Revelation (11 page)

Pity she’d been unconscious when he started kissing her. She really needed to get out more.

He stopped in front of a dusty apartment block opposite the park, shutters pulled low over UV-filtered windows, and spun her to face him, pulling her into his arms so her body fitted against his chest. “Ready?”

Uh-huh. He felt just like she thought. Warm, hard, tempting. “Ready for what?”

“This.” He snapped his feathers taut, and dived skywards.

Her breath rushed out. Breeze dragged her hair back, the ground spinning away. Her stomach plummeted. He crushed her close to his chest, effortless, and she could feel his muscles pumping as he swooped aloft.

She clutched him, exhilarated and terrified. Glass windows flashed past, concrete girders, the long dark web of a fire escape. A bird squawked and dived, startled, and suddenly they rocketed above the city skyline, with only the moon shining down.

Luniel rolled, soaring, cradling her body against his. His deep voice tingled dark shivers in her ear. “Like it?”

Morgan’s breath caught. The buildings below seemed so far
away. Lights glittered, a spray of diamonds twinkling in the night, and bonfires spat scarlet in the park. Warm moonlight caressed her. She almost could taste it, shining on her tongue, the breeze riffling her hair. It was beautiful.

“Hold tight,” he murmured.

She tightened her grip—somehow she’d linked her wrists around his neck, and his arms folded around her body—and he swooped, and landed on the rooftop, light and graceful, a flick of ink-dark feathers.

She let out her breath in a rush. “Whoa. That was…incredible. Unbelievable.”

“But you do believe it.” His voice sparkled in her ear, dark, his lips hot. “C’mon, Morgan. I’m here, you’re here. This is real. No use pretending.”

She realized he still crushed her against him. She could feel his heartbeat, strong and rapid, pounding through her like it was her own. His heat burned her, and his breath rasped, feverish.

She swallowed. “Put me down.”

“Why? I like the feel of you.”

That much was clear. Evidently, angels had all the same body parts as humans, because if that thing pressing into her belly wasn’t…oh, my. Apparently, he liked the feel of her quite a lot. “Is, uh…is that what you call honesty?”

“Just making conversation.” His wicked grin shivered all the way down her spine. “Is that your scientific curiosity showing, Dr. Sterling, or are you enjoying yourself?”

She flushed, and pushed away. Great. A horny angel. She knew she wasn’t that attractive, despite her probably better-than-average looks—no matter what they all said, most guys found a smart, career-focused woman intimidating. And a ridiculously good-looking guy like Luniel would have no trouble finding pretty girls to play with. He was just teasing her. Putting her off her guard.

“Where are we?” At her feet, skylight windows pierced the gently sloping roof, moonbeams slanting onto a distant wooden floor. The iron rooftop banked sharply away at the edges.

“Told you. My place.” Luniel danced across on light wings and levered the skylight up on its hinges, unhooking a battered wooden ladder that creaked down inside. “After you, Doctor.”

“You live in a loft in Harlem?”

“So? It’s convenient.”

“Who pays your rent, anyway? Don’t tell me you’ve got a regular job.”

His eyes twinkled. “We have ways of getting stuff for free.”

“I’m sure. So why not Central Park West, or something? You slumming it?”

“It’s less noticeable here. You think the people in this building care about one more weird neighbor? They’re just happy I don’t set the place on fire too often.” He gestured downwards with a glossy wingtip. “You coming in, or do I have to carry you?”

She shivered suddenly. Going to some strange guy’s apartment. This was insane.
She
was insane.

All the same, seeing an angel’s…what? House? Nest? Aerie? It’d be kinda cool. How did he live? What did he eat? Did he have…stuff, like normal people?

Yes, her scientific curiosity was definitely showing. She hid a smile, and stepped forward.

Luniel took her hand and eased her down the ladder. It was a tall attic room, the white ceilings high and airy, and she had to hop the last few feet to reach the hardwood floor.

He lighted beside her, feathers fluffing. He coughed, and wiped his mouth. “Welcome to Casa de Lune. Make yourself at home.”

She dusted off her hands. Moonlight slanted through the skylights, dust motes dancing in warm toffee scent. Kitchenette in one corner, white tiles and stainless steel. It looked spotless. Did he cook? Did he even eat? Bathroom in another corner, behind a frosted glass screen. A low flat sofa, a pile of fat black cushions to sit on, a TV, a cabinet overflowing with magazines and paperbacks. Above hung a mezzanine loft, too high to reach and with no ladder. Presumably where he slept.

Did he have a regular bed, she wondered? A nest? A perch, even? Did he sleep in human form, or angel? Presuming, of course, that a creature of heaven had to sleep at all. He seemed to have other human male traits. A one-track mind, for instance.

What she didn’t see were any trappings of religion. No altars, icons, crucifixes, Bibles or Korans or Torahs.

Didn’t mean he wasn’t a nutter.

Still, in her experience, the really crazy ones plastered it all over the place. Immersed themselves in it. Her mother had papered
the walls with Bible verses and drawings of Christ. It sickened Morgan just to think about how the evil sons of bitches who seduced her mother used symbols of love and goodness to do it. By all accounts, after all, the real Jesus was a pretty decent guy. It was the twisted ones among his believers who were the problem.

Still, the whole thing didn’t sit right with her scientific mind. To accept a single, sole truth without proof or debate was insane.

“Not so scary, is it?”

“Huh?” She jerked back to the present, and swayed, dizzy. Maybe it was the sensation of flight, but her head ached anew from the blows she’d taken, and she felt light-headed. She’d lost some blood. There could be infection. Maybe delayed-onset shock…

Luniel twirled one finger, indicating his apartment. “No unbelievers chained to the walls?”

“And here I was thinking there’d be harps and choirs of cherubs.”

He wrinkled his nose. “You ever hear a cherub sing? It’s not pretty.”

She scraped her hair back, and blood smeared. Shit. She touched her forehead gingerly. A cut had reopened. Not the demon slash, just a bang she’d gotten as they’d escaped. It bled fresh and uncorrupted, but there was a lot of it. She probably needed stitches. Not to mention a rabies shot.

Luniel’s gaze clouded, and he reached for her. “You’re bleeding. Here, let me—”

“No, it’s okay.” She shuffled away. “Can I use your bathroom?”

“Of course.” He lifted her and swooped across the room, her feet a few inches from the floor, and set her down before the sink. His body felt even warmer, feverish, his skin shiny with sweat.

The vanity had a long oval sink and an illuminated mirror, and beside it lay a claw-foot bathtub and a glass shower stall tiled in white. All spotless. A neat freak? Maybe he hired a housekeeper. He rummaged in the cupboard beneath the sink, his eyes glazing. “Somewhere I’ve got…”

“It’s okay.” She didn’t want him tending her wounds. Didn’t want him touching her.

All right, part of her did want him touching her. The sensual, hedonistic part who loved chocolate ice cream by the tub and
toasted marshmallows by the dozen, and sometimes drank herself to sleep, alone. The part who couldn’t be trusted.

“I’m a doctor,” she insisted. “I can handle it. Go tend to yourself.” Reflexively, she put the back of her hand to his forehead and checked the dilation of his pupils. Black, glittering, only a burning ring of blue. His face shone damp, his lips pale, dark bruises ringing his eyes. “You’ve got a fever. And you look like crap. Is that, uh, sweating thing normal?”

“Demon venom. I’ve got a cure.” His words slurred, thick, like he was drunk. The gashes on his face clotted and bubbled, infected with evil green fluid. “D’you mind if I go and…”

“Is there anything I can do?” Her instincts had taken over, and she spoke coolly, calmly and to the point. Just like a good doctor.

A flicker of surprise. “No.”

“Then go.” She shoved him out, her guts twisting cold. He was injured because of her, and she couldn’t fix it. Frustration and worry clamored in her chest. With the dead, she was used to feeling helpless. With the living…

Still, it wasn’t her fault. She’d never been attacked by demon bats until he showed up. Right?

Her mouth firmed, and she examined her injuries in the mirror.

Like most scalp wounds, not as bad as the bleeding made it look. She washed the slash carefully, easing out a few dirt clumps. She could hear Luniel on the phone, his voice low and careful. Who was he calling? His friend Dashiel? The local pizza store? God?

There was no disinfectant, but below the sink among soap and toothpaste she found a pile of gauze bandages. Did he need them for himself? Or wasn’t she the only female…uh, wounded human he’d brought back here?

His voice again, a murmured chant. What was he doing? She glanced over her shoulder in the mirror as she dabbed her face. She couldn’t see. Softly she put the bandages down, and crept to the screen’s edge.

He was on his knees, shirtless, his black wings swept back. The muscles of his back and chest stood out, rigid, slick with sweat. His head had fallen back, and he chanted strange words at the moon, silvery light washing down over him. Blood streaked his hair, and bright red webs of corruption crept over
his cheek and down his neck like living veins of poison, grasping for his heart.

As he chanted, the Tainted’s twin lightning bolt sigil on his left palm flared blue. He held something shiny in his right hand—a knife with a cruelly curved blade—and as she watched, transfixed, he folded his left hand around the blade and sliced.

Blood splurted, crimson mixed with evil green corruption. It ran down his arm and pooled in a black stone cup he’d placed before him for the purpose.

Morgan gasped. He was casting some kind of spell, or at least he thought he was. And all that blood surely didn’t raise the odds of it being a nice one. Her heart clenched. Had he lied all along? Tricked her with his charm? Maybe he was really…twisted. Bad. Evil.

He removed the blade and squeezed his fist, halting the flow to a trickle. And then the blood-filled cup burst into flame.

Not red, angry, evil flame. Pure white. It seared and flashed, dazzling. Purifying.

Not that the color meant anything. But the air hummed alive with positive energy. Morgan’s skin tingled. The lights above the mirror flickered, and all the hair on her body sprang charged. It didn’t feel evil. It felt…alive. Soothing. Invigorating.

Her forehead stung, and she glanced back to the mirror. Her wound sizzled, and healed itself.

Morgan’s stomach hollowed. She gulped, and flew her hand to her forehead. No cut. Not even a scratch.

She whirled back to Lune. He took the glowing cup in both hands, and drank it down.

Fresh blood spilled on his chin, bright scarlet, free from corruption. He swallowed deep, until the last drop was gone. His muscles convulsed, straining. White radiance flashed over him, with a thunderous crack like lightning. Ozone stung her nose. The cup fell from Luniel’s hands, and he collapsed to the floor, limp.

The light faded, leaving only silvery moonlight. His skin gleamed, clean, free from poison. He lifted his head, gasping for breath. The fetid wound on his cheek was gone. Vanished. Healed.

Morgan fell back against the bathtub, dazed. Her mind stumbled. She’d seen this man—this
creature
—wish a flaming sword from empty air and slaughter monsters he said were demons. Seen him heal small injuries with impossible speed, rip
the heart from a dead man’s chest and set it on fire. Seen him fly, damn it, flown with him in his arms. None of those things were human.

But this was something else. He’d called down some power from outside himself.

Called down the power of God.

And it had healed him. Healed her.

Her mind reeled, choking her.

Until now, she’d gone along with it, not really believing. Just fascinated by Luniel. Curious about a man with wings. Attracted by his…potency. Enthralled by things new and exciting.

But now…

Her rational mind thrashed and protested, screaming, but in a stubborn daze, she beat it down.
Scientific method, Morgan. Weigh up the evidence. Accept your observations. You can’t keep only the data that supports your pet theory and toss out what you don’t like.

What if all this was real?

And this was the guy who said the world was ending. Not in four billion years when the sun went out, but soon. Now.

What if that was real, too?

Luniel clutched at the floor, gulping air. Heaven’s glory sparkled over him, warm and deadly delicious, a heady mix of pain and pleasure. It stabbed deep into his body, raking every nerve raw. And then it washed away, lost, and deep sorrow drowned his heart.

He panted, willing his heartbeat to slow.
Sweet mercy, that never gets any easier.

Ever since he’d been shunned, healing from a hellcurse that had taken root—like Morgan’s illicitly stolen injury—was no easy task. You had to ask. Beg for it on your fucking knees. There’d be that terrifying moment of emptiness, when he feared he was discarded and alone. And then the glory would hit him, hot and breathtaking and magnificent, and every time, he wanted to weep.

Every time, a harsh reminder of everything he no longer had.

He crawled to his feet, snapping his feathers tight. Already, the energy flowed through him, rich and heady. He felt no pain.
No fever. The poison was defeated. His senses glittered sharp. His blood coursed swift and strong. His muscles tingled with warmth and vigor, and his feathers crackled with static, longing for flight. Even his headache was gone.

Just exhilaration, and hunger for the fight, and black anger scratching raw in his heart.