Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory #2) - Lauren Gilley Page 0,61

his hair around them.

He wore one of his smooth, pleasant masks, the sort he would offer to a shop keeper, or a stranger, the effect made more alarming by the gleaming gold of his eyes. “Hello,” he greeted. “I’ve just been surveying the city – or, rather, what’s left of it.”

“We were going to take a helo,” Lance said, tone hard and cold. “Go as a company so we’re all on the same page.”

Beck shrugged. “I won’t mind going along again. But.” He flexed his wings, and they rippled against his back. “No sense letting assets go to waste, and all that.”

“Yeah. No sense.”

“Rosie.” Beck turned to her. Extended a hand; palm-up, his black claws were less noticeable, the creases and calluses in the center just as she remembered, evidence of his weapons proficiency.

Her heart bumped in the same old way, flooding her with love, and heat, and the awe – the disbelief that he was here – she wasn’t sure would go away anytime soon.

“Would you like to see something?” he asked, his expression softening, mask slipping just enough to allow her a glimpse of the hot-blooded creature he’d always been beneath.

She was sliding her hand into his before she could even say, “Yes.”

He grinned, quick and sharp, and drew her forward as his wings unfolded; he turned them, spinning her effortlessly into place in front of him, and his arms closed securely around her waist as she felt the air displacement of the first few preparatory beats of his wings. “Ready?” he asked, breath hot in her ear.

“Yes.”

“Rose!” Lance shouted.

“He’s a dullard, your army man,” Beck sighed, and then with a great thrust, and a leap, they were airborne.

In that first moment, after he’d jumped off the roof, and she saw the tarmac far below – when the cold, wet wind touched her face, and lifted her hair, and the ground went out from under her – her stomach lurched like it did when she rappelled down out of a helo. The crazy, sickening realization that you were about to fall, and that a harness and bit of metal were all that would prevent you from crashing down to earth and splattering against the rocks.

But Beck’s arms were tight and strong, and a few great flaps of his tremendous wings had them lifting up, and up, and there was no danger of her falling; she knew he’d never let her fall, and that trust smoothed her initial nerves.

He climbed until they reached an altitude that he seemed to like, and the beat of his wings settled into something steady and regular, like the beat of a heart, or the measured rhythm of drawn-out sex. Her belly tightened, but only with excitement.

She turned her head a fraction, feeling his lips and chin against her temple. “This is incredible!” she shouted over the rush of the wind.

His laugh was low and rich – delighted. “Isn’t it?”

The rain slackened the closer in they got. Beck flew them through a thick screen of low cloud, and then the way ahead opened up, and Rose could see the lights of the city up close.

Some were electric lights burning in windows.

Some were cold, blue security lights.

Some were candles and gas lanterns.

But most of the light came from fire.

Beck’s wings stretched wide, and he swooped down lower – her stomach swooping along with them – and more details came into focus.

The city’s edge was built of crumbling strip malls, and two-story homes built on slabs, cheek-by-jowl, ringed by rusted metal fence. A house was on fire. A car was on fire. In deeper, over the cracked pavement tangle of the Interstate, where tiny cities unto themselves of tents, lean-tos, and tarp-covered sleeping bags crowded the once-green spaces; fires burned in metal drums, and in rings of stones and aluminum cans. Fires built for warmth, spitting steam in the aftermath of the drizzling rain. She saw a few faces lift toward them, mouths falling open as they beheld the silhouette of a winged figure. She could see the shadow of the wings on the ground, and the buildings, and the people below, despite the lack of sunlight; the points and arches; no mistaking them for the feathered wings of the angels of history books.

When they got into the city proper, the fires were on the street: in drums, in cars, in dumpsters, even in a few windows. An apartment building blazed, its heat blasting her face before Beck flapped his wings hard, tipped back, and lifted