Chapter 18 Christine
Christine
Raoul does not, in fact, get over it. He’s still insisting he’s fine in a high-pitched tone a couple hours later, when the Angel returns with breakfast.
We took turns in the Angel’s well-appointed bathroom, after which he ordered our meal through a food delivery app and walked down the canal tunnel out of sight to fetch it.
Apparently there’s an exit somewhere along the canal route, a stairway that takes you up to street level and comes out by the riverfront.
I can’t say I’m surprised by the existence of this place—after all, there are steam tunnels under Nashville, not to mention Civil War–era escape routes for enslaved people and Prohibition-era hideaways for bootleggers.
Like I told Raoul, the literal existence of the death god took me a minute to grasp, even when I have plenty of proof, like the Angel’s shockingly addictive blood, his command of spirits, and his ability to wield mist and shadows.
But now, with my mind refreshed by sleep, I’m remembering more of the mythos on which I was raised.
Wolfsheim’s cult possesses a giant compendium of Celtic mythology and history.
They require each Progeny family to own a copy and read from it at night, so I grew up on alternate versions of the Mabinogion, the Book of Taliesin, and various historical texts.
I still don’t know which versions of the tales are correct—the ones readily available online or the secret tome revered by the Progeny.
The Progeny compendium certainly contains a lot more details, including entire family trees for the ancient royal families and the Tuatha Dé Danann themselves, some of them spanning dozens of pages.
I share a few of the stories with Raoul while we eat. The Angel doesn’t weigh in, but the unmasked half of his face looks contemplative, almost sad. Finally I ask, “These stories…are they accurate?”
His lips tighten, and he doesn’t answer for a long moment. “I don’t remember. The vampire who locked away my powers also suppressed most of my memories. My mind is often chaotic—fragments of recollection, whispers of memory, and the wails of the restless dead.”
“That sounds awful,” I murmur.
He meets my eyes, and for a second, I see it—the unending tempest, the torturous storm locked inside him. “Music quiets the noise.”
“Then we should play together after we eat.”
Raoul chokes on a bite of eggs. I pat him firmly on the back until he manages to wheeze, “Of course. What could be more normal? A jam session with a god, a vampire, and a—um…” He cuts himself off. “A human. A normal human.”
The Angel gives Raoul a strange look, but he doesn’t comment. He seems more at ease than he did last night—less prone to keep us captive. Perhaps he’s feeling reassured because Raoul and I didn’t leave while he was fetching the food.
After breakfast, Raoul gets up and begins poking around the instruments the Angel has collected. He pushes aside an afghan, uncovering a cherry-red Nord digital piano. “This is fantastic. Not cheap either. Where do you get your money? Do gods have some supernatural source of income?”
“The man who raised me left some funds in my possession,” the Angel says.
“Cool, cool.” Raoul locates a power strip into which the Angel has plugged a couple of lamps. Its cord runs all the way across the room, beneath the rugs, to an outlet in the wall.
I watch the Angel for a moment, marveling at his genius.
From what he said, he’s been in this body for about a year, maybe less…
and in that time, he has absorbed a massive amount of information.
He learned to use technology, then leveraged it to amass the skills and knowledge he needed to set up this place.
And judging by the piles of notebooks beside one of the chairs, he’s been writing music—tons of it.
When Raoul begins playing beats on the digital piano, the Angel rises, keen interest etched in every line of his body. He stands at Raoul’s side, watching him manipulate the sound in different ways.
“Teach me,” he says abruptly, and Raoul looks up at him.
My stomach flutters at the sight of them.
Both shirtless, both gorgeous—the Angel with his broader, more powerful body and black hair, Raoul with his slim form and copper curls.
Like the Devil and Cupid, bonding over music.
I want to squeal with delight and smush them forcefully together, then wedge myself in between them and be the luckiest damn girl to ever exist.
But reality, that unrelenting bitch, crawls into my head and rips holes in the pretty picture I was painting.
None of this could ever work. Raoul is clearly freaked out about the vampire thing. Besides which, he has ongoing family trauma that apparently included some nasty abuse. The Angel is mentally disturbed on a number of levels. And I am more damaged than either of them could know.
That’s not even accounting for the fact that the reason we’re all here now together is that the Angel stalked me, decided to keep me here against my will, and threw Raoul in a torture chamber.
Talk about a dysfunctional dynamic. There’s no way a relationship among the three of us could be anything but toxic.
But it’s hard not to smile as I watch Raoul teaching the Angel how to use the digital keyboard. He picks it up unbelievably fast, and before long, Raoul yields the piano to him, grabs a guitar, and begins strumming, singing in that light, golden tenor of his.
The Angel glances over at me and smiles—pure delight, pure joy. And suddenly I want to cry.
“Sing, Christine,” he pleads softly, and Raoul echoes, “Sing for us.”
I rise from the chair and take up a position on the other side of the digital piano, facing the Angel as he plays the intro to “As Long as You’re Mine” from Wicked.
This time, even though I know the song and I understand how intimate singing it will be, I don’t run. For the first time, I look at him while I sing. As I croon Elphaba’s words, I watch the adoration blooming on his face, the tears gathering in his eyes. I have the power to move him like this. Me.
Then, eyes locked with his, I listen to the passionate rise and fall of his voice through Fiyero’s stanza. And I know, with thrilling certainty, that no one has ever wanted me this badly before. No one has ever loved me this deeply.
Whatever he has been in the past, whatever he is now—this man, this god, adores me, body and soul.
Fuck reality. Fuck social norms and expectations, fuck guilt and fear. There’s something I want from him, and I’ve decided to take it.
The Angel can see it in my face as we sing the final verse together. I know he understands what I crave, because the glow of worship in his eyes intensifies to a wicked hunger. He keeps playing, and I let all the reckless desire of my soul soar through my voice.
I glance at Raoul, and so does the Angel, both of us looking to him at the same moment, our hearts pulled by the same cord.
Raoul’s cheeks are red, his green eyes soft and bright.
I don’t see fear in his gaze. If it’s there, desire has temporarily eclipsed it.
Wherever we go right now, he’ll go, too.
We end the song, and before the music has ceased vibrating in the air, the Angel steps around the keyboard and hauls me against him. I reach out one hand to Raoul, and when his fingers brush mine, I pull him close.
But I kiss the Angel first.
His lips have always belonged to me. They are firm and smooth, tender and rough all at once.
He tastes of salt and pine trees…of wind, wilderness, and the darkness of long-forgotten tombs in a forest by the sea.
My tongue explores the cave of his mouth, the lines of his teeth, the shape of his tongue.
Then, with the Angel’s taste still on my lips, I kiss Raoul.
He’s like coming home—the home I always wished for.
Soft, warm, welcoming. There’s a honeyed sweetness to him despite all the bitterness he has endured.
Bullying at school, cruelty from his family—somehow none of it tarnished that pure, honest innocence.
Affection for him wells up inside me as I press kiss after cherishing kiss to his precious mouth.
Then Raoul gasps, a fractured groan slipping from his lips. The Angel is rubbing his hand over Raoul’s boxers, caressing the prominent shape of his dick.
I take advantage of their momentary distraction to remove my top. It’s almost comical how quickly their attention snaps back to me, drawn by the sudden exposure of boobs. Mine aren’t large, but that doesn’t seem to matter to either Raoul or the Angel—they’re equally entranced.
Slowly, I walk up the steps to the bed, pushing the curtains all the way back before climbing onto it.
Raoul and the Angel are both naked by the time they reach me. Raoul arrives first, and after he sets his glasses aside, I let him peel my leggings off. We sit together naked among the sheets, instinctively waiting for direction from the Angel.
He stands at the end of the bed, his hips tilted with the casual grace of a classic marble statue. He’s fully erect and fully in control, the dominant one among the three of us.
I’m actually doing this. With both of them. We didn’t discuss it, didn’t lay down any rules. We simply decided.
The Angel glances down at his cock. It’s a silent command that Raoul obeys instantly, crawling to the end of the bed.
Raoul has a lovely ass, round and perfect, and I can’t resist following him, caressing those smooth cheeks as he circles the base of the Angel’s cock with his hand and tucks the head into his mouth.
While he sucks the Angel’s cock, I explore Raoul’s body with my hands.
He’s lean and toned, but not as muscular as the Angel, softer in places.
He quivers when I run my fingers through the groove between his ass cheeks.
I tease the tight hole there, then stroke the sensitive skin beyond it, at the base of his balls.