Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory #2) - Lauren Gilley Page 0,11
was silent a long time, staring down at her hands where they clutched her knees, slender toes curled up. Then she said, “No. But maybe I could join him.”
THREE
The Present
It was still raining. Rose stood beneath the relative shelter of a wooden awning, the cold stone of the church supporting her shoulders. Watching. Just marveling.
Brother Eustace had found some old, soft, but clean clothes for Beck to wear: black pants and a loose white shirt. The wings were an obstacle, but Eustace and one of his fellow monks had tackled the task of cutting the back of the shirt into a series of panels that could be fastened around the bases of the wings with ready aplomb. They’d done this before, she thought. Had dressed a hell-fresh, winged soul, still seaming like a roast come out of the oven.
Beck stood barefoot in the church courtyard, face tipped back, palms open at his sides. The water slid over his closed eyelids, and down the sharp line of his nose; followed the wicked edges of his cheekbones and jaw. A gentle rain, filling his cupped palms, pattering his shirt with dark spots. Rainwater glazed his new horns, their onyx ridges and contours, so they gleamed. The new blackness of his hair washed all the gold from his complexion; left him pale and unfamiliar.
But she would have known him anywhere. Knew the line of his throat, and the curve of his spine. Knew his stance, his feet so light on the flagstones it seemed he could have alighted into the air at any moment. He’d stood that way even before the wings, when he’d been ever-ready to leap, and kick, and strike.
Her heart galloped in her chest, threatening to send her into a swoon. She couldn’t stop smiling, even though her face ached.
“You’re getting wet,” she called.
“I know,” he called back. “It’s wonderful.”
He stood another moment, then straightened and shook his head; black hair tossed, sending crystal droplets scattering; dark strands clung to his cheeks and neck, after, and he reached up with both hands to smooth it back. His fingertips bumped the horns, and she watched him trace their shape, chewing at his lip with one fang. Learning the size of them; carefully brushing his hair back between and around and under them. They were an obstacle to be navigated now, but he didn’t seem troubled, only curious.
His wings stretched out wide, and then lifted together in the center. The two hooks that were like bat thumbs interlocked, and he had his very own umbrella: a sheltering cover of black, leathery flesh shielding him from the elements.
Rose kept waiting to be afraid, but it wasn’t possible, apparently.
Beck was back.
Beck was here.
The king to her queen.
She would have taken him even if no part of him had been human anymore.
His gaze found hers across the rain-dappled distance, and he grinned – one of those once-rare, genuine fanged smiles that had always come after. Given freely, now, as he stalked toward her, his tail flicking gently back and forth.
She supposed this was an after of a kind. After escaping hell.
She reached for him; she couldn’t help herself. It had been five years, and she couldn’t believe that he was here, that she could touch.
He reached back. His palm found her cheek, when he was close enough; that familiar pattern of calluses, preserved, even after five years of whatever hell had dealt him. And, faintly, the scrape of claws, beneath her ear, down her throat. But she wasn’t afraid; she’d never once been afraid of him, no matter what.
“Rosie,” he breathed, as his other hand found her waist, and the shadow of his great wings fell over her, enfolded her.
She put her arms around his neck and pressed their bodies flush together; his arm hooked around her, and held tight. He was still lean, and hard, all sculpted muscle, and not enough meat.
He smelled different, though, when she pressed her face into his throat and sought the old cedar, ink, and smoke. Now she caught a whiff of brimstone; of ash; of char. A dark spice like incense, musky and heady. His skin was warm, almost too warm, feverish. As was his breath as it rustled through her hair.
He pressed his face to the top of her head and breathed in slow, shaky draws; a purr rumbled in his chest, vibrating through her own, reverberating along every nerve ending.
Tears flooded her eyes, and she closed them; she could do that now. She could rest, at