The Lost (Celestial Blues, Book 2) - By Vicki Pettersson Page 0,112

like silence in the aftermath. Kit felt welts pop up on her body, like boils, and knew somewhere in her animal mind that they were burns, but Dennis was on his back . . . and Grif was, too. The smoke of his gun, held two-handed in the direction of Baptista’s body, was lost in the smoldering room. Kit’s ears buzzed, and her vision narrowed until all she saw was the blood pooling around Dennis’s head. His ear had disappeared in a haze of red. Kit suddenly couldn’t breathe. She felt like she was submerged in the ocean, if the ocean had gone smoky and silent.

The ceiling broiled above them like hot coals.

Crouched over Dennis’s unmoving body, she yelled at Grif, “What kind of angel are you?”

Her voice registered lower in her throat than she’d ever heard it before. Her head shot up and she glared at the only other living person in the room.

Half-person, anyway, she thought with a snarl.

“Put down that goddamned card,” she said, glaring at Grif, “and help!”

Grif’s eyes shot wide. She scared him, she realized. She scared him and she suddenly liked that. He should be damned scared of her right now.

“Kit, please—”

Yes, she thought, beg.

“You have to calm down—”

She didn’t have to do any damned thing she didn’t want to do. She smiled to herself, suddenly in complete agreement with Yulyia Kolyadenko. It was a position every woman should be in.

Looking down, she realized she didn’t want to hold Dennis’s head in her lap anymore. So she let it drop.

“Kit!”

She ignored Grif’s shocked cry. Dennis was going to die anyway. She could see the plasma swirling around him like flowing silk . . . how could she see that?

She didn’t care how. She had the power now. For instance, she had the power to put her hands to his throat and squeeze. She did so, because she wanted to see the moment his soul left his body. As she pressed, she imagined Dennis’s vision going as dark as hers, darker than the smoky sea where she now lived.

Darker, Kit thought, than even the shadows in the coldest depths of the Eternal Forest.

Grif saw the moment Scratch entered Kit’s body. He heard the etheric snap like a bullwhip. She was scared of the fire, distressed about Dennis, and furious with Grif, and all of it combined to create the perfect emotional environment for Scratch’s longed-for possession. The fallen angel had been lurking nearby, waiting for its opportunity to enter Kit, and now it was in.

As evidenced by her slim hands closing around Dennis’s exposed neck.

The controlling consciousness was evil but the vessel was still Kit’s, and Grif tried to keep that in mind as he squeezed between her and Dennis, his body creating a wedge between the two. Scratch’s control imbued her with extra strength, so when she socked Grif in the jaw, faster and harder than he expected, his own fist curled automatically, and he loaded up to return the favor.

Scratch’s eyes twinkled darkly, and it held Kit’s body still for the punch. Growling his frustration, Grif redirected, and rolled her off Dennis, pinning her arms to her side.

Frowning, Scratch headbutted him. The blow sent tears springing to Grif’s eyes, but not enough to shed. Besides, the fallen angel would bite him before allowing Grif’s tears near its mouth again.

Grif bought himself time to think by blocking and parrying, but not throwing any blows of his own. Kit was scratching and spitting now, in the full throes of possession while the walls around them smoldered. The smoke was thick and black. If he didn’t do something soon, they’d all die in this building.

Scratch would like nothing better.

Scrambling both physically and mentally, Grif dodged another hammering fist. Mindful of Dennis, he worked to keep Kit and Scratch away from the unconscious man, but was surprised when Kit used her leg strength to roll the other way.

Scratch propelled her body fast, heading directly toward a wall seething with sparks.

Grif had to lunge, throwing his body between Kit’s and the burning wall. His wings were folded, one completely incapacitated beneath his own body weight, and hitting the wall felt like he was being branded, but he’d recover.

Kit would not.

Where the hell was the fire department, the emergency response, Grif thought, cringing from falling ash as he pinned her body with his own. He could really use a big hose right now.

That idea gave him another. Unexpectedly, he snapped Kit’s head against the floor, not hard enough to