He let the turquoise fall back between my breasts. “What was the last thing I said to you?”
I stiffened so fast I conked the back of my head against his nose. The resultant thunk and his hiss sounded pretty real to me, as did the dull throbbing in my skull that followed.
“Phoenix,” Sawyer snapped. “What was the—”
“Protect that gift of faith,” I repeated.
He ran his palm over my shoulder. “Yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ll see.”
I closed my eyes, drew in a deep breath. Right before he’d said those words, Sawyer had said a few others. Words that had kept me up nights almost as much as his death had.
I chose to leave a child behind.
I blocked out the horrible images of what had come after those statements with what had come not long before. He’d crept into the room where I was chained to a bed, a prisoner of my own mother, a woman I’d thought long dead. She’d been a winner. Five minutes in her company and I no longer regretted being an orphan.
The situation had been dire, yet he’d seduced me. I hadn’t wondered why until he was gone. My hand moved to my still-flat stomach. Had he left a child behind in me?
“Sawyer,” I began. I had so many questions. I didn’t get to ask any of them.
“You need to wake up now.”
“Wait, I—”
“Phoenix,” he said, then more softly, “Elizabeth.”
Most people called me Liz, but Sawyer never had.
“There’s someone here.”
In the next instant I scrambled toward consciousness, and as I did the sound of his voice, the weight of his hand, and the warmth of his body faded.
“Someone or something?” I asked.
“Both,” he answered, and then he was gone.
My eyes snapped open, my hand already reaching for the silver knife beneath my pillow.
The world wasn’t what it seemed. Beneath the facades of so many people lurked half demons bent on our destruction. They’re known as the Nephilim, the offspring of the fallen angels, or Grigori, and the humans.
They’ve been here since the beginning, glimpsed more often in times past when wolf men and women of smoke were commonplace and gave rise to the legends we now see on the screen at the multiplex. Unless you’re me, and then they show up in your apartment.
My fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife even as I stilled, waiting for the slight buzz that signaled evil creepy thing to wash over me. But it didn’t.
I sat on the edge of the mattress, eyes narrowing, ears straining, then I took a deep breath, and my skin prickled. The bed smelled of Sawyer—snow on the mountain, leaves on the wind, fire and smoke and heat.
“Dream my ass,” I muttered.
Downstairs, outside, came a soft thud then the scrape of something hard against the pavement. A shoe? A toe? A claw?
As I crossed the room, I could have sworn fur brushed my thigh. I glanced down but saw only the flutter of the loose cotton shorts I’d worn to bed along with a worn and faded Milwaukee Brewers T-shirt.
An odd cry drew me to the window, where I kept to the side and out of sight. New moon and the sky was dark, the stars dim this close to the city. The single streetlight in Friedenberg revealed nothing but empty sidewalks and dark storefronts. Which meant nothing. Nephilim rarely used the front door. They didn’t have to.
Uneasy, I glanced up—only shadows on the rooftops. Of course those shadows might become anything.
“Psst. Kid.”
I kicked the cot shoved against the wall in the corner. My apartment was an efficiency located above a knickknack shop. I owned the building, rented out the first floor, and was considering renting out the second. I rarely came to town these days. The only reason I was here now was that I’d promised my best friend I’d attend her daughter’s ninth birthday party. I owed Megan so much, the least I could do was show up when she begged me to.
“Luther!” I nudged the makeshift bed again. I didn’t want to touch him if I didn’t have to.
I’d been psychometric since birth, I assumed, since I couldn’t remember a time that I wasn’t able to touch people and see where they’d been, what they’d done. In the case of the Nephilim, I could see what they truly were. Or at least I could until recently. Now I had Luther for that.
“Wha—? Huh?” Luther rubbed at his face. His kinky golden-brown hair stuck out from his smooth brown skin even more than usual.
“Getting any bad-guy vibes?” I gave the boy credit; he woke right up.
“No,” he said slowly, head tilted, hazel eyes narrowed.
“You sleep pretty deep.” From what I heard, most kids did, though Luther would say he was no longer a kid but a man.
He swore he was eighteen, but I had my doubts. Tall and gangly, Luther had huge feet and hands. Many Nephilim had believed Luther’s awkward appearance meant he was slow and clumsy. However, Luther moved as quickly and gracefully as the lion he could become.