Marked for grace, p.10
Marked for Grace, page 10
No. They were not going there. There was no way in hell she was about to discuss her sex life—or lack thereof—with him. “That’s unequivocally none of your business.”
“And yet you’re curious about mine.”
“I’m not curious. I’m merely repeating what I’ve been told.”
“Yes. And I find it interesting that you were told, at all.” He turned them down Clarington Avenue toward the city’s most expensive food and shopping district. A district she’d never bothered with since it was so far beyond her financial reach it was virtually nonexistent.
Heads snapped their way as the car moved, and she eyed the reflection of it in the glass buildings. It had to be some sort of concept car, a very sharp one. But she’d die a slow death before she’d ever tell him that.
She squirmed in her seat. “Do you actually like this kind of attention?”
“Why do you think the windows are tinted?”
He pulled them into the entrance of a private underground parking lot. A motor whirred as its door rose, inviting them in. The strong scent of tar assaulted her when they passed inside. Its new asphalt was black as coal with barely a speck of dirt on it. There were stainless-steel guardrails, glass dividers, and a ridiculous number of the most expensive vehicles she’d ever seen, like it was some kind of showroom. An underground one. Shifty.
She pursed her lips. “Why does this place feel familiar?”
“It’s Bedlam. We entered through the back,” he said, thick with innuendo.
She barked an unimpressed laugh. He parked and tapped some button on the car’s center console that unlatched the doors. They floated open, and she and Gideon climbed out. Pressing something on his key fob, they sealed back over.
Her frown was deep. “You can control them with a button?”
“Of course.”
“Why didn’t you use it back at my house?”
He raised his hand to his chest. “I’m nothing if not a gentleman, Crys.”
She fought the growl that threatened to escape the deepest recesses of her throat. If she’d been weaker willed, he’d have gotten to her…more. But she’d spent the last four years constructing strategically placed walls around her emotions. Walls she wasn’t about to take down anytime soon. She needed them in place. For so many, she needed them in place.
He guided her to a door that brought them out to street level. People surveyed them, their stares wide.
She smoothed her top, then smoothed it again. “I presume you don’t come out of your cave often.”
He smirked but made no reply as they headed farther and farther away until he eventually aimed them for a park bench that lined the sidewalk. “Take a seat,” he told her then did so himself.
Her eyes pinched at the corners as she set herself down beside him. The outside of her thigh grazed his leg. She glided to the opposite end to put as much space between them as possible, which, with his broad, imposing form, wasn’t much.
He chucked his chin, indicating the road before her.
She followed his line of sight to a soul in the center of the street. “Sweet Lord,” she uttered, and a cold shiver slithered across her skin at the reality of what stood before her. Snakes coiled around the soul’s left arm, their bodies so thick, there was barely space between them.
“He was hit by a car this morning,” Gideon said.
“How did you know he’d be one of yours?”
“Because I knew him.”
Despite her suspicions, she couldn’t help the small pang of remorse that took her. “I’m sorry.”
He offered an almost imperceptible nod. “Don’t be.”
His expression was schooled, unreadable. But his eyes were creased at the corners. It was subtle, but it was there. Was it the man’s death that bothered him? Did he have something to do with it? The soul didn’t carry the new Mark, but maybe the man had learned something? Was that how Gideon knew where the soul would be?
She slid further back onto the bench, giving it her weight. “At Bedlam the other night, Ben said you summon the dead…”
Gideon leaned forward and set his elbows on his knees. “Their Marks are drawn to our connection with the other side when we call them.”
“Why the Marks?”
He drew his left sleeve up and his large, calloused hand made a tsh as it skimmed over it. “They designate the Forsaken’s destination, and we Shepherds are the conduit to that eternal end.”
Grace’s stomach clenched. “Who are the Forsaken?”
He tipped his head in the soul’s direction. “The damned. Those bound for Hell.”
She suppressed the shudder that threatened to slip down her spine while the fear that clamped around her chest pressed tight, crushing her. “Why are you called Shepherds?”
Angling his face her way, he offered her the full force of his smile. A smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Because we, Agents, and the others in our world work in tandem to corral the flock.”
She cleared her throat and returned her attention back to the soul. “And how do the Agent’s fit into all of this?”
“They’re blooded both angel and demon. They’re the facilitators. They don’t take sides, only act to control the Nephilim and Lesser Demons, and draw in resources when needed.” He flicked his hand toward the Forsaken’s left arm. “Their Marks represent the Irremissibile Peccata. The unforgivable sins.”
She had no doubt the answer to her next question would make things so, so much worse, but that didn’t change the fact that it had to be asked. Her voice grew strained when she spoke. “What constitutes forgivable versus unforgivable?”
“Intent.” He stared down at his hands. “It’s the difference between ignorance and malice.”
“So then,” she rubbed the back of her neck, “whatever the Forsaken did, they did knowingly?”
“They did intentionally.” The distinction was minute, but powerful. Terrifying. “A single unforgivable sin will earn you a one-way ticket to Hell.”
Heaven above. How many times had she seen those Marks? All souls bound for Hell—actual, literal Hell. She bounced her foot. “W-why can we only see the Marks on the dead? Why not the living?”
“Because they aren’t on the body, they’re on the soul.” He tapped the leathered wings at his wrist that designated him what he was. “This is the Scourge.”
She eyed his Passage and Gateway Marks, but there was another, one that sat above his elbow. Its rounded edge protruded from under his coat. Unlike the others, it rolled red and orange with a writhing fire that moved like a living thing. When she set her finger to the exposed portion of the Mark, heat permeated her skin, embedding in her bones. “What’s this?”
His unfathomable gaze locked on hers. “A weapon.”
She withdrew her hand, shoulders so tight they ached when she gestured to the soul in the road. “Are you going to help him?”
His stare grew hollow when it focused on something—or nothing—in the distance. “What I have to do won’t help.”
Her pulse thrashed in her ears as she focused on the soul. The level of torture, of suffering that he’d endure for the rest of—
“Don’t feel bad for him,” Gideon said. “He’s reaping what he sowed in this life.”
She peered at him through her lashes. “Says the man who’s giving him time.”
His lip tipped up at the corner. “He has an eternity to pay, and I wouldn’t wish what’s coming for him on anyone.”
The way he said it, the evenness in his tone, caught her. It wasn’t pity but something else. Something deeper, an awareness… “You sound like you know from experience.”
His devil-may-care expression returned as he rose, and it sparked a new dread in her heart. “Welcome to the dark side.”
The walk back to Bedlam was quiet as Grace tried and failed to absorb…everything. It was all so dark and unimaginably heavy. The one—and only—positive; it’d opened the door for questions.
“You should probably text Noah,” Gideon said as he broke her from her wildly churning thoughts. “I’m sure he’s dying to know how things are going between us.”
“He’ll live,” she assured him. Never mind that there was entirely too much to put in a text. She was gonna need a letter or a book. Maybe an encyclopedia. Did those things still exist?
He slid his hands into his pockets. “How did you two meet?”
She swallowed hard and glanced toward the ground. “We’ve been best friends since we were six. He moved in with me after my mother died and his family disowned him.”
“And why would they do that?”
Wait, had she said too much? She side-eyed him, attempting to gauge his angle. Like her own, Noah’s social media was wide open, so none of it was secret. Gideon could’ve easily found those answers. For all she knew, he already had them.
“They refused to accept that he was gay. We were all the other had for the longest time until his boyfriend Kyle came along.”
He arched a single brow. “And we like Kyle, do we?”
“We love him. Noah was in a dark place for a long time. Kyle helped turn that around.” She wheeled about and stabbed a finger Gideon’s way. “And Kyle’s a cop, so I suggest you watch yourself.” There. Good and threatened.
A lone laugh escaped him before his smooth voice proclaimed, “I’ll consider myself warned.” He turned them left onto a different street. “How did Kyle and Noah meet?”
“Noah’s an accountant. He offers discounts for First Responders. Kyle hired him to do his taxes, and the rest is history.”
“And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“You said your parents passed.” He let the words stand.
Worrying her cheek between her teeth, she contemplated changing the subject, but for some ridiculous reason she couldn’t explain, she didn’t. “I don’t know much about my father. He died before I was born. My mother didn’t like to talk about him.” Or anything from her past.
“Too hard?”
She shook her head. “I got the impression it was a bad relationship. She seemed more relieved than disappointed that he wasn’t around. I don’t think I missed anything by not having him in my life.”
“No stepfather?”
“No. She never dated. Ever. Never really did anything. She rarely left our house actually. Whatever happened before I was born really put her off people.”
His leather coat groaned as he grazed a hand over his facial hair. “And you didn’t get your Sight until you were eighteen, after an accident.”
Was he always so…attentive? Aware? Everything? “The one that killed my mother.” She cleared her throat and turned away. “The shock of seeing the them—the dead—terrified me, at first. Until the other night, I thought I might be losing my mind. I’d always hoped there was more, but I didn’t quite expect this.” When next she spoke, her voice was even. “You’re asking a lot of questions.”
“I’m trying to get to know you, Crys.”
She trailed her tongue along her teeth. She needed to change the subject because he was interested in a lot of stuff she didn’t know the motive behind. She’d let things get too personal. Stupid, foolish, rookie mistake.
“So, what’s next?” she asked.
“Food.” At her narrowed gaze, he shrugged. “I don’t know about you, but I need to eat.”
She was starved. “I could eat.”
“What would you like?”
She rubbed her palms together. She didn’t have to think long. “Chicken fingers!”
Gideon fell silent, but an amused expression creasing his eyes.
“What?” Her brows lowered in a frown. If he was about to mock her for her love of chic–
“Nothing. Chicken fingers it is.” He withdrew his phone, punched several buttons, and sent a message.
She flicked her hand toward him. “What are you doing?”
“Sending our food orders to one of my chefs,” he replied as he slid the device away again.
“You have a chef?” Of course, he did. Why wouldn’t he? The man was in a whole other class of wealth. Even the way people looked at him was different, like he was some idol to be worshipped.
His stride was even, gait steady, when he said, “I have several.”
She rolled her eyes. “Can’t cook your own meals?”
The grin he wore was the definition of proud. “I own two-thirds of Clarington Avenue, which encompasses a few restaurants.”
“So that’s a no,” she mumbled.
He laughed, the sound a thick, rich rasp.
They rounded the final corner, passing the Casino before Bedlam came into view. The music inside thumped a heavy base that rattled the windows. Gideon held the door, and she blinked hard trying to ignore his heady, musk scent as she slipped under his arm and headed in. An employee tweaked the speaker system across the way. When he spotted them, the sound dropped out so suddenly the beat still echoed in her ears.
Every eye in the place followed them as Gideon led her across the bar and aimed upstairs for the second floor—or at least, he started to before they were intercepted.
“Gideon,” a high-pitched, feminine voice called, one Grace vaguely recognized.
He stopped, his towering form less than an inch from hers. The heat he kicked off brushed every exposed section of her flesh. She took a half-step back.
“Lisa,” he acknowledged.
Lisa’s big, brown doe-eyes scanned Grace before they returned to demon-boy. She made idle banter, twisted her hair around a finger, and arched her back so her breasts pushed forward before she asked him a series of questions concerning things to be done across his properties.
He was patient and polite, but the flat, all-business answers he offered made his thoughts on her advances clear before he said his goodbyes and continued on. Grace didn’t miss the glower Lisa offered her before she turned away.
“One of your admirers?” Grace asked as they reached the top step.
“I hadn’t noticed.” He reached out and opened a heavy, steel door for her.
Oh, he’d noticed. He’d have to be dead not to. She crossed over. “Mmhmm.”
“How about this.” He moved tight to her back. “I don’t shit where I eat. My employees are off limits, and so is my home.” He tipped his head to indicate an indiscriminate black door at the back of the room.
Her eyes widened. “You live in this place?”
“I do, and it’s my sanctuary. I don’t let people in there.”
She’d suffice to say he didn’t let people in, at all. Not that she could judge. She wasn’t exactly what one might call “open.” “You make a distinction between here,” she pointed to the door ten feet away, “and there?”
“That I do.” He cocked an overconfident brow. “Do you want to see it?”
“Ha! I’m not one of those girls.” Ab-so-lute-ly not.
He linked a hand over the opposite wrist. “And what kind of girl would you be, Crys?”
She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, noticed how it thrust her breasts up, and dropped them back to her sides. “One with boundaries.”
A knock sounded at the door.
Gideon’s heated stare lingered on her for several long seconds before he approached the desk. Taking up a remote, he shut off the television that had multiple split screens from security cameras around Bedlam, then pressed a button for the intercom on its center. “Come in.”
Davis entered and offered Grace a nod which she returned. He made his way to Gideon and the two spoke low. A younger male employee carrying fancy food containers appeared, and her her stomach growled.
Gideon huffed a laugh. “Tell Frank he’ll be compensated, and if he doesn’t like that tell him he’s replaceable.”
Davis smirked. “I look forward to it.”
The two left and Gideon set to opening the boxes. The rich aroma of fried meats and savory spices that filled the room had Grace’s mouth watering, and she scurried closer. He’d ordered himself some kind of fancy beef. It looked good, but she was on the hunt for another treasure as she pivoted toward the other box.
“Would you like a fork—”
She snatched up a chicken finger then bit into it like the uncivilized peasant she was. “This is finger food. You don’t eat finger food with a fork, demon-boy.”
His expression turned impish, and his body relaxed when he eased himself down at the desk. “For someone who purports to be unnerved by us, you sure don’t act like it.”
“Shh. I’m busy judging.” She took another bite. Was she scared? It was a complicated question. Too complicated to parse out at that moment. She had eating to do.
“And what is it you’ve judged so far?”
“That these chicken fingers are pretty good.”
His head cocked. “Just pretty good?”
She picked up her container and sauntered to the couch across the way, settling down in the far-right corner. Far away. So far. Not far enough.
He used his fancy fork to impale a piece of steak before he raised it. “You’ve had better?” When he set the meat to his tongue, he bit down with a slow, seductive expertise.
She looked away. “Once, on a rare outing with my mother. It was a small food truck somewhere south of the city called Mr. Cock’s Chicken.”
He coughed as he choked through a laugh. When he finally regained himself, he noted, “That’s quite the name.”
“Why do you think I remembered it?” She chomped another mouthful of her chicken and took in his office. The black-stained mahogany desk he sat behind was obnoxiously big and oddly suited him. It held two large screens and a machine with a series of indecipherable buttons on it. A massive TV at least eighty inches in size occupied one of the gray walls. The couch she used was black leather, as were the chairs opposite her. A large, tinted window that overlooked Clarington Avenue lined the back, while elevator doors stood closed to her right.
His level of wealth was staggering. It would offer him a lot, like say the ability to create his own Faction. She peered around the room again. There wasn’t anything obvious, but then he wasn’t a fool. Not that she even knew what to look for. If she could just search it without him there. Her gaze narrowed as an idea took root in the back of her mind. She tapped her chicken finger on the food container. In the meantime, she needed to get him on a useful topic. “Ben tells me the Nephilim are paid through the church.”
