Angels of Darkness

Bronner.” He snapped the phone shut. “Ready? We can’t let anyone see us leave.”

“I’ve got that covered. What are we doing until we meet with the coroner?”

“We’re going to let the sheriff do his job. My place is a fifteen-minute flight away. We’ll wait there. I want to step back for a few hours, do a little research and see if anything anyone told me today doesn’t fit. Then take another look at everything, see if there’s anything I haven’t been seeing.”

His gaze fell on the woman’s body, her sightless eyes. Finally, shaking his head, he turned away.

“God damn it,” he said again.

CHAPTER 4

About a hundred miles north, Marc’s modest, cottage-style house sat atop a wooded rise overlooking the river. Though small, the two-level home had more space than many of the apartments Radha had shared with Mariko over the past century, but Marc apparently used it in exactly the same way they used theirs: as a private location where they could be themselves, no illusions or lies needed.

They all had private quarters in Caelum—or they had before the city crumbled—but to Radha, those rooms had never felt like a home, had never felt like her space in the way that even a rented apartment on Earth could. Nor did Guardians need the space. They didn’t need to sleep, eat, or bathe, and they could carry everything they owned in their cache. Yet Radha liked to shower. She liked to curl up on a comfortable chair that hadn’t already been used by half the people in the city. She liked to display little items that she’d collected, rather than hide them away in her cache.

She looked forward to seeing everything that Marc displayed, too.

He vanished his wings immediately after landing on his front porch, then removed his jacket and tie. He led her inside, rolling his white sleeves up his forearms.

“I’ll be upstairs at the computer.” Though they could see perfectly well in the dark, he switched on a lamp, casting a warm glow over the hardwood floors and sparse furniture. “I’m putting in a few requests for info from Special Investigations. They can access and compile data faster than I can—and I want a transcript of those texts the girls are sending to each other. Is there anything you need?”

For Marc to keep taking off his clothing. That was rushing it, though. She needed to get to know him again first. She needed to learn all the ways he’d changed before she could risk her heart again.

Then he unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, exposing the tanned skin of his throat, and she decided to speed up that learning part a bit.

“I don’t need anything,” she said. Just a little time to look around.

“All right.” He headed for the narrow staircase leading to the second level. “I’ll be down soon.”

She watched him take the creaking stairs two at a time before making a slow circle of the room. A blue sofa with clean, contemporary lines faced a brick fireplace. On the walls hung a few oil paintings—all pastorals in bold colors. No pastels for Marc.

Radha wasn’t fond of them, either.

In the corner, a recessed bookshelf held a mixture of histories and political thrillers in English, a smattering of works in other languages, and a large collection of essays and poetry in French. His native language, she remembered. He’d died in America, but he’d been born in a village in northern France. His family had joined a group of French emigrants who’d settled together in a small farming commune—and she supposed that even in America, French had been the language they’d primarily spoken and read.

A hundred and forty years ago, his accent had still been strong. She barely heard it now and had only just realized that it was all but gone. She’d expected it when he played the federal agent—like the suit, the right accent became part of the role—but even now, while entering his home, his native France played only a faint note in his speech.

Another change, but not a surprising one. How long had he looked over this territory? He would have to adopt a Midwestern accent more often than not. Eventually that would become more natural to him than the only language he’d spoken for sixteen years.

She thumbed through a volume before replacing it. No little keepsakes or baubles cluttered the shelves. On a table at the end of the sofa, a glass bowl held a variety of coins. Odd. Why keep them here? It would be far more useful to keep them in his cache. She had all kinds in hers, in different denominations and currencies—and some old enough to hold more value than they’d started with.

She picked through them. Euros, centavos, reals, rubles, yen, rupees . . . taka. He’d gone to Bangladesh? And recently. With few exceptions, all of the dates on the coins were recent. But why have them out? This wasn’t the carefully itemized and mounted display of a serious coin collector. Did he just like to look at them? Be reminded of his travels?

If this bowl gave any indication, he’d traveled a lot recently—and he’d traveled widely, including her territory.

And that was fine. It wasn’t as if Guardians had to let each other know where they went or ask permission. But he’d been so close . . . and she hadn’t known.

Rubbing the coin between her fingers, knowing that he could easily hear her through the ceiling, she said, “When did you go to Bangladesh?”

The tapping of a keyboard stopped. His answer came, as softly spoken as hers. “A year ago.”

Why didn’t you let me know? But of course he wouldn’t have. And she wouldn’t have wanted him to. Not then. She’d thought he was still an asshole.

“Were you by yourself?” Such a weenie question. What she really meant was, Were you with someone ?

“I was alone.”

Her throat closed. Of course he had been. One look at him a week ago, and she’d known that.

She picked up a handful of coins, let them clink back into the bowl. “All of these places—New Zealand, Russia, the Congo—you went by yourself?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Why is my going alone more interesting than where I went? Don’t you go anywhere by yourself?”

“Of course.” All the time. But when she came back, Radha knew friends would be waiting for her. “But I thought you weren’t celibate anymore.”

“Ah.”

That was all? Ah?

“So?” she pressed.

He moved quickly. Across the floor above, down the stairs—within a moment, he stood at the bottom of the steps, regarding her with a penetrating stare. “So?” he repeated. “So . . . what? I don’t know what you’re getting at. You want the list? It’s not long.”

Violent rejection speared through her. No, she didn’t want a list. She didn’t want to know.

“I just don’t understand why you’re alone all the time. Working, okay, we all do that alone. But here? When you travel somewhere? Why then?”

“I don’t mind my own company.”

“That’s the point! Who would mind it? They’d have to be an idiot.”

Some of the stiffness left his shoulders. “And you aren’t an idiot.”

Sometimes. She sighed, lifted her hands. “I just don’t understand it.”

“And I don’t understand who you think I’d be running around with. A human? There’s a town up the road where I’ll go have a drink sometimes, talk with some of the locals. I’ll play a game of pool now and then. But if I plan to stay in this area, and not go around shape-shifted most of the time, I can’t show my face too often or people begin to wonder why I’m not aging.”

Okay, there was that. She’d had to move several times, too. No one truly minded a blue woman living in their neighborhood, because it wasn’t worth getting out the pitchforks and torches for an eccentric who dyed her skin with indigo. But an eternally young one? That would cause more concern. So moving to a new apartment every few decades was preferable to shape-shifting every time she went home.