She cocked her head to the side, smiling sweetly. “We had a date tonight, didn’t we? At around eight? That was an hour and a half ago. I don’t like to wait.”
He ignored that. “How did you get in?”
“I picked your lock.”
“That’s breaking and entering.”
She smirked. “I don’t care.”
“I could have you arrested in a second,” he threatened in a low voice.
Her lips twitched again. “I’d like to see you try.”
He stared at her silently. From the way her green eyes blazed and the fact that her arm did not waver, he knew she was not bluffing. “I don’t like a gun pointed in my face.”
“Neither do I, and you keep pointing it at me.” Her gaze dropped to the bag he was holding. Glancing down, he removed a loaf of bakery bread, spaghetti noodles, and sauce. Then she flipped the gun, offering it to him handle first. “We’ve gotten off on a bad start, haven’t we?”
He looked at her warily. Wearing a tank top and tight leather pants that hugged her legs and ass, she appeared every bit the badass he knew she could be. Funny, she was the kind of girl that usually had him going wild. But all he felt was…reluctant amusement.
He took the gun from her, sliding it back into the concealed holster. “You didn’t have to come here.”
She watched him continue to unload the bag. “You didn’t come to us. We had no other choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” he said.
“The problem with that ideology is that you’re thinking on the human level of things.” She paused, pursing her full lips. “You accept what I am, but you don’t accept what you are.”
“I’m nothing like you.”
Sighing, she placed her elbows on the counter. “You know, your story is no different than any of ours.”
He set the jar of sauce in front of her hands and studied her closely. The mass of hair had parted, falling forward and baring her shoulders to him. Inked in deep black, two wings sprouted from the base of her spine. From what he could see of the intricate tattoo, each wing spread to the edge of her shoulder and then swept downward to disappear under the band of her top.
A sudden urge to reach out and run his fingers over the fine lines etched into her skin was almost too hard to ignore. He clenched his fists, then picked up the spaghetti. “I doubt our stories are the same.”
She supported her chin with her folded hands. “Let me take a guess. Your mother committed suicide. You’ve never met your father. Blah…blah…blah.”
He froze, feeling the skin between his brows puckering. “Don’t go there.”
“Listen, Michael. We’ve all been there. My mother and Luke’s mother?” she said softly. “All of our mothers died by their own hand, and none of us have ever had the misfortune of meeting our fathers.”
He slammed the container of spaghetti down. The edges of the box split, spewing uncooked noodles across the counter. “My family is not something I will ever discuss with you.”
She leaned back, staring at the noodles. “I know this is hard for you. I know every rational bone in your body is telling me to screw off, but there has to be some part in you that knows what you are. You sensed I was in here, didn’t you? You knew.”
“Not a single part of me believes I’m a damn half-breed whatever! Okay?” He swiped the noodles off the counter, and they bounced off the tile. “I’m never going to believe that.”
“You just don’t want to believe it, but you know it’s true. Do you want to know why your mother killed herself? It’s the same reason for all of our mothers! Loving an angel—a Fallen angel—drives you insane. It may only take days, or it may take years, but the end is always the same!”
He came around the counter, hands balled into fists. “Get the hell out of my apartment!”
She didn’t move. “Michael, you have to listen to me!”
He stepped up to her. Damn, he was a good foot taller and probably had a hundred pounds on her, but the little thing held her ground. She had balls. He’d give her that. “Get out—” He stopped, going cold for no reason, feeling off-balance. It was the way he had felt before opening the door to his apartment, but worse. Worse than when he saw that boy and heard him scream.
“Shit.” Lily’s eyes narrowed into thin slits as she reached into her back pocket, yanking out her cell. “Luke? Where are you? I have at least three minions and, I don’t know, two or three deadheads. Yeah, gotcha.” She snapped the phone shut, brushing past him. “Do the stairs in the hallway lead to the rooftop?”
He had already drawn his gun. “Yes. Why?”
Lily glanced at the gun. “I hope that has the kind of caliber that leaves a big hole.”
His insides tightened, and he swallowed. There was…something coming. Goddamn it all, he could feel it. The sensation slithered through him, leaving behind tendrils of dread. But the gun was a reassuring weight in his hand. “Why?”
“Because that gun isn’t going to do shit for what’s coming. We need to get out of here and now.”
Chapter Eight
Color Lily surprised when Michael didn’t question her. She could feel him at her back when she went to the door. “Damn it. They’ve found you out, buddy.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “I warned you. So did Remy and Luke. But we didn’t think it would happen so soon, because they hadn’t found you before.”
“If they are after anyone, it’s you,” he said. “You brought this bad shit on me.”
“Ha!” She grasped the doorknob. “I thought cops had to be smart. You, my dear, are as dumb as a deadhead.”
He tried pushing past her, but she blocked him easily. “Let me check the hallway.”
“Really?” she drawled slowly. “You want to try that one out and see what happens? Get back. Watch and learn, Mikey.”
Sparks practically flared from his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”
Flipping him off, she yanked open the door. On the other side of the threshold stood a minion dressed in a business suit. He would have looked rather normal if it wasn’t for the dead eyes and twisted mouth.
Michael raised his gun, but she was faster. The daggers came out of her silver cuffs as she shoved one deep into the minion’s chest. He jerked back before he fell to the floor. He didn’t even get a chance to make a sound. That’s how she liked them, silent and dead.
“One down,” she counted airily, “two to go!” She stepped over the already dissolving body. “Maybe I underestimated the deadhead count. There’s more than three.”
Michael came up beside her. “I’m getting this weird feeling you may be enjoying this.”
Shrugging, she edged around the hallway. “What can I say? It’s the little things.”
His eyes rolled. “How many do you think there are?”
“Maybe five.” The light in the hallway flickered and then went out. She bit back a bored sigh. They always had to be dramatic, flaunting their evil bag of parlor tricks as if it would actually scare her.
“What the hell?” he muttered behind her.
“Don’t pay attention to that. Stairwell anywhere nearby?”
He gestured across from her. “Why not go downstairs?”
“You would think that.” She sighed. “All right, Mikey Mike, things are about to get a tad bit messy.”
“What?” He stopped behind her.
“Whatever you do”—she reached the stairwell—“please do not shoot me accidentally.”
He snorted. “I have better aim than that, thank you very much.”
“I hope so.” She opened the door and stepped into the stairway. Thankfully, the lights were still on there. Although she could see fine in the dark, she wasn’t sure where Michael was with that, and she didn’t want him fumbling with the gun in the dark.