this feeling, hated the invisible parasites I'd been infested with the moment Mrs. Cavendish had told me my parents were dead.

“Your mother is a gargoyle,” I whispered. It wasn’t a question.

Conor shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Yes.”

I choked down a sob.

“She was my mother’s protector, wasn't she?”

 Conor turned in his seat. Marcas glanced at me again in the rearview mirror. His expression was unreadable.

“Dayton—"

“
What
went wrong?” I asked Conor. Where had my father been when my mother died? Why hadn't he been able to stop it? Where was he now? And why had Mrs. Reinhardt failed?  I dug my fist in. Conor fidgeted.

“I’m not sure,” he answered finally.

His troubled expression was genuine. I left it alone. I
would
find answers about my mother's death.
Someone
was going to pay. But now wasn't the time. I knew that. I bit down on my tongue. Marcas glanced up sharply from the front seat. I saw his jaw tighten in the rearview mirror, but I ignored it, looking instead at the airport parking lot he suddenly pulled into.

“Where are we going?” I asked Marcas boldly.

He stopped the car and shifted into park. I unbuckled my seat belt and leaned forward.  I was getting a direct answer from him. Meek Dayton was long gone. His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. I didn’t look away.

“Italy,” he answered.

Monroe gasped. Conor didn’t say anything. I continued to stare. Marcas' words registered in my brain, but the ability to be shocked seemed beyond me. I actually felt relief at his answer. I needed to get away.  

“Don’t tell me. We have an audience with the Pope,” I said mechanically, my attempt to lighten the mood falling flat. Marcas didn't break eye contact.

“You’re as much an enemy of the church as I am now, Blainey,” Marcas said coldly.

I watched him as one of his brows lifted inquisitively. I think he expected to see fear in my eyes at the remark, but there was none. I was too numb.

So? I was an enemy of the church now. If Samuel was any indication, they'd need to take a number and get in line. I let my gaze linger on Marcas' face.  He was stained with blood but it didn’t take away from his appeal.

“Guess this means a tour of the Vatican is out of the question,” I quipped. I thought for a moment Marcas was going to smile, but Conor interrupted.

“We’ve got one problem,” Conor stated with a wave of his hand.

I looked over at him blankly. I felt so, so very cold. Would I ever feel warm again?

“And that would be what exactly?” I asked.

His gaze moved down my shirt before glancing over at Marcas pointedly.

“If you think airport security is strict about weapons being brought aboard a plane, I’m pretty positive a blood covered Demon and Naphil won’t make it past the door."

I saw his point. Marcas looked at Conor a moment before holding his hand out, palm upward. A black t-shirt appeared, and he wrapped his fingers around the material before bringing his other hand up. A clean red dolman materialized. I looked at them in amazement.

“Please tell me I can do that,” I said in awe.

All the plays and books I'd ever read about the devil offering people their heart's desires in exchange for their soul came to mind. It made me wonder what Marcas was capable of. How many people had he bribed in the past with his powers? Marcas threw me the dolman before shrugging out of his leather jacket and pulling his shredded black tee over his head.

“Don’t push your luck, Blainey,” Marcas said as I gaped at the sight of his chest. I hoped I was inconspicuous about it, but the man was an Adonis. A marble statue couldn’t be carved any better than the abs I saw before me.

Marcas pulled the clean, new shirt over his head and down his abdomen. I noticed even Monroe stared.

“Your turn,” Marcas said as he pointed at the dolman on my lap. Thank God I wore a black cami on under the ruined shirt I had on now.

“It's just a reproduction of the clothes we had on before,” Marcas explained as I pulled the bloodied, torn dolman over my head. The black cami underneath was still in one piece and unsoiled.

I pulled the clean shirt on hurriedly before anyone had a chance to comment on my pink bra straps clearly visible under the cami. We still had dried blood on our bodies, but Conor produced a pack of wet wipes from the glove compartment of his car and we cleaned up the best we could. Monroe even handed me a pony tail holder she had wrapped around her wrist. I pulled my hair up on top of my head and left it that way.

“That’ll have to work,” I said as Marcas climbed out of the car. A few curls escaped my pony tail as I climbed out into the night. I hated my hair.

“We don’t have passports,” I said as we all met at the front of the vehicle.

Marcas held his hand out again, and I watched intently as a group of cards materialized. It looked like such an easy gesture for him, like walking or breathing. I
really
wanted to be able to do that. He handed each of us a card. I stared at mine numbly. There was a picture of me, but the name was different. 

Danielle Mays

I glanced at the other cards. All of us had an alias. Conor was Chad Edwards, Monroe was Ellen Edwards and Marcas was Mark Mays. I stared at the last names.
Danielle and Mark Mays?

“Is there a reason for the shared surnames?” I asked Marcas suspiciously. He didn’t look at me.

“With Reinhardt’s and Jacob’s height and blonde hair, they can pass as siblings. We’re married."