together and lets go. Guilt. Penance. Whatever. Just not her.
He twists the shower off and shakes himself, spraying rusty droplets on the glass. He rubs a towel in his hair and walks naked through the bedroom—empty, thankfully, bed still made—and his sparse blue lounge to the balcony, where the afternoon sun cooks the concrete and a light hot breeze cleans his skin in a sunbright view of shining apartment blocks and cerulean sky. A perfect day for views, for leaning off the dizzy-high roof with summer breeze lifting his wings, inhaling air washed clean of city filth. He likes it up there. But not today, not in this mood.
His shadow paints the floor, lean, wings carving like blades. He leans over to see the street six floors below, and his calves hurt, like he’s climbed too many stairs. Images flash, obscure. Sprinting down a dark deserted street, his blood afire, laughing. Always laughing, this shadow self. Indigo doesn’t remember the last time he laughed.
He turns his back to the breeze and stretches silvery wings. Water evaporates, cooling his blood, and the hot breeze lifts him, filling his membranes with the urge to fly.
Time he left this town. His soul is safe for now. His trade with Kane ensured that. Nothing here except bad memories and danger and a succulent yellow girl he can’t have. Maybe Sydney, the north shore where the weather’s cool, anonymity and salty sea breeze to comfort him. Maybe even across the sea, Jakarta or Colombo with their muddy monsoon gutters and warm typhoid rain, where the crumpled change in his pocket is a fortune and demons are poor and starving like everyone else, too busy gnawing at each other’s throats in the dirt to hire a thief.
Yes, leaving. It’s time.
He tosses the towel aside. Inside, he pulls on fresh jeans and buttons a sleeveless black shirt cut to fit around his wings. Cash, bank-cards, slim silvery phone from the marble bench. That’s it. His life. Portable, easy. No complications.
He glances around as he pulls the door shut. Dim, blue, cool. Empty. He won’t miss this place, and no one will care he’s gone. He’ll just stop paying the rent and the bills, and the estate agent will lease it to someone else. Neat. Uncomplicated.
Cryptic images and the memory of roses suggest he has another place, darker and more sensual, that needs care. But the memory slips from his grasp, and he can’t recall where or why. Doesn’t matter. Maybe he dreamed it.
The cool white corridor lies deserted, and he glides into the bitter chromed elevator and presses L for lobby. There’s an expectant finality about an elevator door. One world vanishes, crumbled to dust or scorched to hell, for all he knows. Another opens, fresh and ripe for pillage. Closure. Death. Rebirth.
But the doors clunk, inches short of closing. Jammed, on curled brown fingers with violet claws that rupture the metal like paper.
The stink of ash and roses scrapes his tongue raw.
His startled wings jerk into flight. Too late. Nowhere to go. Trapped.
Claws rake his hair, wrenching his head back, a rusty spike of agony in his spine. His knees slam into the steel floor, metal grating on metal, and smoky breath scorches his eyes, a burnt glimpse of wine-dark tresses and hell-green eyes swirling with sadistic delight.
Delilah, demon whore, brat princess of hell and pissed-off ex-mirror-owner.
Fuck.
She snakes her chocolate-skinned body closer, her torso encased in a black nylon sheath. She blinks dark lashes, and demonic compulsion slams into his guts, boiling his blood with false lust. “Indigo, you cheeky little shit.”
Her husky voice caresses straight to his balls, and a rush of molten quicksilver hardens him instantly. Hatred twitches his skin. He’s on his knees before her and he wants to drag her down with him, pull her plump brown mouth onto his cock and come down her throat.
Disgusting witch. His voice cuts his throat, salty like razors. “Fuck you.”
He struggles to rise, wings gripping against steamy air, but Delilah’s claws slash at his scalp and she holds him down effortlessly. The doors cruise shut, and the lifts sinks. She stabs the red emergency stop button, jerking the chrome cage to a halt. “In your dreams, you rusty little worm. Where’s my mirror?”
Indigo bares hungry teeth, fighting an alien longing to bite her, chew her jutting nipples, sink his tongue into her weeping flesh. “Fuck. You. Hellslut.”
Her emerald eyes flash scarlet, and she grabs his thrashing wing and crushes.
Agony crunches, metal teeth ripping down his