Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory #2) - Lauren Gilley Page 0,35

The idea repulsed her, viscerally, even as she acknowledged her own selfishness. Weren’t there others, down in the pit, who’d left those behind who loved them and would sacrifice to get them back?

Gallo, of all people, spoke up: “It was Rose – that is, Sir Greer, sir, who knew how to do it. A saint, and an offering. The saint brought him back.”

The general’s gaze sharpened. “What was the offering?”

Rose said, “A few drops of my blood. And an artifact.”

“What sort of artifact?”

“A dagger. Forged in hell.”

Again, his gaze blew wide with shock – and again he tried to suppress it with bluster. “Where did you get it? Is there another?”

“No, sir. There was only the one.” She left the other question unanswered.

~*~

“General Waits is old-fashioned,” Captain Bedlam said, a few minutes later, when she had Rose and Lance seated opposite a desk in a tiny, cramped broom closet of an office. “He’s a good man, but all of this” – she made an impatient, all-encompassing gesture – “frightens him, I think.”

“Everyone’s frightened,” Lance said.

“Careful,” she warned. Then fixed Rose with a look. “Why the hell does he have wings?”

“I don’t know,” Rose said. “He hasn’t told us anything about his time down there.”

“And you haven’t asked?”

“No,” Rose said, firmly – more firmly than was respectful.

Captain Bedlam’s brows lifted. “Why not?”

“Because it was hell. Ma’am. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.”

She held her captain’s gaze unflinching, until Bedlam’s flickered away, muscle in her jaw clenching. “Why the wings?” she asked again, to both of them. “Is he a demon?”

Lance fidgeted in his chair, a little, and then sat up straighter. “He wasn’t dead when the portal closed, ma’am. I wonder if that makes a difference.”

“But is he a demon?”

“No,” Rose said, sharply.

Both of them turned toward her; Lance’s chair creaked as he leaned; she saw his hand start to reach, and then clench into a fist instead.

“I’ve fought demons, and I’ve killed them,” Rose said. “He isn’t one.”

“You’ve killed demons in human skins,” Bedlam corrected. “Conduits. What if he’s a demon in the flesh? Would you recognize it then?”

“Yes, and he’s not.”

But he was different. In small ways – besides the wings and horns and tail.

“Are you sure?” Lance asked, and his tone had shifted. He wasn’t asking as her superior, but as her lover, almost hesitant, laced with sympathy.

She sent him a glare – and watched him pale and shrink back in the face of it. “I’m sure.”

~*~

She went looking for Beck, after, and found the other three members of her company in the mess, huddled around one end of the table and eating ugly, rehydrated food with the unhappy efficiency of hungry soldiers. They all glanced up at her when she approached, all of their faces wary in different ways.

They’d thought they’d known her – she’d started to think they might even like her – but then she’d pricked her finger on a hell dagger and sent a ghost down into the bowels of hell to drag back a steaming, winged creature that she called the love of her life. She regretted the way they looked at her now, but only a little.

“He’s not here,” Gavin said, lips twitching like he wanted to scowl, or maybe snarl. “Try outside.”

“Thanks.”

He was outside. On a flat section of roof, beneath the windbreak of the great glass angular roof panels of the main atrium, gazing toward the dim lights of the city, wings held up as an umbrella, again. His head turned in acknowledgement, as she approached, and she ducked beneath the cover of his wings to find his nostrils flared – scenting her, she realized. The idea sent a strange bolt of warmth through her belly, and she became aware all over again of the fact that they hadn’t had any considerable time alone yet.

“Can you smell me?” she asked.

“I can smell – so many things,” he said, wondrously. His golden eyes seemed to swallow her. More penetrating than they’d ever been before. Could he see what she’d done in the years since? Could he tell that she and Lance…was he angry? Jealous? She felt shame, and knew she shouldn’t.

She swallowed and said, “I’m sorry about my captain. And General Waits. They weren’t expecting…” She trailed off, and gestured instead.

He grinned, tight and small. The rain had spangled his hair before he put his wings up, and a thick, black lock slipped from behind his ear and plastered itself to his cheek. It was so dark against his skin; washed