her in, still stunned by the fact she bounced back an accurate image of Kres in her birthday suit. “I don’t want to be anywhere else except right here with you. You’re the most beautiful girl on the planet.” I land a kiss over her nose.
Sometimes I wish she would say I love you first. In a way, I think it would mean more. I appraise her for evidence of eavesdropping.
Laken, bites her lip and looks away for a moment.
Nothing. My chest swells with relief.
“Love you,” I say, giving a chaste kiss before examining her from this vantage point. “Halloween is coming up. I’ve got something special planned for the two of us.” I flood my mind with images of Laken and me engaging in some of the most explicit sex acts I can think of and gauge her reaction.
“Holy shit, Parker.” She rumbles with laughter. “You are such a dirty perv!”
My muscles tense up. My heart beats erratic.
“Why’s that, Anderson?” I don’t say a word about her mixing up my sir name again. I’m resigned to the fact she can’t keep it straight.
“Halloween. You know”—she moves her hips beneath mine—“that’s kind of strange, don’t you think? Not the most romantic night in the world.” She begins to nuzzle my neck, and I don’t object.
“What made you think I was talking about sex?” I growl out a laugh. “I think it’s you who needs to get her mind out of the gutter.”
“You’re a guy, Wes. It’s a known fact you’ll spend your entire adult life wading through ‘the gutter.’ I bet you envision naked girls wrapped in bows all day long. It’s practically a vocation you’re called into. Your testosterone status alone demands it.”
I roll off and lie next to her, my hands up by the headboard safe away from her prying mind.
She did it again.
What the fuck just happened?
Long after midnight—instead of heading to Henderson—I take a lonely walk over to the library, passing Asterion in all his Minotaur glory as the fog shrouds him in mystery.
I don’t like the idea of Laken having secrets. I don’t have secrets. In fact, the surprise I have set for Halloween has to do with eliminating that very thing. It’s going to be Laken and me, bonding on an adventure she’ll never forget—the Tenebrous Woods. She’s a Temple Treasure, so Edinger can’t deny her. Not that I’d go crawling to him for permission. Besides, he made it emphatically clear he doesn’t want to speak with her under Count authority. He should have thought about that before lopping off his head last month and holding it out to her like a bowling ball. He’s such a stupid shit. He talked in circles about having fun with her. He said he knew about her injury and couldn’t resist. I didn’t appreciate the stunt, still don’t.
I pass Asterion nice and slow. His eyes glint a silent blood red, and I don’t remember him looking this evil in the light. There’s a fierceness about him. Asterion seems pissed to hell about everything. It unnerves me to walk past him as if he might animate and rip me to pieces for the heck of it.
The library is lit up in the distance with its cathedral windows, glowing as if the place were on fire. It’s an optical illusion created through the stained glass, and I can’t help but wonder if the artist had that in mind when he designed it—the fire, the burning tower. It makes Ephemeral look downright demonic.
Laken was thinking of a room tonight when we went upstairs. I’ve seen that room before—a guy’s room, but I can’t quite place it.
I take the steps up to the library two by two and use the master key to let myself in.
The reserve lighting is enough to guide me toward the back, and I enter the “by invitation only” room before locking myself inside.
Rows and rows of leather bound books on the history of the Countenance—heck all five angelic factions, line the shelves with their gleaming, gilded spines—books on the Countenance, Deorsum, Levatio, Noster, and of course Celestra. They shine in this low light like celestial bodies that belong in the sky.
Celestra, A Lineage. I pluck the book off the shelf and thumb through it, searching for names, dates, places that might offer a clue as to which Celestra might be aiding Laken—or if, in fact, she is one herself.
“Anderson,” I whisper, looking up her last name as if thumbing through a phonebook. I take a seat,