Chapter Fourteen
Darcy
The wine feels like lead in my stomach. I’m staring at the angry marks on Gabriel’s chest, and I feel like I can’t catch my breath.
“But that’s not fair,” I whisper.
Gabriel’s laugh is all sharp edges. “Yeah, well. Not much about the afterlife is based on parity, Darcy. You should know that by now.”
“But if you don’t know which souls are important—” I shake my head. “How are you supposed to protect everyone, all the time?”
“Because that’s my job.”
He lumbers to his feet, bending to pick up the wine bottle. He tips it back, but it’s empty. Only a drip or two comes out. He tosses it to the side and reaches for another.
“You’ve only lost two souls in over a thousand years,” I say. “That’s—”
Gabriel’s shoulders pull tight. “It’s unacceptable. To lose any life is unacceptable.”
My mouth snaps shut. Gabriel moves around the room, checking bottles, hell-bent on finding a distraction at the bottom of one. I know that feeling well. How many times have I tried to outrun my own ghosts?
At least for Gabriel, death doesn’t weigh down his bones. At least he doesn’t have to curl his hands around that power and hold it within his body.
“You can’t fight it,” I whisper, understanding better than most what that crumbling darkness feels like. Gabriel turns to look at me. “If a Reaper was there, then death had already been called. People die, Gabriel. We died. They can’t expect you to save everyone. They’re setting you up to fail.”
“Is that why you’ve decided to try and cheat death this time?” He raises his eyebrows. “Because you don’t think it’s possible?”
I don’t have an answer for that.
Gabriel shakes his head. “It’s my job to protect them.”
“Is it?”
His face darkens.
I sigh and change tactics. “Why would they take your wings?”
“Because I wouldn’t deserve to keep them.”
“And what happens to you after?”
He shrugs and picks up another bottle. “I don’t know.”
I understand now. His reasoning. His guilt. How he’s been conditioned to believe that he’s responsible for keeping every person alive and well. He’s only ever lost two souls, and he’s been punished severely for it.
And then I show up, and he fears he’ll lose everything. My job is to claim death, and he believes his is to prevent it from happening.
I feel my resolve strengthen. I’m not just saving this life for me. I’m going to save him for Gabriel, too.
He tosses another bottle, and it lands with a thud at the base of the couch. Tater Tot lifts his head, ears perked, and I shake mine. He settles his head back on his paws with a short huff, his brown eyes watchful.
“I think I have something in the cabinet,” Gabriel mumbles.
He stalks into the kitchen, his shirt still in my lap.
I let my eyes drag down the smooth column of his spine, all that bare, golden skin.
His tattoos curl around his rib cage, scattered along his back in the same chaos as the rest of his body.
Nonsensical. A sparrow. A sprig of lavender.
A ribbon and a spool of thread. Two faint red marks cut parallel to his shoulder blades, slightly uneven with one another.
His wings, I presume.
“You don’t have to hide them,” I call.
Gabriel ducks halfway out of his kitchen, his face a question.
I gesture at him with my empty bottle. “Your wings. It must be uncomuncom—” I can’t manage to articulate the word, the alcohol making the connection between my brain and my mouth tenuous.
“Uncomfortable,” I finally say. “It must be uncomfortable to keep them hidden.”
He studies me for another moment, one arm pressed above him on the half wall that separates the kitchen and the living room.
His body is one long, lean line of muscle and skin.
It is a monumental task to keep my eyes on his and not trail them along the tattoos that decorate his arms. The smooth cut of his torso.
Those two lines at his hips and the way they cut down into the frayed hem of his jeans.
Gabriel drops his arm without a word, and disappears back behind the wall.
“Fine. Never mind, then.”
There’s banging sounds in the kitchen. Doors opening and closing. A muffled curse when something falls. When Gabriel reemerges, he’s holding a half-full bottle of tequila, a shot glass, a lime, and—
And his massive gray wings are draped behind him. They’re pulled close to his back—not spread the way they were in the alley—the tips of them barely skimming the floor.
He drops himself back in front of me, and I have to actively stop myself from reaching for the soft-looking feathers.
“No commentary,” he orders.
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Sure. That’s why your face looks like that.”
I quickly try to school my features.
The tattoos. The hair. The broad strength of his chest and arms and torso. The wings that curve up around his shoulders, rustling when he rolls his neck, exposing the long line of his throat. The hollow of his collarbones. Warm skin and smooth lines. Dips and curves hidden by shadow.
“Found some tequila,” he tells me, and my eyes snap to his hands. “It’s all I’ve got left.”
He arranges his items—bottle, glass, lime—then digs in his pocket. He pulls out a small saltshaker, then a pocketknife that looks like it survived the Middle Ages. Knowing how old he is, it’s a distinct possibility.
He flicks the blade open and picks up the lime.
“Uh, no.” I grab the lime. “Don’t cut it with that.”
Gabriel’s eyebrows lift. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to get diphtheria.”
He rolls his eyes and steals the lime back. “You’re not going to get diphtheria from a pocketknife.” He holds the fruit steady, then slices it down the middle. He slices it again, so there are four wedges. “Plus,” he adds, “you’re already dead.”
A bit of juice slides down his thumb to the jut of his wrist bone, and he lifts his arm, catching it with his tongue. His eyes crinkle in a smile when he notices my attention, then he winks.
My stomach performs an Olympic-worthy somersault.
I know what this is. He’s shown me too much, so now he’s covering his tracks with shameless flirtation and tequila. But I’m running from something, too, and maybe a little distraction is something we both need.
“You ever do a tequila shot?” he asks.
I shake my head. It always seemed like a silly activity to partake in by myself.
“Guess it’s time for me to add something to your little list, then.” Gabriel scoots closer, his wings stretching and then relaxing behind him. He’s on his knees, and I have my legs tucked beneath me, a half inch of space between us.
“Lick, sip, suck,” he says.
Those words sound more like a dare than a set of instructions. “What?”
He drags the lime across his wrist and sprinkles it with salt. Quick and easy. Like he’s done it a thousand times before.
“Lick,” he explains. He licks the line of salt, his tongue a slow swipe against the delicate webbing on the inside of his wrist. His voice sounds like tires on gravel.
Like a cigarette shared in an empty alley between two strangers.
Something hot and wild unfurls low in my belly, and I shift my legs, edging closer, entranced by the ceremony of it all.
He reaches with one hand for the tequila, bypassing the glass he brought out.
“Sip,” he grinds out, bringing the bottle to his mouth. He watches me the entire time he tips the bottle back, his throat flexing as he drinks.
“Suck,” he says when he pulls it away, and the lime goes in his mouth. Some of the juice escapes, slipping down his chin and along his neck.
My mouth goes dry. My stomach flips.
“Just like that.” He holds out the bottle, and I take it, pressing my palms to the glass.
“Is that how it’s normally done?” I manage. My throat is tight. It feels, inexplicably, like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff.
His head bobs side to side. A curl flops over his forehead. “More or less.”
“I might need your help with the—with some of the steps.”
“We’ll do it together, then.” His eyes dance in amusement. “Let me see your arm.”
I hold out my wrist between us and he considers it, dark blue eyes trailing from the inside of my elbow to the heel of my hand. Fingers curl loose around my wrist and then he bends, warm breath along my forearm.
“What are you—” I gasp when I feel the hot press of his tongue, the rest of my question swallowed up by the hot cinch in the pit of my belly. My arm jolts, but he holds me steady, his grip tightening, his fingers overlapping.
I make a high-pitched noise instead, and he pulls his head back with a grin.
“Cute,” he murmurs.
“What is?”
“That kitten noise you just made.”
He sprinkles the salt, then guides my wrist back to my mouth. His eyes are dark, his thumb bracketed just under the heel of my hand.
“Lick,” he orders.
And I do. I lick the line of salt off my skin, my tongue catching the edge of his thumb where he’s still holding on to me. His jaw clenches, his nostrils flare, and I’ve never felt more powerful in my life—magic be damned.
“Sip,” he bites out. I shakily lift the bottle to my mouth, watching the way the color of his eyes change as I do exactly as he says. We’ve both been more vulnerable with each other tonight than we’re comfortable, but this feels safe. This feels easy.
The liquor is smooth, smoky sweet on my tongue as it mixes with the salt. It warms me from the inside out as it slips down my throat, and I almost forget the last step. I pull the bottle away and fumble for the lime, patting at the space between us, looking, looking—
Gabriel presses his thumb to my chin, his fingers spread wide against the side of my face. My head is cradled in his hand, held like a precious thing. His thumb gently pulls at my bottom lip as he urges my mouth open.
“Suck,” he says, and then a lime is between my teeth, his thumb at the corner of my mouth. He keeps his touch there, even as I hollow my cheeks, sucking the tart juice out.