The Taken

Feeling like a snake, too. Kit had snapped back at him-delivered a verbal one-two that he’d deserved, and that rocked him back on his heels, though worst of all was the pain that’d flashed behind the heat. He’d done that to her, and was instantly sorry.

And he’d have lunged after her, had his fingertips entwined in that glossy, sable hair, if only he hadn’t wanted to do just that so very badly. But he’d just dreamed of Evie-his darling, his wife-and worse, seen her drop to the floor, and death. How could he have woken from that and immediately started pawing at some other woman?

But her touch-oh, her touch. Just like the suit he’d been wearing when he was thrown back onto the mudflat, it fit. Even his dream-Evie and him in the shower, the bed, in his arms-hadn’t had the punch of power that Kit held in her fingertips alone.

Because she’s alive, he thought, mind latching onto the memory of her lips pressed hotly to his.

But you’re not, he reminded himself, and pushed the thought away. He wasn’t human, not fully, anyway. He wasn’t angelic anymore, either.

He wasn’t anything.

Flicking ash onto the over-manicured green, Grif turned back to stare at Tony’s home. It was a good distraction. Grif could almost pretend he was back in the fifties, with the same desert breeze playing at his back, the same stately homes rising from the earth with their butterfly rooftops and giant windows. Back then, guys like Tony hadn’t just run the show, they were the show. And they’d been good neighbors, too. Even if they did work nights and sleep days. Even if they did park in their driveways with their Cadillacs’ noses facing out. Even if you did have to worry when one of their packages ended up on your doorstep.

Still, they put their hearts in the city, gave it its bones, and kept the town clean even as they wiped away dirty palms. Tony loved it, too. He still talked about Las Vegas like it was his best girl.

Yet these days the town’s greatest attraction was Caleb Chambers, who seemed to treat the city like a street whore, tossing money at her, tearing her down, using her up.

A movement at one of the large windows caught his eye. It was Kit, silhouetted behind the curtain and struggling to hook the back of her dress. She managed it, then smoothed her fingers down in a practiced gesture, obviously facing a mirror.

Turning away, Grif forced himself to stare into the abyss of the course instead. Damn it. What was going on with him? Because it wasn’t just the sight of her, the visual punch of her lily-white skin and berry-stained lips. Or the earthy, sweet scent when she stood too close. Or even her taste, though Grif would never loose that one from his mind now. He’d been able to ignore all of that, and thought he could continue to do so, too. She’d already said she wouldn’t kiss him again.

But he couldn’t ignore what he was feeling, not alone beneath the bare, honest sky. Katherine Craig had slid inside his new skin, nestled right in next to his renegade heart, and he had no idea how. She was nothing like Evie. That woman could hold a grudge like a badge, flashing it as needed.

Kit Craig flashed winks and nods, but if she held anything, it was a smile, the corners of her generous mouth ever curved upward with hope.

“Why the hell is she so chipper all the time?” he muttered into the dark. She’d lost both her parents young. She’d been played by a two-bit sot who wouldn’t know a good thing if his life depended on it. Her best friend had been killed practically before her eyes. And even if her fight to keep the family paper humming panned out, she’d already learned that money couldn’t keep you safe or healthy or happy.

So what on earth, he wondered, kept that swivel in her step? What made her dust herself off after getting knocked down? Why the hell did she insist on gifting him with that damned magnificent smile? Why did she taste like his own forgotten hope?

All Grif knew was that Kit Craig was vibrant and alive and she wanted him in a way a woman hadn’t in over half a century. Even with what she called his grumpiness. Even given the way he’d mysteriously barreled into her life.

And he had kissed her back. He wanted to kiss her again, too. To go into that bedroom, clasp her face on both sides, and crush his mouth atop hers. He also wanted to protect her.

Yet what he needed to do was let her die.

Looking up into the star-pocked face of the cold night sky, he considered that for a moment longer. “Not a chance,” he finally said, and the place where his wings should have been tingled.

Then, turning his back on the darkness of the empty course… he ran right into the chest of a Pure.

Angels-Pures-were always depicted as full of light. And they were light, comprised of the same particles and elements that imbued the entire universe with color. But the painters and sculptors who decided that “full of light” meant blond, blue-eyed cherubs never properly considered that the spectrum of God’s universe was vaster and wilder than anything the human eye could envision. Angels were an untamed natural wonder.

And they were not created in God’s image. That was an honor reserved only for his children. It was why Centurions could never be considered true angels. Why true angels, Pures, would never be able to comprehend humanity’s plight.

It was how Grif knew this one had been forced to don ill-fitting flesh against her will, against her nature, against the existing caste system of the angelic realm, where even the soulless Pures were divided into orders.

She didn’t look happy about it, either.

A perfectly round dark head sat atop shoulders with collarbones that flared. She-unmistakably female-was dressed in black cotton from neck to ankles, so seamless Grif could barely discern where her body stopped and the fabric began. Though it was night, sunshades were wrapped around her temples, perched on a straight, lean nose; she’d have looked severe even without the downturned mouth. She waited until he was done studying her, and had recovered somewhat, before speaking.

“We meet again.” She also didn’t sound happy.

And Grif recalled these features-not this face, but the underlying features-pressing through a thinning membrane of filmy Everlast and splintering walls. He had to fight not to back away from her, though every renegade cell in his body was telling him to do just that. “Anas.”

She looked different than she had when casting him back into flesh and the Surface, though when she whipped her glasses from her face, Grif caught sight of eyes slanted with flame before her true angelic form flashed. Twenty-two-foot wings of downy gold blazed behind her, illuminating the dark body in silhouette. Her close-shaved head prevented singeing, but her neck was suddenly too long, and the air crackled around her when she shifted.

Grif’s cigarette fell from his fingers, and he involuntarily stepped backward.

“You will call me Anne,” she said, shading her eyes again with the glasses. Her eyes and wings instantly snuffed. Darkness reclaimed the golf green, but this time it sat upon it heavily, like a layer of foreboding smoke.

“Why would I do that?” he asked, blinking hard.

“Because I do not want my blessed name defiled by human lips.”

Shakily, Grif pulled out another cigarette. “I mean, why do I have to call you anything, Anne? What are you doing here?”

“My job.” She lifted her chin, and this time-even with the ill-fitting skin suppressing all that flame-he recognized her. “Unlike you.”

Grif licked his lower lip. “Frank send you?”

“You know who sent me.” A Pure wasn’t to do anything outside of God’s express will. Ironically, this made them haughty despite being technically lesser than mortals. It also made them impossible to argue with.

But if Anne was supposed to take him home, why wasn’t he already wrapped up in her flaming wings and hurtling toward the Everlast? Squinting, he dragged on his cigarette. “I still have free will, don’t I?”

“You are a child of God,” she conceded, mouth turning down. “And you are encased in mortal flesh.”

“And did you get to choose your outfit?” he said, gesturing to her flesh. “Because you missed a spot right here.” He pointed to her eyes.

Her body thrummed with a growl. “Don’t mistake my blindness for weakness. The stimulation of all five senses at once would overwhelm one who is Pure. Mortality takes what is Pure and makes it defective.”