Chapter 7

SEVEN

Willow

I open my eyes to find my whisper staring down at me, concern knitting her brows. Her hand brushes mine, though I feel nothing from the touch.

"Go away. Please."

She doesn't respond. How can she without a voice?

Lying on my couch under my weighted blanket, I stare out the window at the city skyline. Until she glides over and distorts my view.

"This isn't helping. You're not helping. I need to think. Hannah's waiting for an answer. She can help me. Us. If I'm stuck with this power, I should use it for something good. Right?"

Her shoulders heave and…is that a tear glistening on her cheek? Shit. I hurt her feelings.

"I didn't mean stuck like that . But, geez. You keep me up every night. And I miss my students. Anton won't let me come back if I can't get through a day without being pulled into your…" I wave my hand up and down, "body? Spirit? Can't you stop this? Even for a day or two?"

She shrugs.

"So you don't know how to control this… thing between us at all?" I'm so happy we're actually communicating—even if it is just yes and no questions—that when she shakes her head, I only sigh.

I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. It's been three weeks since I've had a solid night's sleep. Since I've felt…sane. Since I've known where my life was going.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table, and I groan as I struggle to get my arm out from under the blanket.

Hannah: How are you feeling? I won't lie to you, Willow. We want—and need—you to work with us. But we also want you to be happy. And healthy. Whatever you decide. If you need to get away for a few days to think, we can put you up in a nice hotel with all the bells and whistles. No strings attached. Just say the word and we'll make it happen.

Tears burn my eyes. I've been on my own since I moved out of my parents' house at nineteen. College, graduate school. Teaching. Getting my Ph.D. I can't remember the last time I took a vacation. Or stayed in a fancy hotel. Self-care isn't a priority when you're trying to make tenure.

Willow: That's really nice of you. But it's too much. I can't accept.

The little reply bubbles dance at the bottom of the screen for a few seconds.

Hannah: We're the United States government. We spent almost $500,000 on a self-cleaning toilet in a D.C. Metro station that's been broken for five years now. If we can do that, we can certainly fund a stay at the Four Seasons for a few days. Let me do this for you. If nothing else, maybe it'll help you sleep.

I shouldn't. But what if it does help? I look over to the window, hoping my whisper might be listening, but she's gone, and I'm alone again.

Willow: You can guarantee the no strings part?

I hold my breath as the bubbles return to the screen.

Hannah: I'll have it notarized and in writing. If you want to pack a bag, there will be a car waiting downstairs in an hour.

From the chaise lounge in my room at the Four Seasons, I stare out at the bay. This place is amazing. Last night, all I cared about was the big bed with endless pillows, but today, Hannah arranged for an in-room massage and facial, room service for every meal, and a very nice bottle of wine to go with dinner.

But the best part is the little zen fountain currently burbling on the table a few feet away. The one with a powerful magic dampener built in.

I haven't seen my whisper since I got here. I slept ten hours last night, uninterrupted, and for the first time in three weeks, my brain doesn't feel like a tub of wet cement.

Totally worth the little pang of guilt I feel at keeping her away. It's only for a couple of days. Just long enough for me to decide what to do. And to remember what it's like to be me again.

Gabriel

The last rays of the sun stretch for the alley behind Sinclair's building. The incubus demon leans against a weathered brick wall, hands in the pockets of his long, leather coat.

"I have been waiting for twenty minutes, archangel. Zoe is alone ." He straightens, looks me up and down, and arches a brow. "Are you—is that—popcorn?"

The red and white striped bag crinkles in my hand. "Kettle Corn. Both sweet and salty. I discovered it at an event called a ‘county fair' in Ohio. Have you tried it?"

"There are few foods I have not tried. Or have you forgotten how many years I have passed in this realm?" With a shake of his head, he turns and strides to the end of the narrow alley, only pausing when a bus rumbles by to toss a gaze over his shoulder. "Are you coming?"

His attitude grates. As if my presence is some sort of burden or annoyance to him. Though, perhaps it is.

In truth, I almost did not return to San Francisco. I suspect Sinclair only extended the invitation to this "dinner party" at Zoe's behest. He would likely be happy to never see me again after all the pain I caused them both.

"Zoe would like to have our…friends…over for dinner. Tomorrow at 6:30 p.m. But I swear to you, Gabriel, if you simply appear in the middle of our home, I will throw you off the balcony. Without the use of your wings, you will break many bones. Zoe may have the soul of a celestial, but her human body is fragile—thanks to Seraphiel's meddling ways."

"Well?" He has not moved except to cross his arms over his chest. "I will not stand here all night."

I shake off the memory of his phone call and sigh. "If I must."

" If you must?" Sinclair scoffs. "You have free will, Gabriel. If you do not wish to be here, take your kettle corn and fuck off."

"You invited me. And I have not eaten in two hours."

Sinclair's blue eyes flash a darker shade, and I release the tight hold I keep on my angelic powers for a brief moment. He is…amused with me. Not angry. Baffled, perhaps. Also, worried about Zoe.

"Two hours is hardly enough time for you to starve. And if I'm not mistaken, kettle corn is—technically—food."

I reach for his arm. He stiffens, the muscles tensing under my fingers, and glares at me.

"Zoe has recovered, has she not?"

A fresh wave of worry washes over him. Strange. The Sinclair I returned to the earthen realm centuries ago cared for nothing and no one. Mating has changed him in many ways.

"Watch yourself, Gabriel. Physically, she is healing," Sinclair says with a heavy sigh. "But she will bear the scars from those days for eternity." He shoves at his jacket sleeve, then unbuttons the cuff of his black dress shirt and rolls it up to his elbow. A shimmering tattoo of a masked, winged man carrying a whip brands his skin. "As will I."

Sinclair spent more than two hundred years as Thorn's unwilling slave, forced to trap and torture the demon's victims without mercy. He wears his guilt like a second skin. Or perhaps it is so ingrained in him now, he will never be able to shed it.

What is this sour taste in my mouth? The heavy weight on my shoulders? This twisting in my gut?

Emotions. Human emotions. I am an archangel. One of the Almighty's chosen. I do not need emotions. But the longer I spend in the earthen realm, the more of them I seem to experience. And the more I find them utterly…addicting.

Wonder. Frustration. Joy. And now…guilt.

"Enough of this," Sin says. He fastens the cuff of his dress shirt once more and gestures to the top of the building. "Zoe has not been alone since…" His words dissolve into a growl.

He has not left her side since he rescued her? "I thought you returned to the Bureau this week."

"We did."

My brows furrow, another foreign sensation. "Surely she did not allow you to accompany her to the bathroom?"

"Fuck. No. Must everything be literal with you?" He shakes his head. "I am going inside. Follow or don't." He stalks around the corner toward the gilded double doors.

I trail after the incubus at a distance. He is still angry. As he should be. My actions—my apathy—allowed Seraphiel to trap Zoe in a prison of her own body for centuries, and could have easily led to her eternal torment had Sin not fallen in love with her—twice—and finally figured out who she had once been.

At the building's front doors, I pause. Perhaps my presence will be too painful.

But if I do not join them for dinner, what else will I do with myself? My wings have not yet healed, and though there is still much of the world for me to experience, Sinclair will certainly tire of funding my education in humanity soon.

When that happens, I will have no choice but to call Azrael and beg him to carry me back to the celestial realm. The very idea of that leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Seraphiel will never let me hear the end of it.

"You opened a portal to Hell and nearly destroyed your wings? You are an idiot, Gabriel. The Almighty will banish you for this!"

Would she? I suppose it is possible. Seraphiel has her ear. The rest of us are lucky to garner an audience.

"Gabriel?" The deep voice startles me. Pain ripples across my back as my wings beg to be released. But I cannot let them. An angel on the streets of San Francisco would attract much attention. Especially an angel whose wings look like they have been through a wood chipper.

Turning, I hide my wince, and peer up. At a chin. With white fur. Higher still, I find the yeti's face. Dark eyes, a black nose, and sharp teeth. Dressed in a suit of all things.

Kunchin, one of Sinclair and Zoe's colleagues at the Bureau of the Occult and the Other, peers down at me. "He wasn't sure you'd come."

"It was this or something called a ‘cow pie toss' at the Akron County Fair. The stench alone was…off putting." I drop the bag of kettle corn into a trash receptacle and heft my duffel bag higher on my shoulder. "Though I was mildly curious to see how far excrement could fly."

The yeti chuckles, and I wonder what about my response was humorous.

A car pulls up to the curb, the back door opens, and a strikingly beautiful woman alights. Her gaze darts up and down the street, and I can sense her fear.

"Dion. Are you well?" I ask. The panther shifter was abducted with Zoe, starved, beaten, and held for days in old drainage tunnels far below the city. I cannot imagine the pain she must have endured, yet physically, she seems to have recovered.

She flinches and pulls her ankle-length wool coat tighter around her body. "Gabriel. You look…very different without your wings. And robes."

I stare down at the khaki pants, dark blue shirt, and loafers. They do not change my body. Only… decorate it in different ways. Then I realize why she is confused. "It is my facial hair. Shaving is quite annoying. And time consuming. I have decided while I am in the earthen realm, I will grow a beard." I stroke the hair. It changed from scratchy to soft sometime in the past two days, and I discovered a wondrous product called beard oil.

"One of the benefits of being a yeti," Kunchin says. "Though having a Bureau-issued perception filter helps too." He offers Dion his arm. "Let's go inside. Sin and Zoe are waiting for us."

I hang back until Sinclair welcomes the yeti and Dion into his home and takes their coats. Once the warded doors of the penthouse close, the panther shifter shudders. Sleek, black fur ripples over every inch of exposed skin. Her eyes take on a more slanted appearance, and she relaxes with a sigh.

"I hate going out in public in my human skin. I feel so exposed, and I haven't been able to get warm since…" Her cheeks pale, and she makes her way into the lavish living room where flames flicker behind a glass panel in the wall. "My heating bill is going to be through the roof this month. Or…for the rest of my life."

"Zoe, my love," Sinclair says as he knocks gently on their bedroom door at the end of the hall. "Dion and Kunchin are here. Gabriel as well. Mad and Killian are on their way with the food."

I can sense Zoe's emotions over all the others in the room. Perhaps because she is a celestial. Or because of the overwhelming guilt I will never be able to escape over my part in what happened to her.

The door opens, and Zoe fits herself to Sinclair's side. He winds one of her red curls around his finger, the gesture so intimate, I think I should perhaps look away.

The two share a glance—a brief moment of connection—and I wonder what it would be like to be so attuned to another being that your souls intertwine. I will never know. Archangels do not…mate. We belong in the celestial realm. Alone. Always alone.