If Angels Burn (Darkyn #1)

If Angels Burn (Darkyn #1) Page 13

Nothing from you, it said in perfectly understandable English.

Leave her. A tall Adonis type wearing a black tux but no shirt kicked the chair aside. Far from being scared, the weasel jumped down and slipped under the table.

Hi. It seemed impolite to stare at his bare chest under the black jacket because someone had tattooed a great big red sun on it, so Alex focused on his face. Am I sitting in your plate, uh, place?

Adonis didn't answer her. The halo of white hair that framed his handsome features appeared familiar, but everything else was strange. Did he have a funny name? Cypher? Cypress? Why was her memory so spotty? She couldn't remember his pretty mug at all, and faces were her job. He had been in some sort of terrible accident, hadn't he? Had she operated on him? Fixed him up, maybe? Had her hands given him that perfect nose, that fallen angel's mouth? Really excellent work, if she'd done it. Probably her best. She wondered if he would let her take some pics to show around at the next AMA convention.

Be still. He produced a tall, clear glass filled with lots of ice and a transparent liquid, but instead of letting her have a sip, he poured it on her chest and shoulders. The liquid felt cold at first, and then it began to warm up.

Jeez. Alex looked down at the mess. That wasn't very nice.

The weasel reappeared and made a nasty, cluttering sound. When Alex looked down at it, it bared its sharp little teeth.

She didn't want to take off her shirt in front of all these people, but the wetness was making her itch. She was starting to feel drowsy, too. Do you have some clothes I can borrow?

It is useless, the weasel said, its human voice just as snotty as before. Do not waste your time.

The people around the table began shifting in their seats and leaning over to whisper to each other. Alex couldn't make out the words, but it was pretty plain that they weren't happy. The weasel watched her like a hawk, its nose quivering.

Non. Adonis set aside the glass and planted his hands on Alex's hips. Elle ne mourra pas. He lifted her off the table and cradled her against the front of him, as if he didn't care how messy she was. As she struggled for breath, she felt something hard nudge her belly, and his warm lips move against her ear. Wrap your legs around me, chérie.

Alex's legs were almost as numb as her mouth and throat, but she managed to curl them around him. He carried her that way out of the dining room, holding her like an oversize, sleepy kid, one hand splayed under her buttocks, the other across her back. He walked in and out of shadows, away from the candles and the voices. Wherever they were, it was huge.

As soon as they were alone, Adonis muttered something in French and pressed his face against her neck.

Oh, yeah. A rush of heat came over her as he nuzzled, and she sank her fingernails into his shoulders, wanting more. Tilting her pelvis allowed her to rub her mons against the erect penis he was sporting. She might not be able to feel her knees, but her crotch was certainly working just fine. Her throat still hurt, though, and was starting to feel numb and tight. What are you doing to me?

You cannot tell? He turned and pinned her between his chest and the nearest wall. One of his pretty hands skimmed over her breast, sifted through her hair. Blue fire in his eyes, the heat of outrage, and behind it, a terrible loneliness. I am killing you, Alexandra.

Oh. Okay. She touched the tips of her fingers to his mouth. He had a great mouth. Could you love me a little first?

His fingers made a fist in her hair, and he pressed his mouth to her brow, so hard she could feel the sharp edges of his teeth. His voice spilled over her, fast and furious, in that language she didn't understand, and then he was kissing her. Not on the mouth, but on the eyelids and nose and chin and ear, everywhere he could reach, mapping her face with his lips. He reached down between them, tearing at the front of her scrubs, and then he was between her legs, pressing against her, beginning to squeeze inside her.

She wanted him inside. Wanted him all over her, if possible. Could you wear a man like a leotard?

Another man, this one bigger than Adonis and dressed in a suit made of glossy, dark green ficus tree leaves, popped up out of nowhere.

Vous la tuerez. The Not-Real-Jolly Green Giant grabbed at Alex and tried to pry Adonis off her. He wasn't as pretty, though, and his hands hurt.

Je ne peux pas m'arrêter.

Something went terribly wrong. The numbness in her throat spread out all over her body, turning her into a mannequin, her muscles rigid, her limbs unbending. The delicious pressure between her legs vanished as the man in the leafy suit hit Adonis and tore her away from him.

Adonis fell to his knees, his bare chest heaving, his face full of agony.

Alex wanted to reach out to him, say she was sorry, something, but she couldn't see him anymore. She couldn't breathe anymore. A moment before she sank into unconsciousness again, she felt a mouth cover hers.

Respirez, docteur. You must breathe. It was Adonis of the Partial Tux again, and he had her on the stone floor with him and was forcing his own breath into her lungs. Vivez pour moi.

If he wanted her to breathe, why was he on top of her? Even supported in the cradle of her spread thighs, he weighed a ton. He sealed his lips over hers and breathed for her again, making her chest lift until her breasts were almost mashed against his chest. Behind him, the man in the green suit stood looking like a cop about to write a traffic ticket.

Well, obviously they weren't going to have sex now, thanks to the green killjoy, so why was he still watching?

Alex knew she was dying. She could feel her heart laboring, her pulse slowing. It was too bad she couldn't speak; she might have instructed him on how to perform CPR properly. But Adonis was busy doing something to his arm… biting off the button on his cuff.

Now, that was stupid. After she was dead, he'd have to sew it back on. Unless he had whoever tattooed his chest do it. Could tattoo artists sew? Could weasels speak? Were they really making suits from ficus trees these days? Did they have to be trimmed instead of cleaned?

Alexandra, look at me.

She focused on those angry, empty blue eyes as Adonis climbed off her body and stood beside her. God, his eyes were so gorgeous, so light blue that it should have hurt him to look out of them. His eyes would be the very last thing she saw in this life. That was fine with her.

The golden weasel jumped up next to Alex and peered into her face. If it bit her on the nose, Alex was going to use the last of her strength to strangle it.

You know it has never worked, the weasel told Adonis. You waste yourself on her.

Get out. He sounded completely ticked off.

Alex didn't feel the same. All she felt was her life slipping away. Another minute and her brain cells would start to die. Would she walk into that infamous, end-of-the-tunnel light that so many patients who had been revived from clinical death claimed to have seen? Would John miss her? Would Audra be there, waiting for her? Mom'll probably nag me for how I'm dressed…

Adonis produced another glass of that horrible pink stuff, but he didn't try to douse her with it again. This time he held it to her lips. Drink. Drink.

Alex took a sip, but the cold, bitter taste of it made her gag and draw back. Ugh, no more.

Adonis didn't take away the awful stuff, but put his hand on the back of her head and curled his fingers in her hair. He turned her face toward him and tilted the glass again. You must drink.

She didn't want to spit it out in his face, but the taste disgusted her, and he kept forcing it down. The ice—was there ice in the glass?—was filling up her throat, cutting off her air. She tried to swallow, but the muscles beneath her jaw had locked up or frozen. She didn't have enough air left to, choke. Hair separated from her scalp as she wrenched her mouth away to cough. The pink stuff poured from the glass down the front of her scrubs, soaking them, and it wasn't cold or warm or hot; it was scalding. Alex heard the last of her air burst from her lungs in an agonized scream.

Beautiful hands framed her face; fingers closed her stretched, open mouth. Three suns rose in her eyes: two blue, and one red. They blazed like her body, like the world, all afire.

Vivez pour moi.

"Here's a nice cup of tea for you, Your Grace," Mrs. Murphy said as she wheeled in the rectory's best porcelain service on a kitchen cart. The housekeeper had also prepared finger sandwiches, scones, and her specialty, authentic Irish soda bread. "I can fix you a plate. What would you like?"

Hightower restrained a sigh. Since adolescence he had wrestled with a weight problem, one that now had him skirting the edge of outright obesity at nearly three hundred pounds. Yet no matter how often he reminded Clare Murphy of this, the woman still insisted on trying to stuff him like a goose whenever he visited.

"I'll serve myself, thank you, Mrs. Murphy." August Hightower waited until the smiling woman withdrew from the room before he opened his portfolio and extracted the letter that had brought him to St. Luke's. It was the second such letter John Keller had sent to the archdiocese. Certain phrases still jumped off the paper at him, bald and at times shocking.

I provided no defense against the accusations… not a

crisis of faith, but a realization of futility… useless to the church…

John Keller's letter of intent was not in the proper resignation format, but like a will, the sentiments expressed within it were valid enough. With his sister's disappearance, he also had a legitimate reason for his haste. With these weapons, he could lever himself from the priesthood and become a private citizen before the month was out.

Not that August intended to allow John to do any such thing.

He sat thinking and tapping a fold of the letter against his plump upper lip until someone knocked. It was not time to use John's guilt, not yet, so the letter went back into his portfolio. "Come in."

August took a moment to inspect his protégé. John Keller was a tall, broad-shouldered man who possessed the dense black hair, gray eyes, and caramel-colored skin of what was presumed to be multiracial parentage. The young priest appeared his normal, stoic self, if one ignored the pallor and the new lines around the eyes and nose.

"Good morning, Your Grace," John said, bowing over the thick-fingered hand August offered.