aspect of their faith, yes. What’s so wrong about that?”
“Let’s ask Mirabel.” He grabbed the statue and headed for the next one.
“You can’t take them!” Bella rushed around the edge of the counter toward him.
He lifted one hand—the one without the baby Jesus tucked under it—and forced his angel to rise in a glow of gold around his knuckles. “You took them. I’m taking them back.”
She skidded to a halt, her mouth twisted. “You want me to die, don’t you?”
“No. But I won’t let you lie and steal either. If you want to atone for the imp, you start now.”
“The longest night of the year is coming, the night she died. The tenebrae will come.”
“Let them come. We will stand against them.”
She lowered her chin, doubt obvious in the tight pull of her mouth, but she didn’t back away from him. “One imp in the body of a dead girl and one angel in exile?”
He did not bother explaining how he would soon retrieve his abraxas. Yes, he was going to have to make some compromises, but only for the greater good. “We aren’t alone. The talyan—”
She laughed, and he had to admit, claiming common cause with the league was rather absurd. “The only ones who hate the tenebrae more than the sphericanum are the teshuva,” she reminded him. “They followed us to their doom and now they repent with our slaughter.”
“You aren’t tenebrae,” he shot back. “Not anymore.”
“At least they still want me. The talyan certainly won’t.” She sidled closer to him. “But maybe you want me again. Is that the concession you’re looking for?”
He tightened his jaw at her sideways smile. “I’m not looking for anything.”
“You didn’t just happen to drive through this neighborhood.” She reached out and popped open the top button of his shirt. “And you are not wearing anything underneath this time. I wonder why when it’s so cold outside.”
Rampant heat rushed through him: mortification—how had she known when he hadn’t realized the inference, not until this very moment?—and lust. Her finger stroked the notch of his throat, and he swallowed.
So close, the perfume of her made his head spin, a potent tease of vodka, womanly flesh and—so his angel warned him—a hidden peril like a hint of smoke. She hooked her finger through his second button and leaned in to press her lips over the pounding of his pulse.
His lips parted, against his will anticipating her caress, but he would not lower his head.
She undid the second button and kissed the bare skin above his heart. “How about one orgasm for each Jesus, hmm? Seems fair.”
“Actually, that seems impious.” He reared back, grabbing her wrist when she sneakily tried to snatch at the statue under his arm.
“ Imp ious? Oh, you’re a laugh riot.” She lunged at him. “Damn it, Cyril. Give it to me!”
“No.” He stiff-armed her. “You told me people give meaning to their artifacts. That body you wield with such insolence is your reliquary now. So make it mean something.”
She stood staring at him, her hands fisted, her muscles drawn so tight the scars on her exposed wrists writhed. Finally, she said, “I can’t.”
He turned his back on her and began collecting the Jesuses.
Her demonic double-tongued wail of despair followed him downstairs and dogged him out to the Porsche where he tried to stack the infants neatly, but after several trips he still ended up with something like a holy midget clown car. What the hell was he going to do with them all?
He hadn’t prayed since his abraxas was taken, but he reminded himself not to speed since getting stopped by a cop would result in some awkward explaining.
He belted himself in and stared up through the sunroof to the upper window of the bar. Dark and empty. He dragged his hand over his mouth to erase the phantom sensation of the kiss she hadn’t given him.
He revved up the engine—the only thing getting any action tonight—and slammed the Porsche into
“Let’s ask Mirabel.” He grabbed the statue and headed for the next one.
“You can’t take them!” Bella rushed around the edge of the counter toward him.
He lifted one hand—the one without the baby Jesus tucked under it—and forced his angel to rise in a glow of gold around his knuckles. “You took them. I’m taking them back.”
She skidded to a halt, her mouth twisted. “You want me to die, don’t you?”
“No. But I won’t let you lie and steal either. If you want to atone for the imp, you start now.”
“The longest night of the year is coming, the night she died. The tenebrae will come.”
“Let them come. We will stand against them.”
She lowered her chin, doubt obvious in the tight pull of her mouth, but she didn’t back away from him. “One imp in the body of a dead girl and one angel in exile?”
He did not bother explaining how he would soon retrieve his abraxas. Yes, he was going to have to make some compromises, but only for the greater good. “We aren’t alone. The talyan—”
She laughed, and he had to admit, claiming common cause with the league was rather absurd. “The only ones who hate the tenebrae more than the sphericanum are the teshuva,” she reminded him. “They followed us to their doom and now they repent with our slaughter.”
“You aren’t tenebrae,” he shot back. “Not anymore.”
“At least they still want me. The talyan certainly won’t.” She sidled closer to him. “But maybe you want me again. Is that the concession you’re looking for?”
He tightened his jaw at her sideways smile. “I’m not looking for anything.”
“You didn’t just happen to drive through this neighborhood.” She reached out and popped open the top button of his shirt. “And you are not wearing anything underneath this time. I wonder why when it’s so cold outside.”
Rampant heat rushed through him: mortification—how had she known when he hadn’t realized the inference, not until this very moment?—and lust. Her finger stroked the notch of his throat, and he swallowed.
So close, the perfume of her made his head spin, a potent tease of vodka, womanly flesh and—so his angel warned him—a hidden peril like a hint of smoke. She hooked her finger through his second button and leaned in to press her lips over the pounding of his pulse.
His lips parted, against his will anticipating her caress, but he would not lower his head.
She undid the second button and kissed the bare skin above his heart. “How about one orgasm for each Jesus, hmm? Seems fair.”
“Actually, that seems impious.” He reared back, grabbing her wrist when she sneakily tried to snatch at the statue under his arm.
“ Imp ious? Oh, you’re a laugh riot.” She lunged at him. “Damn it, Cyril. Give it to me!”
“No.” He stiff-armed her. “You told me people give meaning to their artifacts. That body you wield with such insolence is your reliquary now. So make it mean something.”
She stood staring at him, her hands fisted, her muscles drawn so tight the scars on her exposed wrists writhed. Finally, she said, “I can’t.”
He turned his back on her and began collecting the Jesuses.
Her demonic double-tongued wail of despair followed him downstairs and dogged him out to the Porsche where he tried to stack the infants neatly, but after several trips he still ended up with something like a holy midget clown car. What the hell was he going to do with them all?
He hadn’t prayed since his abraxas was taken, but he reminded himself not to speed since getting stopped by a cop would result in some awkward explaining.
He belted himself in and stared up through the sunroof to the upper window of the bar. Dark and empty. He dragged his hand over his mouth to erase the phantom sensation of the kiss she hadn’t given him.
He revved up the engine—the only thing getting any action tonight—and slammed the Porsche into
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