Chapter Seven #3
“Fucking—” He shakes his head, exasperated. “I died in 445 BC. Athens.”
He doesn’t elaborate.
I blink. “Wow.”
“Yep.”
“That’s a long time.”
The look he shoots across the table is scathing.
“You don’t talk like—” I pause. “You seem very … adjusted. For someone who lived so long ago.”
He shrugs. “It’s easy enough to adopt mortal customs when you embed yourself in their world.
And things don’t ever change quickly, do they?
The great temples were built brick by brick.
So were the skyscrapers. It’s hard to notice everything changing around you when you’re changing with it.
” He rubs his knuckles along his jaw. “Plus, I like late-night television.”
I guess that’s fair. I like my mortal comforts, too.
“Gabriel doesn’t sound like a Greek name,” I muse.
“I was named for my father. Gabriēl Alexandros Aetos.”
“Cool. My middle name is Marie.”
Not even a flicker of interest. Gabriel’s face remains completely impassive. Some of his dark curls fall over his forehead, and he pushes them back, the sleeve of his jacket inching up, exposing more nonsense tattoos.
So much handsome, wasted on such a distrusting individual.
I sigh forlornly.
He arches an eyebrow. “Any other questions?”
“Not at this time, no.”
“Good. My point remains.” He tosses his empty cup toward the trash can. “You are too young to understand what you’re up against. There are people you answer to and they won’t be okay with a Reaper going rogue. There will be consequences.”
“You seem very concerned about logistics for someone who doesn’t think I’m capable of any good.”
He shrugs and leans back in his chair, hooking one arm over the back of it. “Devil’s advocate.”
I close my eyes with a groan. “What is it with men and that damned phrase?”
“I’m just saying,” he continues, undeterred, “you need a plan.”
“I have a plan,” I mumble.
“Yeah. A bad one.” He pauses. “You want to go ride some bumper cars, Darcy.”
“It will be fine.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
“Why don’t you let me worry about the specifics?”
“Can’t. Sorry. If you want my help, then you need to let me lead. You tell me what you know, I locate the soul and save it. I know how these things work, and—”
“Okay. New plan,” I snap, frustrated. “What if I offer you to the department instead? What if I rip off your head with my teeth and put it on a shiny silver platter for my boss to examine, hm? What then?”
There’s a choked gasp at the end of the table. We turn in unison to see a scrawny teenager in a bright red apron gaping at us, his eyes blown wide.
“Uh.” He sets down the trays he’s holding, a light tremor in his hands.
“I’ll just—” He plucks the plastic number from the table and starts to back away.
His foot slips, and Gabriel grabs the front of his shirt, keeping him from falling.
His cheeks immediately turn a red so deep it looks purple. “I’m going to—”
He hitches his thumb over his shoulder, then tosses a handful of ketchup packets at us. Gabriel lets him go.
“Enjoy your lunch,” he calls.
He hightails it back into the restaurant, knocking the sandwich board to the ground again. He might as well have left scorch prints against the sidewalk.
Gabriel turns to me with a flat look. “Very subtle.”
“It’s fine.”
Everything is fine. I’ll get what I need, and Gabriel can feel like he’s playing the part of hero.
I’ll cross items off my list, save a soul, and nip right back to the department before anyone notices anything is amiss.
I’ll forge some paperwork and figure it out as I go. The benefits of a largely absent boss.
What Gideon doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
I pluck a fry off my plate, then hold it out over the edge of the table. A snout slowly emerges, sniffs it, then grabs it carefully between his teeth.
“Maybe you should have named him Spud,” Gabriel muses.
A low, rumbling growl makes the table shake.
“Maybe I should let him eat your eyeballs,” I mutter.
“What was that?”
“Never mind.”
We eat our meal in silence, sneaking glances at each other. I pick at my burger, then busy myself with the condiments. He eats like an absolute barbarian, which I suppose is fitting for a man who lived through the Dark Ages.
“All right, trouble,” he finally says while I’m busy making crop circles out of ketchup packets. “I’ll play your little game. I’ll help you with your list.”
I try not to let my face broadcast the smug satisfaction that immediately fizzles through my bloodstream like champagne. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that with a little more enthusiasm?”
His eyes lift to the sky, exasperated. He mutters another harsh word that I can’t begin to guess the origin of, then looks right at me, jaw cocked to the side.
“I will help you with your list,” he says slowly, each word its own separate sentence.
“And then you’ll tell me how to save this life. Do we have a deal?”
They say you shouldn’t make a deal with the devil, but they never said anything about Guardian Angels.
I smile serenely. A perfectly laid trap.
“Yes, Gabriel. We have a deal.”