Fallen. Michele Hauf
Drawing her finger down the list of apartments, she found the one missing a name. “Third floor, apartment 12.”
The inner lobby door was locked. Pointing her forefinger, she shifted enough to grow out the long adamant talon from the top of her fingertip. She slid the talon between the door and frame, toggling it against the dead bolt. Her talon slid the solid bolt to the left, and with a shove, the door opened.
Pyx blew on her talon as if blowing the smoke from a gun—something she’d seen on a movie poster pasted in a video-shop window—then resumed complete mortal costume.
She dashed up the stairs to the third floor. Naturally, the apartment door was locked. No talons necessary this time. One kick loosened the lock in the wood door frame. Pyx marched inside.
The apartment was furnished sparely with modern glass-topped counters, unbleached pine wood, and a coffee table and leather furniture. It smelled vaguely of pine air freshener. The black leather sofa looked comfy. Pyx made a jump and landed on it with her hands clasped behind her head. She crossed her legs at the ankles.
“This’ll work. Furnished and everything.” She dug in the pocket of her jacket and pulled out the iPod she’d nicked earlier. “Music in my hand. How cool is that?”
She played around with the small jewel-colored device. Lots of music. Movies. A pedometer? Why would anyone want to know how many steps they have walked? “Mortals are strange.”
The video camera proved intriguing. Zooming it about the room she recorded … nothing.
Searching the previously recorded clips, she clicked on one. It featured a woman with a blond ponytail standing in a kitchen making deli-meat sandwiches. She looked at whoever was holding the video camera and said, “I love you.”
The holder asked, “Is that all?”
“Yep. I just love you.”
“Aww.” Pyx flicked off the device. “Sweet as sin. But that sandwich did look good. I wonder if there’s food in the fridge.”
It had been hours since she’d eaten. Gluttony was definitely her favorite mortal sin.
Kicking off her boots, Pyx then wandered into the kitchen while itching at the fresh tattoo on her back. It had already scabbed and she could feel the new skin beneath. Mortal flesh was so freakin’ sensitive. She felt everything, even a breeze across her cheek.
She’d never experienced such novelty. Dancing in the club had overloaded her new-experience radar. She’d shut herself off to touch, but now, alone, she connected to it again.
She grabbed a shiny apple from an elegant glass bowl. It was cool and slick. Smelled, hmm … not how she expected fruit to smell. Kind of … oily. Before she took a bite, she realized it was wood. “Tricky.” She tossed it over her shoulder into the living area.
The fridge was empty, as were the cupboards. “How’s a demon supposed to survive in this realm without sustenance?”
The front door banged inward and someone clattered down the parquet hallway into the kitchen. A man wearing only blue-striped pajama bottoms, his tumescent belly hanging over the waistband, and his white hair tousled upon his head, eyed her up and down.
“What are you doing here, mademoiselle? This is not your apartment?”
“Of course it is.” Pyx sauntered over and laid her palm against his forehead. “And I paid you a month’s rent already. Remember?”
He nodded, shrugged, then nodded again.
“I think someone tried to break in. The lock is jammed on the door.” She removed her hand.
The man nodded. “I’ll have a look at it first thing in the morning. Do you need a new key?”
“Darn right I do. Talk about shoddy upkeep. I wonder, should I find a better place that has a more studious custodian?”
“Oh, no, I will see to it at first light. It was surely an isolated incident. This is a lovely building and our custodian is a gem.”
“All right, but if it happens again, I’m out of here.”
“So sorry to have disturbed you, mademoiselle …?”
“Pyxion. I’ll see you bright and early with a new lock. Good night, funny little man.”
“Bon nuit.” He shuffled out and tugged at the door a bit before finally getting it to click securely shut.
Pyx crossed her arms and smirked. Mortals. So easy to influence.
From this angle she could see the front of Cooper’s building and would notice when he left and could even see the light on in his apartment. She would keep the light off so he wouldn’t see her.
“If he goes near the muse, I’ll be right there, ready to kill him.”
Cooper poured a cup of green tea and sat down at the kitchen table before the laptop. He put his bare feet up on another chair and leaned back, shrugging his fingers through his hair.
He’d washed away the vampire blood. The smell of vamps put him off, and he felt sure now he’d sense the next one before he saw it because it was an unmistakable scent of dust, metal and ash.
The kilt was a loss, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need a closet of clothing because if he required a new shirt he simply imagined it on himself, and it became so. Nice trick of the trade.
What an interesting night he’d had. Vampires and Sinistari after him?
He’d hoped to spend more time in this world free of such trouble. But he wasn’t stupid. The Sinistari came with the territory when one chose to Fall. And he couldn’t argue with the chance to get out some aggression.
It had felt sweet to rip the vamp’s heart from its chest. Yet now, he felt a twinge of regret. He’d killed far too often when serving in the angelic ranks. Killing had been as natural as taking a breath. Smite this village. Slay that wrongdoer. All because he had been ordered to do so.
The stench of death had reeked on him; it had never been absent. And as an angel he’d not been attuned to the senses like touch, taste and smell. So the fact he’d eventually noticed that stench had screwed with his ideas of right and wrong.
Rather, it had become the catalyst to his developing a sense of right and wrong.
Angels weren’t supposed to choose sides. They were unfeeling entities that served Him without question. But Juphiel had changed. Another angel had allowed him to see that he had a choice. That is why he’d Fallen. Juphiel could no longer kill with abandon.
And yet, Cooper Truhart was still doing it.
Was it because death had been ingrained in his being?
“No, I will change. I must.”
With a gesture of his fingers, the laptop slid across the table to rest at the edge before him. He tapped the keyboard, thinking to type vampire in the search box, but figured that wouldn’t route him to any feasible answer on why the bloodsuckers were tracking him. Instead, he opened the email program and was pleased to find an answer to a message he’d sent to Eden Campbell two days ago.
He’d discovered Miss Campbell after an afternoon of searching the internet for halos and anything at all related to the Fallen. It was all myth and religious dogma to the mortals. They hadn’t a clue regarding the truth of it. Yet, he’d found a correspondence between Eden Campbell and Cassandra Stevens from months earlier that indicated both women were in the know. Eden had promised to send Cassandra a halo she had found because, as she’d written, it would give her hope. Eden definitely knew she had the real thing in hand.
Cooper had written to her, asking if he could take a look at her collection. He hadn’t given details like “Hey, I’m a Fallen and need to find my halo.” No, he didn’t want to scare her off until he could feel her out, sense if she might be worth trusting.