The Lost (Celestial Blues, Book 2) - By Vicki Pettersson Page 0,33

shook his head. “Too late, Scratch. I’m a Centurion, both angelic and human. You’ll never touch me.”

“Who said anything about you?” And it turned to Kit, gaze like glue, sticking where it shouldn’t. “But I’d love a chance to climb inside you, Kitty-Cat.”

“Sit back, old boy,” Grif said, his voice a low growl.

At the same time, Kit whispered, “Don’t call me that.”

Scratch ignored them both, leaning forward. Brunk’s top lip elongated into a thin sneer. “I’ll call you what I like, and I’ll take what I want. You think I’m merely bound to those pitiful humans who invite chaos into their lives through addiction? Think again! I feed, as you put it, on the emotions that prompt those addictions. Drugs and alcohol are nice little hors d’oeuvres, but rage and envy and doubt are the entrées I savor most. That’s when the Chosen—any of you!—are truly possessed. And that’s when I’m at my fucking best.”

A whimper, near to a keen, escaped Kit’s throat as she edged back again, and she looked up, waiting for Grif to contradict Scratch’s words. Grif just shook his head. He knew a lot, but he didn’t know this.

“The damned belong to me,” Scratch continued, seeing it had them both rattled. “That’s not in question. And the Lost are just the damned-in-training, though they don’t know it. But you, Kitty-Cat? You, with your bright soul and open heart?” Phrase and lips twisted around each other like invading roots. “You are just some choice bit of beauty that I have not yet broken.”

Grif’s hands were around Brunk’s neck before anyone took a breath. He squeezed, and heard branches snapping in the man’s trachea.

“Uh, uh, uh,” Scratch chided, even as its eyes rolled back in Brunk’s head. “Hate the sin, not the sinner.”

Growling, Grif released Brunk’s throat. It was right. Hurting Brunk wouldn’t let him touch the spirit inside. “You will never touch her, hear me?”

“That’s right,” Scratch said, clearing its throat. “Because I don’t want to touch her. I want to possess her.”

“What’s going on here?” Dennis was back, but, unsurprisingly, none of them had seen him arrive.

“Ah,” Scratch said, glancing down as it pulled a pair of shades from Brunk’s shirt pocket, shielding the stardust in its eyes from Dennis. It didn’t want the human to interfere, but it wasn’t quite done yet, either. “Finally. My drink.”

It held out Brunk’s hand, but Grif snatched the shot glass up as soon as Dennis set it down. Scratch’s attention immediately swerved to Grif as it lowered Brunk’s chin. “Give it.”

“No.”

It tilted Brunk’s head. “What? A trade?”

Grif inclined his head. “The drink for the others.”

“You mean, the Lost. Like Jeap?”

Grif nodded once. Scratch had inhabited Jeap’s body, so it not only knew the boy’s thoughts and feelings, it possessed his knowledge as well. That’s how it’d located Brunk, who ran in the same crowd. If Scratch was hunting Lost, he’d know whom else Jeap was hanging with.

“Two more,” Scratch said, confirming his thoughts.

“What the hell is he talking about?” Dennis asked.

Scratch ignored him. “I want the drink first.”

Grif jerked his head. “I don’t think you need another drink, after all.”

“Withholding a man’s addictions from him isn’t an effective deterrent,” it snapped, slamming palms on the table before composing Brunk’s features into false stoicism. “Take it from a seasoned sinner, that’s no way to give up a vice.”

“Then how?” Dennis asked, still thinking he was talking to Brunk. He missed the cold calculation in the responding smile. Grif did not.

“Well, first you have to pick a specific sin. You must commit yourself to it fully. Then”—it paused for a beat—“you gotta throw yourself into it.”

And Brunk’s body was suddenly hurtling toward Kit, reaching for her shoulders. She squealed, but she’d been taken by surprise and was slow. Meanwhile, Grif, holding the drink, backed away, not wanting to spill a drop, so it was Dennis who stepped between Kit and Brunk, grabbing the man’s filthy shirt and tossing him back in his seat.

Scratch let Brunk’s hands drop, and gazed up at Dennis in fascination. “Oh, this is interesting.”

“What the hell is wrong with you, Brunk?” Dennis shook him so that the man’s head wobbled on his body.

“Keep that thing away from me.” Kit, still standing, folded her arms protectively around her body.

Grif slammed the shot glass down in front of Scratch. “Here. Just drink it and leave.”

Dennis shifted away, shaking his head at Brunk’s strange behavior. Scratch adjusted Brunk’s T-shirt like it was straightening tuxedo lapels, then made a show of