Sin Eater (5 page)

Charles couldn’t remember how he got to the roof of the office building across from the bakery. But he knew why he was there, and she was now sleeping in bed. She’d come home with the woman from the night before, who maybe was the one he wanted. But it was so hard to be sure, and he got confused so easily.

But the one with the long dark hair and the long legs and arms was what he wanted now. She was perfect. She’d be a challenge to break. And all these degenerate bitches had to be broken.

He watched her window as the light turned off in her bedroom. He’d have to be careful getting in. She looked tough, and he thought she would fight to the death. But there wouldn’t have to be a death. Just as long as she was … hurting.

He cracked his knuckles and his focus returned. Yep … she was the next one. He knew for sure once she kissed that woman, right in front of the window for everyone to see. It was disgusting. She’d be sorry for that … and while he had her, maybe he could show her the natural order of things. Sometimes the master let him have them first, before he completely broke them. This one … he would like very much to take her before she died.

And he knew which subway train her friend took on a regular basis, so he wouldn’t have to remember this place. Just the trains. He even knew which stop she got on, it was right next door to his little apartment.

This was going to be perfect. He just had to surprise her.

Iola was worried about herself now. She woke from a restless night with only a headache, made herself some coffee and toast, and tried to figure out what the night before had meant. Not the kiss - that she could explain quite easily. Claudia had always found her attractive, and in her drunken state Iola was feeling experimental. She sure wasn’t the first woman ever to get buzzed and kiss someone she didn’t intend to.

No, what worried her were the sweaty, erotic dreams she’d had between her constant awakenings. She’d woken up completely breathless, blushing, and as turned on as hell. And who had the dreams been about?
Claudia.

It didn’t mean anything. Just … dreams. Plural. More than one. To the point where she couldn’t get rid of that constant, heightened arousal. Eventually she’d just had to … well, take care of it herself. But when she fleetingly thought of Claudia’s hand possibly doing what her own hand was doing … she climaxed immediately.

Was she thinking she wanted to … give the same-sex thing a try with Claudia?

No.
No
. Well, maybe …
No.
Oh, who the hell knew? People got confused from time to time, and that gave her confidence that she was just having a crisis of sexual preference. Due to a long, dry spell in her love life.
Right?

The toast and coffee were tasteless. She was jumpy as hell.

She showered slowly and lazily, not having anything to do that day other than go to work. And that wasn’t until six o’clock. That’s a lot of time to sit around worrying about one topic. This is how anxiety screwed with you.

Iola could go for groceries since there were a few items she needed. Yeah, that seemed like something she would do anyway. She should do that.

And go by the hospital. She hadn’t been there in a while. She liked to visit the terminal wards. Most people thought it was depressing and odd, but for her … it made her feel like she was helping people when they’re at their most terrified. And most lonely.

That might be a good use of her afternoon. She’d head there first.

A plan of action took her mind off everything. She dried her hair, dressed, and then headed for the subway platform quickly, not wanting to run into Claudia in the hallway.

The subway ride to City General was about twenty minutes, and she had brought a magazine along for compan
y. At the stop she tucked it into her bag absently, and when she started for the stairs she heard something flutter to the concrete behind her. She was stopping and turning just as a male voice said, “Excuse me, Miss?”

The man stooping to pick up her magazine was also smiling up at her. His accent was very strange, she couldn’t place it. It was guttural and hard, but lovely to listen to at the same time, even if it was for three simple words. When he extended the magazine to her, she took it from a large, powerful hand. And when he straightened to his full height, she was gazing up at him, since he must have been six-three or six-four easily. Broad shoulders. Long arms. All cased in a gorgeous navy pinstripe suit.

He was definitely attractive in that foreign, tall dark and handsome way. His face had a few lines, but on men that was hardly considered a negative. His lips were full, his mouth wide. His brows were dark and heavy to match the hair that fell to just above the collar of his shirt. It was slicked back, but not greasily. It seemed to sit that way on its own. And his eyes … she couldn’t even be sure of the colour. They were likely blue, but at the moment they seemed almost …
lavender
? She found herself smiling at him. “Thank you,” she said, aware she was blinking too much. That was her nervous twitch.

He put one hand to the left side of his chest. “My pleasure,” he said with great dramatic flair, and when she laughed he granted her a smile.

Her heart stopped. Her breath caught. His smile … what the hell was it doing to her?

She flushed, dropped her gaze and mumbled her thanks again. Then she high tailed it for the stairs back up to street level.

Iola moved with the intensity and concentration of a competitive speed walker. Her chest was heaving like she’d just done a 4K jaunt. Her face felt hot, and it was spreading down her neck and into her chest. And holy fuck … she was so incredibly turned on she was wondering if it wasn’t another one of her insanely intense dreams from the night before. When he’d smiled, it was like … the sound of the subway went away. She was aware of it, but it sounded like it was coming down a long, echoing hallway. The people moving past them were walking in slow motion. And she had a hell of a time disengaging her attention from his face. Especially when all she wanted to do was kiss it.

She actually fanned herself with her
magazine, nearly walking out into traffic to cross against a red light. A woman grabbed her arm to stop her from killing herself, and Iola jumped about three feet at the contact. The woman apologized, looking disconcerted by the expression on Iola’s face. And she probably did look completely insane.

Waiting for the light to turn, Iola steadied her breathing, and slowly felt her body’s core temperature returning to normal. By the time the walking man flashed on, she was … better. Not back to normal, but much
much
calmer.

Calm enough to wonder …
What the hell was that guy?

The Sin Eater watched
her
as she sprinted away through the public transit crowd, heading up the stairs at top speed. The scent of jasmine, vanilla and chocolate was the only wake she left in the shifting crowd.

He avoided the urge to close his eyes while inhaling deeply. His human heart pounded, and below the belt of his designer suit his body was demanding that he find a means to take her, right where they were.

Her voice had pierced him, through and through, right down the centre of his chest, with just those two short words. It wasn’t percussion; she was too soft of tone. But the sound of her voice was like the audible definition of beauty.

Better yet, he could feel the trail her pale green eyes had left on him. It was like a trickle of hot water, seeping under his clothes and warming his skin. But … had she known what he was? Had she sensed he was something other than human?

Through the glow of having seen and talked to her, he felt the prickle of disconcertion. No human had ever sensed what he was, unless they were dying and looking to repent. And she had bolted from him. But not before …

He breathed deep again as he followed the scent of her. The smell of chocolate pleased him. She’d had the same reaction to him that he had to her; want, desire, and apprehension caused by her confusion of what he was.

There was no walking away now. There was no leaving her for the hands of fate and distancing himself from what he didn’t understand.

What the hell was she?

“Mister Horn, so good to see you again.” Iola congratulated herself. Her voice sounded normal, and she was pretty sure her smile was natural. It
felt
natural.

“Iola?” The elderly, withering form in the bed blinked to make sure he wasn’t imagining her. “It’s been a while.”

“I know, I’m sorry. How have you been?” She settled next to him in the guest chair, and he turned his head to smile at her.

“Not good,” he admitted, the sadness in his voice hurting her.

“Has your son been by?”

“He came by … I think it was about three weeks ago. Haven’t seen him since.” His voice just got sadder. Then he perked up. “He brought the grandson along. He’s gett
ing so big!” Then he settled into a short burst of wheezing coughs, brought on by a chuckle. “Kept pushing the buttons on the bed, moving it up and down.”

Iola smiled.

“Your smile … reminds me so much of my Lily,” he admitted. Iola knew that Missus Horn had passed away about thirteen years before. “She was so beautiful, just like you.”

“Oh, Mister Horn, watch that flirting. Next thing you know I’m marrying you.”

“I can’t even take you dancing. Don’t marry some sick old fart like me.” Then came that wheezing cough again. Iola hadn’t heard it this bad before. He was dying of lung cancer, started smoking while he’d served in the RCAF in World War Two, and all things considered, he was pretty lucky he’d made it this far. The nurses told her the nasty ones always lasted the longest.

“Want
a cigarette?” She joked. They’d started that running gag the first time she’d come to see him. That first day she stopped by to say hi he had a hacking fit, then yelled at the nurse to bring him cigarettes. If he was dying what difference would it possibly make?

She knew he was rude to the nurses, yelled at them, even pushed one once. But to her … he was kind. He liked her, and the nurses said he was calmer and he slept better after she’d visited. So they were usually happy to see her, too. She reminded him of his late wife, apparently.

“Why are you coming here anyway?” He asked dismissively when his coughing was exhausted. “Hang around us old folks, dying all over. You should be out having fun. Living it up. Dating some nice guy.”

Iola shrugged. “I like coming here. I feel like I learn a lot from you sick old farts.”

“Watch it, missy. It’s only funny when I say it,” he sounded stern but the twinkle in his eye told otherwise.

The pictures on the wall were from his wedding, he and his wife in their early twenties. He was home fresh from Europe, wearing his dress blues, wedge cap at an angle. She could still see that handsome young man in his face, especially when his eyes twinkled like they were doing right now.

“But I mean it,” he said, bringing her back around. “It stinks in here.”

“What do you mean?” She frowned, thinking she was in for another joke.

“It smells like dying. You can’t smell that?”

She breathed in deeply through her nose. “It smells like hospital to me. What does it smell like to you?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. It just smells bad. Maybe it’s me. I need a shower.”

“Well, I’ll let the nurses know. But I don’t smell anything.”

He actually looked embarrassed. “Maybe you should go. I shouldn’t have company when I stink like this.”

“Mister Horn, I don’t smell anything. Honestly.”

“I appreciate you stopping in, Iola. Come and see me again soon.”

She got to her feet, smiling down at him. “You are such a gentleman. I will definitely be coming to see you again.”

He smiled back at her in relief, more from the fact that she was leaving than the fact that she would be coming back.

She touched his shoulder, and he closed his eyes at the connection. She found it odd, but she still offered him a smile as she left.

“Take care of yourself, Mister Horn.”

“You too, dear.”

She made her way down the hall to stop in on Missus Dean. She hoped she was wrong about this bad feeling she had … she was pretty sure she’d just said her final good-bye to Mister Horn.

Douglas Horn breathed in relief as Iola left the doorway. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing pulse. When he felt better, he opened his eyes again, then blinked a few times.

“Who the hell are you?” He snapped at a large man dressed in a blue suit.

The man sat where Iola had sat, leaning in. His cold bluish-purple eyes made Douglas want to shrink back in fear, but he’d be damned if he was going to give into this dandy.

“Don’t worry with who I am. The worry is
why
I am here. And Douglas, I’m here because you’ve been … very bad.”

“How do you know my name? Get out of this room. I’m calling a nurse.”

Then his hand froze on the call button. He wanted to push it one moment, and then he just decided it was unnecessary. But he was still plenty pissed off.

“Well, what do you want?” He stubbornly crossed his arms, his IV tube flapping around him, ticking against the rails of the bed.

The man closed his eyes, rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, steepled his fingers in front of him and sighed. Douglas was about to ask him to take his damn meditation elsewhere, when he was jolted back against the pillows of his bed.  He could see his room, could see the man sitting next to him in his periphery, but it all became background to a hazy, translucent image, a memory, fading into focus in front of him. A woman. On her back. Hands wrapped around her neck. She was scratching at arms, fighting to breathe. Her body was jerking up and down as it was invaded, violated against her will. He watched the life fade out of her eyes, and then he’d kept squeezing. And doing other things, too.

Tears poured down his face, and he was saying, “Damn you,” over and over, low and almost to himself.

“You were drunk,” the stranger relented. “You didn’t necessarily have control of yourself. And it was … a troubling time.”

Damn straight it was troubling. He’d jumped from a Dakota over Normandy just seconds before it exploded, and every man from his boot camp days had died immediately. He was the first and only one out of that plane on D-Day. And he used to drink
so
much …