Redemption (A NOVEL OF THE SEVEN SIGNS) (27 page)

She groaned, shifting. Something banged into her skull, and her eyelids cracked apart.

Glossy white tiles, hard and cool through her damp jeans. Jeweled raindrops glittered on a tall pane of glass.

She’d hit her head on the shower screen. Japheth’s bathroom. She’d passed out in the shower? Damn, she must have been exhausted.

She rubbed her bruised temple, and memory glared, indignant. She’d tried to kiss him, and he’d rejected her. And then Fluvium…

Her blood thumped sickly. How did Fluvium get in here? Surely Japheth had put up wards. Explosive angelic traps to keep demons out. So what was it, a dream? It sure as hell felt real…

She shivered, and clambered up, bare feet sticking to the tiles. Her clothes were still plastered to her chilled skin. Where was Japheth? Why had the bastard left her here? She palmed her eyes, fighting a raging headache. It didn’t matter. He’d be sorry soon enough that he hadn’t killed her when he’d had the chance.

The waterfall sound swelled louder. She leaned on the tiled wall for a moment, dizzy. What the hell was that…?

Her vampire ears pricked. Not water. Music. Clear, crystalline notes, rippling up and down, uncanny sound quality…

Goose bumps licked her forearms, and she rubbed them. But curiosity itched, too. He’d left her fresh clothes, she saw. Folded neatly on his bed, jeans and a t-shirt, similar to what she already wore. Two sets, in fact, like he couldn’t decide between blue and black. He’d even brought socks.

Like she wanted anything he’d brought her…but despite the shower, her body crawled with filth, real or imagined. Her skin tingled with longing. Clean clothes would sure be nice.

Swiftly, she peeled off her damp jeans and shirt. Her bra and panties were damp, too, but she left them on. They’d dry soon enough. The new t-shirt said VERSACE in golden letters, and smelled of Chanel No. 5. It fit okay, a bit big around the boobs, but it’d do. The fabric stretched smooth and clean over her skin, and she sighed in sweet relief.

The blue jeans were tight and too long—whose were they, anyway, a supermodel’s?—but she stuffed the bottoms into her boots. Her knife lay on the bed. She buckled the sheath around her thigh. It felt good to be armed again.

She smoothed the jeans over her butt, enjoying the crisp clean feeling. But that eerie music still ebbed and flowed. Tugging her hair back as neatly as she could, she tiptoed from the bathroom.

In the living room, late afternoon light scarred the floor with stark orange shadows. The cityscape glared, blinding sunset reflecting in the west-facing glass across the street. Great. She’d slept all day. Who knew what he’d gotten up to without her?

The music grew louder, climbing the octaves. Sunlight licked the dark granite breakfast bar, two shiny metal stools, spotless sink and tapware. Bloodstains still crusted the pale sofa, but guess-who had meticulously polished the floor. His silver breastplate lay sparkling on the boards. And the human she’d fed from…

She shuddered in memory. He’d been alive when she stopped. She was sure. But the body was gone.

And Japheth sat at his piano, playing. Meticulous rhythm, not a note out of place, a rapid melody in baroque counterpoint, twinkling and tumbling like a rocky river. Golden hair fell across his forehead. He stared at his fingers with deadly focus, as if he forced the notes from the instrument with sheer will alone. His precision razored the air, lovely but lethal. A lot like Japheth himself…but in those achingly beautiful notes, everything he locked away so tightly in his heart poured out.

He played rage, loneliness, weariness, sorrow, long dark centuries of denial. The perfect chords swelled, vibrated, imbued with pain and emotion they were never meant to carry…

Tears sprang in Rose’s eyes. She hugged herself, and cleared her throat. “That’s beautiful.”

Abruptly, the sound clanged silent.

He looked up, blank. Lost. Confused. Like he’d forgotten where he was.

Then his eyes cleared, and shadows crept in. “J. S. Bach,” he said grudgingly, like it was a shameful admission. “It’s…been a long time, I guess. I’m rusty. Sorry.” And he slid from the stool, tucking his wings in stiffly. Scraping his hair back. Slowing his breathing. She could practically feel those icy barriers, crunching down around him.

“Don’t stop.” The words ambushed her, pinned her down before she could defend herself. “I mean, don’t mind me, if you’re practicing…”

Her old life flashed before her, endless hours of painful repetition, aches and muscle strains, blisters, the same moves over and again until she’d rather claw her face off than do that damn step one more time…

But she always did it one more time. And then again, and again. You didn’t get better, unless you did it one more time.

Sure, he’d had centuries to learn. But you didn’t get to play like that without putting in a lot of work.

She shivered, rubbing her bare arms. It was a side to him she’d never imagined. She’d thought all he cared about was killing. But no, he had to be a fucking artist as well. Unwilled, her interest tweaked sharp. A bundle of surprises, this Tainted angel…

Her heart stung, a stab of panic. She didn’t want him to be a real person. Not when she had no choice but to steal his soul. But she couldn’t rip that image of him at the piano from her mind. Couldn’t unhear that heartbreaking sound, so mathematical and precise, yet swelling with suppressed emotion. Screaming like a caged animal with everything he didn’t dare let himself feel.

Block it out, Rose. He loathes you. And he’s losing it. Look at him. This is your chance. Just get him naked, take what you need, and get the hell out of here
…

Compelled, she shuffled closer. “Play me something else.”

Japheth’s fingers lingered on the piano’s gleaming black lid. “That’s not a good idea.”

“Your favorite. Please.” She dared him with her steady gaze. “Come on, angel. Let it out. I won’t tell.”

A dark glance, unfathomable. And slowly, he sat, tidied his feathers, and began.

Rose caught her breath. She knew this one, even after just a few bars. Beethoven, the “Moonlight Sonata.” The part everyone recognized, with stirring arpeggios and a plaintive, desolate melody that pierced her jaded soul. So beautiful. So…lost. And the way he played it…like he tore his heart open and bled into every phrase. Unspeakable, bewildered feeling, molded into music. He stared at the keys, emerald eyes shimmering, and his handsome mouth quivered, as if he knew he was draining himself to death but couldn’t stop.

Oh, hell
. Heat swelled her eyelids. She tried to blink the tears back, but they wouldn’t obey. Damn it. She didn’t want to feel for him. Didn’t want to see him like this, lost and alone and so heartbreakingly real.

But too late. She’d dared him, and he’d called her on it. Fuck, had he ever. He played exhaustion, famine, desperate sadness, the heartbreaking agony of loss. Her knees buckled. She clutched the breakfast bar, drained. She wanted to crumple to the floor and weep.

The final minor chord chimed, and faded into screaming silence.

It wasn’t fair. This angel’s heart overflowed. He felt so much, it flayed him raw and bleeding, and he fought so hard to keep it in that it was destroying him, shard by icy shard.

For so long, Rose had felt nothing. Nothing, except thirst, and rage, and black delight in other people’s pain. She’d imagined she cared about her victims, suffered for them. What a hateful lie.

All she cared about was misery.

Acid threatened to dissolve her eyes. Her skin caught fire. She couldn’t face Japheth’s gaze. She wanted to crawl into a hole, disappear, hide her ugly face from the light.

But the sun poured in, hateful, and she couldn’t escape the blinding truth.

She was ugly, and he was beautiful. And she’d throw him to the howling wolves of hell, just so she could delay her own torment for a few sad little weeks.

She was a monster. And for the first time since the curse took her, her steely heart scorched with shame.

*   *   *

Japheth stared at the piano keys, but didn’t see them.

The music still tore through his blood, thundered in his pulse. He sweated. His feathers stung hard. His skin was surely melting from his bones. And still he wanted to dive into the empty sky and scream until his heart exploded.

He couldn’t deny this anymore. For fourteen hundred years, he’d cried, hungered, hoped, laughed, wanted. All without uttering a sound. His icy barriers in place, a glacier safe and solid around his heart, with only glory-rich slaughter to prove his pulse still beat at all.

But now the ice was cracking. He could feel it, just as he had on the day Michael cast him out. That swift, sharp agony deep inside his chest.

His calm was crumbling. And Rose knew. He could
feel
it. He could feel
her
.

A hot fist mashed his guts, and he trembled, like he never had in battle. God help him, he wanted to flee. To run and hide like a coward.

With a supreme effort, he dragged his leaden gaze upwards.

Tears smudged her dark eyes red. She wiped her nose, rough. And then she laughed. “I suppose you think that makes you special.”

That cruel twist of her mouth stung him like envy. “What? No, I—”

“Well, it doesn’t.” She shoved her hands in her jeans pockets. “Don’t fool yourself, angel. Heaven doesn’t care about your goddamned bleeding heart. It won’t save you. You make one mistake, and suddenly nothing else you’ve ever done matters a damn.”

His lungs burned. He couldn’t breathe. Didn’t want to face her. Didn’t want to listen.

He jerked aloft, landing by the window. He glared down at the city, the failing sun glinting on glass and metal, and his fists crunched so tight they shook. He wanted to punch the damn window to splinters. “What would you know about mistakes? You made your choice. Live with it.”

She strode up to him, eyes storming dark. “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you? That I made a
choice
? So you can pretend you’re the only one who got fucked over by heaven?”

“Actions trump words, Rose Harley,” he said roughly. “Saying you’re sorry isn’t enough. You make your choice every time you flash those fangs of yours.”

She planted herself in front of him, trapping him by the window. His feathers tingled with her body heat, but he refused to back off. He’d face his enemy head-on.

“Yeah,” she said scornfully. “And you know all about that, don’t you? You fed me that blood. Did you enjoy that? Did you get off on watching me gorge myself?”

His guts roiled. She’d refused to kill, pushed that dying man away from her.

A soldier does what’s necessary.
Those words chimed ugly dissonance now. She’d taken only what she needed to survive… “Don’t give me your innocent act. You’ve played the whore with me since the moment we met, and you don’t show one scrap of remorse. Not one bloody bit.”

She snorted. “Yeah, right. About as much as you show when you’re slicing a vampire’s head off.”

“That’s different. At least I haven’t given up on myself.”

Her face drained pale. “Excuse me?”

“You want absolution? You can start by acting like you give a shit. I believe in redemption. I
work
for it. What do you believe in?”

She laughed, and it grated his skin. “Believe? That’s a joke. I believed in your God, and look what it got me.”

His wings fired blue, the burning rage of injustice. He wanted to squeeze sense into her, make her understand. Silence her with bruising kisses until she surrendered. “You drank that demon’s blood, vampire,” he growled. “You chose this life. So guess what? You don’t get to complain. You don’t get to blame God for your weakness. You want forgiveness? Earn it.”

“Forgiveness?” She shoved his chest, knocking him back. “Forgiveness is a dirty lie. I begged on my fucking
knees
for one tiny glimmer of mercy. All it got me was damned.”

His heart sliced raw. He’d screamed to the sky, that ugly day when he fell. Raked his skin with filthy nails, the pain ugly and incomprehensible. Dirt in his feathers, on his face, everywhere, itching like poison but scrape as he might, he couldn’t get it off.
Help me,
he’d prayed.
Tell me what to do. Give one more chance
…

But only black silence had echoed.

Blood thundered in his head, splitting agony. He wanted to crack his skull open, let this insanity explode. “Go on, then,” he spat. “Blame God, if it makes you feel better. Doesn’t change the truth.”

“Right. And the truth will make me free. Isn’t that what your asshole Book says?” Sunlight flashed on her hair, imbuing it with ethereal fire.

But her beauty just spiked his bones with rage. She was healthy. Strong. Intelligent. She had everything, and she’d thrown it away. He turned aside, insolent. “What if it does? What do you care?”

She grabbed a handful of his feathers—
sweet heaven, woman, stop doing that
—and pulled him around to face her. “Try me,” she snapped. “Go on. If you know so much about me? Show me your stupid truth. I’m ready—ugh!”

He slammed her back against the window with one forearm. The glass shuddered. He didn’t care. Let it break. Let them both fall forever.

“You want the truth?” He was shaking, his voice, too. Her body trembled sweetly against his, and he burned. Have her,
kill her. He didn’t know the difference. “Being a demon’s whore is what got you damned, Rose Harley. And until you take some goddamn responsibility? No one will
ever
forgive you. Especially not me.”