The Taken

liking and-”

“Kit,” Grif cut her off with the sole word. “You’re not listening to me. I’m a real angel.”

She stared, listening now.

Grif’s neck worked as he swallowed hard. “I’m what’s known as a Centurion. Angels who used to be human. There are other angels, of course. Pures, born in the Everlast. It’s a sort of buffer zone to Paradise.”

“Pures,” she repeated flatly. Everlast. Where had she heard that before? She shook her head. The real question was why was she hearing it now?

He nodded. “You know. Immortal, designed by God’s hand, ever in grace. Blah, blah, blah.” He waved his hands like she should already be familiar with all this. “They’re what humans think of when imagining typical angels… but not as cute.”

All the warmth Kit had felt while kissing him drained from her then. She remained silent for another few moments and, when she thought her voice was steady, said, “So how many kinds of angels are there?”

He looked surprised that she should accept his explanation so easily. She didn’t, but it was the first time he’d volunteered a story on his own, and she wanted to hear him out. It was a doozy. “There are Cherubim, Seraphim, Thrones… they comprise the highest order. Then the Dominations, Virtues, and Powers… losers, the lot of them. And the Archangels, a breed of their own. Real standoffish, if you get my meaning.”

Kit forced a nod. “And where are you on this angel hierarchy?”

This time he heard the doubt edging her voice, and he frowned. “Higher than you, that’s where.”

“Okay.” Kit stood. “Will you excuse me for a moment.”

“Where are you going?”

“Kitchen.” Rounding the back of the couch, she gave him a tight smile. “Be right back.”

She made it into Tony’s kitchen, let the slatted half-doors swing shut, then let out a scream that had been building ever since Grif had pushed her away.

He was by her side in a second. Maybe he flew, Kit thought, feeling another scream build. “What the-what the hell are you doing?”

“I. Am. Screaming.” She turned toward him coolly. Funny, but it looked like he was mentally redressing her in a straitjacket.

“Why?”

Because she’d listened when a so-called professional had talked to her about thrust. Because she’d believed Grif actually had it. But he was just another man with a faulty heart. And the last thing Kit needed was one more of those.

“So. You’re a fallen angel.” She folded her arms.

“I’m not fallen,” he said roughly.

“Then what are you?”

He shrugged. “Busted.”

“Uh-huh.” Where did Tony keep the hard alcohol in this place? she wondered, bypassing the wine fridge. “And what kind of angelic powers do you have?”

“Now you’re making fun.”

“No. I really want to know,” she said, yanking vodka from the deep freeze and slamming the door shut. “I’ve never met a… what did you call it? A Centurion before. This is a first for me.” Except, sadly, in many ways it was not.

“Okay,” Grif said unsurely, as he watched her fill a tumbler and immediately down it. “I can open doors that are locked.”

“So can a locksmith.” So could a thief. She filled her glass again.

“Fine.” Grif frowned and reached for her glass. “Give me your hands.”

She’d have pulled away at his touch but didn’t want one more action to give away how much she cared. Slowly, deliberately, he led her palms to his back, where his shoulder blades were bunched tight beneath coiled muscle. For a moment, there was nothing. Then he shifted and widened his back. Two knobs, round and wide, flared beneath her palms.

“Damn it, Grif,” she said, jerking away. “What the hell are those?”

“That’s where my wings would be if I wasn’t trussed up in this flesh.” He adjusted his shoulders like it was too tight a fit. “If I were a Guardian, the feathers would grow in like lightning. The Cherubim and Thrones have the downy ones. But the Archangels are the real dandies. They wear the stars in their wings.”

Well, he was nothing if not imaginative. And Kit? She was a fool.

Shaking her head, she asked, “Is there anything else?”

“I died in 1960,” he said plainly. “I don’t need your help in finding out who killed another man named Griffin Shaw. I need your help in finding out who killed me.”

Kit looked at him-exhausted, rumpled, irritated with her because she didn’t just fall for it when he told her he was an honest-to-goodness angel, and yes, still totally hot. Damn it.

“And the woman?” she asked, reaching for her drink, but keeping her eyes on his face. “Evelyn?”

“My wife,” he answered, face grim. “They-someone-killed her, too.”

Kit felt another guttural scream building. Tilting back the tumbler, she swallowed, then shook her head.

“You still don’t believe me.” He shifted so his back was no longer exposed.

“C’mere,” she said, slamming down her glass.

Grif frowned, but allowed her to direct his touch. Placing one of his hands on her hip, just because she felt like it, she dropped the other on the top of her head.

“What are you-?”

“Shhh…” She turned her gaze up as if that would help as she moved his index finger around, letting the others get lost in her black waves. Let him see what he’s missing, she thought, moving that hip. Then she glanced back at his face, and saw the moment he felt it. “My extra brains,” she explained, as he moved his hand over the bump.

He dropped his hand and glared at her. “That’s a cyst.”

“No. It’s bonus gray matter. That’s why I’m such a great reporter.” She shrugged. “And why I usually win at Quiz Night.”

“Quiz…?” Grif huffed. “It’s a cyst.”

Smiling, Kit folded her arms, noting he had yet to move his other hand from her waist. “Darling, what’s more unlikely? That you’ve got wings or I’ve got brains?”

He turned at that. “You are the most infuriating, stubborn-”

“You mean the most awesome, caring, and long-suffering… and don’t you dare walk out that door!” She caught up to him, breathing hard. “Look, I came to you just now because it sounded like you needed me. I kissed you because I thought we both needed it. But what I don’t need is some stone-cold, emotionally castrated jerk who thinks the past matters more than the present!”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you.”

“Shut up! I need your help in finding out who killed Nic, and you need my help, too. But rest easy, because I won’t kiss you again. I won’t even mention this kiss again. It’ll be like it never happened, and after we both have what we want, I’ll go back to my life and you can go back to the past with your dead wife. But right now I am going to walk out of here first. And you know what you’re going to do?”

He stared.

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re going to watch me go.”

And she turned at that, exiting the room first, and she was right. She left him staring after her, watching her go.

Chapter Fourteen

Grif stood, smoking on the green leading to the ninth hole, shivering slightly in a rented tuxedo, and feeling small beneath the weight of the early spring stars.