Darkness Falls (Dark Angels 7)

Not bloodthirsty, she muttered. Soul thirsty. Difference.

I guess there was, in that her thirst had a more permanent ending for her victims. I lifted her blade and her flames flared brighter down her sides, peeling away the heavy cloak of darkness. The chamber was circular and little more than ten feet wide. The magic that I’d sensed earlier clung to the outer walls of the small cavern, but it was no stronger down here than it had been up in the garage. Like previous bolt-holes we’d uncovered, this one had various shelves and storage areas hewn into the earth walls. The bottles and various other witchy-type accoutrements that lined them were heavy with dust and old webs.

Awareness tingled through me as Azriel appeared. He glanced around, then handed me my clothes and said, “This does not appear to have been used for a very long time.”

“No.” I quickly dressed, then walked across to the nearest shelf and plucked one of the jars from its dusty perch. The glass was so old it was almost opaque, but there was what looked to be hair inside. I undid the lid and tipped the contents out onto the dirt. “But even so, I have no intention of leaving anything here that she might come back and use.”

“Might she not sense the destruction of the items?”

“If she was going to sense anything, it would probably be our entry into this place.” I shrugged. “I can’t imagine she’d sense these bits and pieces being destroyed, because in and of themselves they hold no magic.”

“Good.”

He moved to the next shelf and began emptying the contents of all the bottles and jars onto the floor, and in a relatively quick time we had a good pile. I shoved Amaya into the middle of them. Her flames crawled over everything and quickly turned them to ash. I swept my foot through the small pile, scattering the remnants, and wished I had some holy water. Spreading it around would have made this place a little bit more inhospitable if she ever did come back to it.

“What next?” Azriel asked.

I glanced at the time and swore softly. “Next we go back to the office. I need to get ready for my meeting with Mike.”

“I’m glad you stopped calling it a date,” he said, as he gathered me close. “That word has the power to annoy me greatly.”

I tsked. “Too long in human form for sure.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But it does have its benefits. Some of which I intend to explore when and if I get the chance.”

“It would seem certain parts of your body are more eager for exploration than others.”

“That,” he said severely, but with humor dancing in his eyes, “is a function of this body that I have no control over. And, I might add, it is extremely uncomfortable.”

I laughed and kissed him. “I do love you, you know.”

“I know. I have always known how you felt, even when you yourself were unsure. You cannot lie to your Caomh.”

“You can’t?” I said, in mock horror. “Damn, there go my plans of hiding future spending sprees in the closet and telling you later I’ve had them for ages.”

He gave me a blank sort of look. “I do not even pretend to understand that particular comment.”

“Oh, you will, trust me.”

His expression remained unsure. I grinned, kissed him again, and said, “Home, James.”

A second later we were standing in the middle of the office once again. I pulled away from his embrace somewhat regretfully and started getting ready to meet Mike.

* * *

Winter’s was a long, skinny restaurant squeezed in between two larger establishments. The walls were rough brick, the ceilings high and part glass, and there were lots of old iron tools and sculptures adorning the walls. Though it had a warm, friendly vibe, I felt anything but warm as the waitress led me through the main part of the restaurant and into a more private dining area. This area, like the main section, was heavy on the brick and metal decorations, but at the rear of the room was a bank of sliding glass doors that—while currently closed—opened out to a small but pretty courtyard. Thankfully, Mike wasn’t the only one in the room—there was another couple sitting in the corner near the doors, though I doubted they’d be of much help if things started to go downhill. They didn’t seem to be aware of anything but each other.

“Risa,” Mike said, rising from the table. “Right on time, as usual. And looking rather nice, might I add.”

He was wearing black, close-fitting pants that rather looked like breeches, a beautiful emerald green vest, a white linen shirt, and a black cravat. A double-breasted waistcoat hung from the back of his chair.

He looked like he’d just stepped out of the Victorian era—as had, I thought with a chill, the men’s clothing I’d seen hanging in Lauren’s wardrobe. It might have been nothing more than coincidence. I mean, Lauren knew we’d been to her place and had seen those clothes, so if Mike was involved with her—or, worst-case scenario, actually was her—then surely he wouldn’t risk wearing similar clothes.

“Thanks. And I’m on time because I’m starved.” I clasped his offered hand, suddenly thankful that our relationship was strictly professional despite his apparent relationship with my mom. I slid my finger to his wrist and pressed the tracker onto his skin. His grip, I noted with some distaste, was unusually warm and slightly moist, but he didn’t seem to notice the tracker’s transfer and that was good. I just had to hope now that it had transferred. I couldn’t feel it on my finger, but that wasn’t proof, as I hadn’t felt it when it was.

He released my hand, then moved around the table, gallantly pulling out my chair and seating me. His closeness had no particular vibes going off, and yet it still unnerved me. I had no idea why.

“I hope the newlyweds in the corner don’t bother you,” he said, sitting back down opposite. “I did ask Beatrice to book a private room so we could discuss your friend’s problem without being overheard, but it appears she ignored me.”