Lover Reborn

and let him take it from you.”

No’One tried to imagine that exchange. “How cruel—no, if you’re so interested in torturing him, you can do it yourself.”

The angel cocked a brow. “It’s not torture. It’s reality. Time’s passing and he needs to move on, fast. Take the gown to him.”

“Why are you so interested in his affairs?”

“His destiny is my own.”

“How is that possible?”

“Trust me, I didn’t set it up like this.”

The angel stared at her as if daring her to find falsity in anything he had stated.

“Forgive me,” she said roughly. “But I have done enough harm to that fine male. I shan’t be a part of anything that hurts him.”

The angel rubbed his eyes as if he had a headache. “Goddamn it. He doesn’t need coddling. He needs a good hard boot in the ass—and if he doesn’t get one soon, he’s going to pray to be in the shithole he’s in now.”

“I do not understand any of this—”

“Hell is a place of many levels. And where he’s headed is going to make this stretch of agony seem like nothing but spikes under fingernails.”

No’One recoiled and then had to clear her throat. “A way with words you have not, angel.”

“Really. You don’t say.”

“I can’t… I can’t do what you wish me to.”

“Yes, you can. You have to.”

SEVEN

When Tohr had hit the billiards room bar, he hadn’t bothered to check which bottles he took. Up on the second-floor landing, however, he learned that the one in his right hand was Qhuinn’s Herradurra, and the one in his left was… Drambuie?

Okay, right, he might be desperate, but he still had taste buds, and that shit was nasty.

Striding down to the sitting room at the end of the hall, he swapped the latter for some good old-fashioned rum—maybe he’d pretend the tequila was Coke and put the two together.

In his room, he shut the door, cracked the seal on the Bacardi, and opened his gullet, sucking the hooch down. Pause for swallow and breath. Repeat. Annnnd repeat… and one more good one. The line of fire from his lips to his gut was kind of nice, like he’d deep-throated a lightning strike, and he kept the rhythm going, taking air when he had to as if he were doing the freestyle in a pool.

Half the bottle was gone in about ten minutes, and he was still standing just inside his room. Which was pretty stupid, he supposed.

Unlike getting drunk, which was pretty necessary.

He put all the booze down and fucked around with his shitkickers until he got them off. Leathers, socks, muscle shirt followed the trend. When he was naked, he walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and got in with both bottles in his hands.

The rum lasted through the shampoo and soap-up routine. When he started the rinse cycle, he opened the Herradurra and had at it.

It wasn’t until he got out that he began to feel the effects, the sharp edges of his mood recontouring and sprouting the peach fuzz of oblivion. Even as the tide came in to claim him, though, he kept up with the drinking as he went dripping wet into his room.

He wanted to go down to the clinic and see about Xhex and John, but he knew that she was going to make it, and they were going to have to sort stuff out on their own. Besides, his mood was toxic, and God knew, they’d had enough of that going around between the pair of them back in the alley.

No need to share the wealth.

He let the duvet dry his body. Well, that and the heat seeping gently through the vents in the ceiling. The Herradurra lasted a little longer than the rum—probably because his stomach had gone SRO between all the booze and the big dinner. When the tequila was done for, he put the bottle on the bedside stand and arranged his limbs comfortably—which wasn’t tough. At this point, he could have been packed into a FedEx box and felt okay about it.

Closing his eyes, the room started to go on an easy little spin, as if his bed was right over a drain and everything was slowly funneling out.

You know… considering how well this was rolling along, he was going to have to remember the safe out. The pain in his chest was nothing but a dim echo; his blood hunger was quelled; his emotions were placid as a marble countertop. Even when he slept, he didn’t get this kind of respite—

The knock on his door was so soft, he thought it was just the beat of his heart. But then it repeated. And repeated again.

“Goddamn, fucking hell…” He jacked his head off the pillow and hollered, “What.”

When there was no answer, he shot up to his feet—“Whoa. Yeah, okay… hello.”

Catching himself on the bed stand, he knocked the empty Herradurra on the floor. Wow. His center of gravity was now split between the pinkie toe of his left foot and the outer piece of his right ear. Which meant his body wanted to go in two directions at once.

Getting to the door was like ice-skating. On a Tilt-A-Whirl. With a helicopter as headgear.

And the knob was a moving target, although how that door was shifting from side to side in its frame without breaking was a mystery.

Yanking the thing wide, he barked, “What!”

There was nobody there. But what he saw sobered him up.

Across the hall, hanging from one of the brass sconces, was his Wellsie’s red waterfall of a mating dress.

He looked to the left and saw no one. Then he looked to the right and saw… No’One.

Down at the far end of the hall, the robed female was going as fast as her limp would allow her, her frail body shifting awkwardly under those folds of rough cloth.

He probably could have caught her. But, shit, he’d obviously scared the crap out of the female, and if he’d been unfit for conversation at the dinner table, he was now unfitter-er.

See? He was even making up words now.

Plus he was buck-ass naked.

Weaving his way out into the corridor, he stood in front of the gown. The thing had obviously been cleaned with care and prepared for storage, its sleeves stuffed with tissue paper, its hanger one of those jobs that had a padded insert for the bodice.

As he looked at the dress, the effects of the alcohol made it seem as if the skirting was caught in a breeze, the bloodred fabric waving to and fro, the weight catching the light and reflecting it back at him at various angles.

Except he was the one moving, wasn’t he.

Reaching up, he lifted the hanger from where it had been slung over the sconce, and carried the gown inside his room, shutting his door behind them both. Over at the bed, he laid the dress out on the side that Wellsie had always preferred—the one farthest from the door—and carefully arranged the sleeves and the skirting, making minute adjustments until it was in perfect position.

Then he willed the lights off.

Lying down, he curled on his side, putting his head on the pillow opposite the one that would have supported his Wellsie’s head.