Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Shrugging into his leather jacket, Foster pocketed his projector cube and his keys before stepping out into the hall and locking his door.
Not that a lock would keep out any of the people he was worried about getting in—the wards he’d just refreshed inside would have to pick up the slack at that point.
The lock deterred the mortal residents of his building.
Eyeing the grimy carpet and the ever-growing pile of trash bags at the head of the stairs, Foster could admit he didn’t live in the most reputable neighborhood.
“?Diablito!” she announced his nickname matter-of-factly and with a hint of reprimand, as if she’d been expecting him and he was late.
Her accent was thick and always sounded a bit agitated, but he could tell when she was genuinely mad and when she was just rambling in her peculiar way, like right now.
“I knew it was you, Diablito. I’m always hearing you stomp-stamping down these stairs in you big scary botas.
Always the stamping, like you need to making a fuss or you will die, dio mío. ”
“Si, senora.” He grinned, winking at her. “I will absolutely die.”
“You a bad boy,” she chastised, but smiled wide enough to reveal a slight snaggletooth. “Come inside, I cooking pastelito, and you tan flaco, Diablito! You need to eat more! You a growing boy!”
“?Yo tengo trente anos!” Foster protested, and okay, that wasn’t exactly true, but it was a close enough approximation for mortals.
There was no real point to his argument anyway, because he knew age was all relative to Senora Delgado.
Anyone younger than her was considered a child, which was pretty much everyone in the building.
“I no care.” She waved a chubby hand dismissively, and Foster caught it in his larger one so he could brush a kiss over her knuckles. She snatched her hand back, blushing, and swatted his head. “?Ay! ?Este maldita chico, sin vergüenza!”
He laughed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Si, si, no shame. And also very busy, lo siento. Save me a plate, abuela?”
“Maybe,” she sniffed haughtily, arms folded over her chest. “Always running around at every hours, doing what?”
Foster smiled and dodged the question. “I’ll see you later, abuela. Lock your door!”
“Si, si,” she waved him off with a fond smile. “Nobody bother Sra. Delgado except you, Diablito.”
“Because they know I’ll be angry!” he tossed over his shoulder as he continued down the stairs, listening for the snap and the click that let him know she was safely returned to her locked apartment.
He made a mental note to refresh the wards around her apartment when he got back home, even though he knew she didn’t need his input.
Senora Delgado was a capable witch on her own.
But Foster was compelled to do what he could to care for the people in his building, and he paused in the hallway when he reached the ground floor.
Dark eyes drifted across to A2, still silent and shut off from the world.
No one in the building had seen Lydia or Aaron since Piper’s funeral, and Foster was constantly torn between knocking on the door to check on them and leaving them to their grief.
He couldn’t forgive himself for his role in it, and that ultimately led him to choose the second option.
He settled for a snap of his fingers that left a wicker basket of pastries outside their front door.
It was the same gift basket he sent Lydia every year on her birthday, but this time she would find a card with his condolences in the bottom, along with enough cash to reimburse the funeral expenses.
It was the least he could do, since he knew for a fact that they hadn’t cashed the check he’d written after the wake.
Turning up his collar against the early fall chill, Foster buried his guilt and stepped out of the suddenly claustrophobic apartment building.
He made his way into the darkening night, hoping the biting wind might drag away the lingering sorrow and the persistent sense of regret.
Fuck Judas for showing up and bringing all of it back to the surface.
He was beginning to wish he hadn’t scared Cwall off yesterday, but the demon was prone to sulking when his human charge was rude to him, and wouldn’t likely reveal himself for several days.
Foster always felt like he was being watched when he was out and about, and while he recognized that most of the time it probably was Cwall watching him, it would help to have the imp by his side so that he could be certain they were friendly eyes.
While it was possible for mortals to develop extrasensory abilities, and some were even born with an edge up on the others, it was extremely rare for a mortal to reach a level where they could pick up on who—or what—he was.
Rare, but possible, and that slight chance was enough to give him pause.
He was the product of one such longshot meeting, after all.
His mother had told the story infrequently, but fondly. It could be coerced from her on special occasions, usually after she had a few glasses of her favorite honeyed mead, and Foster could still recall the way her amber eyes would glow with delight as she shared the tale.
“He was so handsome, your father,” she would say, smile mischievous and eyes glittering as she tickled young Foster’s sides. “Just like you will be, my little Devil.”
“Stop, Mama!” Foster could almost hear the echo of his own laughter as he twisted his skinny body away from her teasing hands. “Tell the story!”
“Oh, of course, of course,” Angela would grin. “Ah, and what a story.”
Angela wandered leisurely through the market, one hand looped through the handle of her shopping basket while the other reached out, endlessly seeking and sorting and touching the countless wares on display.
Plump fruits, dried herbs, woven fabrics—everything was fair game for her curious perusal.
She lingered at a produce stall, lifting a juicy tomato for inspection, and froze as a shiver raced down her spine.
Carefully, casually, Angela paid for the tomato and tucked it into her basket, smoothing down her deep blue skirts as she turned and cast a sweeping glance over the market.
Nothing. There was nothing unusual, but there was…
something, at the same time. She could feel it like a breeze against her skin; there was a powerful being in this market with her.
And not just any being, but… could it be?
Someone with Godblood? A thrill rose in her, in direct contradiction to everything her mother had tried to instill in her.
Gods were not to be trusted; her mother always insisted.
Angela pushed the feeling down, tucking a curl of gold behind her ear and resuming her shopping.
Que sera, sera, she told herself. I will meet them if it is fated.
“And you did!” Foster would interrupt her with a giggle, only to be swept up into his mother’s arms.
“Of course I did, mijo,” she would trace his features with her slender fingers until he was laughing and squirming in her hold. “Fate, has a sense of humor, you see.”
“You seem lost,” a deep, smooth voice came at her shoulder, and Angela turned abruptly. A man had snuck up on her, somehow, and for a moment her surprise at his presence distracted her from his looks. But only a moment.
He was beautiful, which was a word she didn’t often equate to men, but it was true.
His dark hair swept over his forehead in waves, curling around his ears and the nape of his neck.
Deep brown eyes with a ring of gold were fixed on her, set in a deeply tanned and finely featured face.
His smile was easy and kind, and Angela found herself flushing at both his closeness and his attention.
“Excuse me?” She took a step back to put some distance between them.
“Lost,” he repeated, still smiling. “The way you were looking around, I thought you were lost.”
“I am not, thank you,” she began to turn away.
“Oh?” His voice dipped lower, conspiratorial. “So perhaps… looking for something?”
There was a heavy implication in the casual question, and Angela tensed.
“No,” she repeated. “I must be going.”
The strange man continued to watch her, his gaze lingering on her face, and Angela began to worry about his intentions. But then he nodded and gave her a small bow.
“My mistake. Please have a good day.” He turned away before she did, disappearing into the crowd like a ghost.
Everything in Angela’s body was taut and alert, as if urging her to pay attention.
She knew what had just transpired; she had spoken directly to a God.
Every warning her mother had passed on weighed on her like a shroud, but Angela shook them all off, following the stranger into the crowd.
She had talked to a God, and he was beautiful, and she was going to do it again, consequences be damned.
“Daddy is lucky,” Foster would interrupt her again, gazing up at her with adoring eyes that mirrored his father’s.
“Is he?” Angela would raise her brows in a pantomime of surprise, and Foster would nod solemnly. He would cup her face in his small hands, to ensure she was paying attention.
“Yes,” the little demigod insisted every time. “Because you picked him when you could have left instead.”
“I would never presume to defy destiny, mi amor,” Angela always insisted gravely.
She found him leaning against a pillar, tossing a woven ball up into the air before catching it again, and when she approached him, he looked up with that same warm smile. She got the sense he had been expecting her.
“Hello again,” he said sweetly, tossing and catching the ball with a flick of his wrist. Toss, catch. Toss, catch. The rhythm was steady, almost entrancing.
“Hello,” she echoed, with a hint of amusement. “You knew I would follow.”
It wasn’t a question, not really, but he nodded. “I suspected, yes.”
“How?”
“You could see me.”