How could something so right be wrong?
I love you too. I. Love. You. So. Damn. Much.
Enough to let him go?
Enough to deny myself?
Enough to walk away?
I gasped, pulling back and throwing up my reluctant emotional walls. Lincoln released me as if he’d known it was coming. He didn’t argue or try to touch me again. Instead, he reached into his pocket, threw a few bills on the table, and gave himself a small nod before looking into what had to have been my ghost-white face. “Let’s get you back,” he said gently.
But I just don’t know if there is any way back from here.
“In order for the light to shine so brightly, the darkness must be present.”
Francis Bacon
I struggled with my thoughts and emotions as I tried to regain some measure of control. The late-night streets of New Orleans were in full swing and the life of the city bled into me. We brushed past such a mix of people, and many of my initial thoughts of horror were dampened by the sights and sounds of laughter, by people coming together both young and old, by the diversity of races. This city was unique not just because of its French-Spanish-American origins but also because of the adversity its people had been forced to face.
As we wandered, Lincoln allowed me to put a little distance between us again and calmed my runaway mind by explaining some of the history—how when the French owned the land, the Roman Catholic Church, keen for converts, had insisted on baptizing many of the slaves and teaching them the ways of Catholicism. But the slaves were not so easily convinced and took their true religion of Vodoun underground, eventually driving out the French and the Catholics. But it was the combination of these two religions that really birthed what Voodoo is today.
Lincoln led me through the streets of the French Quarter until we came to a huge church in the central square. I pointed to the building next to it, where there was—oddly—a large speedboat wedged into the front porch.
“Hurricane Katrina,” he said. “The waters came up so high, they brought in all kinds of things. The people left that one as a memorial.”
His words and the image of the speedboat triggered something in me. For the first time, I really looked at this city, slowly turning around and seeing the faces of New Orleans. Gypsies rimmed the square, selling their fortune-telling services to gullible tourists while locals sat at nearby tables and worked in overflowing restaurants. The city was alive with activity, but the whispers of past hardships remained in their eyes. I could see it now. But I could also see the light, the passion and strength within that had driven them to fight back, to defend their lives, their families, their homes.
“Tell me more,” I said, pointing to the church.
Sensing I needed to hear and understand all I could, Lincoln continued the lesson, explaining that in the 1830s, Marie Laveau became the first Voodoo Queen. She was a devout Catholic and brought many to the Voodoo religion, performing public rituals right near where we now stood, out the back of the St. Louis Cathedral. She took the religion to new heights, declaring herself the Pope of Voodoo and recruiting new followers by introducing prayer and saints.
“Do you think she was under Sammael’s control?” I asked.
“I’ve been wondering about that,” Lincoln replied. “Much of what she did is still debated. Some see her as a cult leader and a devil worshipper; others want to see her sainted. Some say she brought the darkest of magic; others say she represented the good in spirits and nature.”
“What do you think?”
He shrugged. “I think there’s a chance she was Nephilim. I think she may have used illusion, exotic concepts, and extravagance to gain a devoted following. But as much as Sammael might have thought he controlled her, I’m not sure he did in the end.”
“She became too powerful?” I asked.
He nodded. “Possibly. I think that might be part of why he was so determined to control anyone else who threatened his throne.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s a lot of history in this city, Vi. Ghost stories always start somewhere. There’s the story of Delphine LaLaurie, who tortured and murdered a great number of slaves. She and her husband disfigured them and left them half-dead and chained to her stove, and they were only found after the house caught fire.”
He watched my expression change.
“I know…She escaped before anyone could stop her.”
“That’s…”
He nodded. “Then there was the great Sultan’s massacre in the late 1800s. He kept a mansion in the French Quarter like the LaLauries’, but his was famous for parties, opium, and a harem of women and young boys. Until one day when the house suddenly fell silent. When the authorities went in, they found the floors covered thickly with blood and dismembered body parts strewn throughout the house. The Sultan was the only one left in one piece, in a shallow grave in the garden, his hand reaching out as if he’d been buried alive. No one ever found out who was responsible.”
“Sammael?” I asked softly, my fear of and anger toward this exile growing in equal proportions.
“I think so. It makes sense if he saw this land as his. He would pride himself on controlling people, leading them to unspeakable acts, but if any of them became too powerful, he would have been quick to erase them. There are many more stories like—”
I grabbed Lincoln’s arm. He tensed instantly, knowing what I was telling him.
“How many?” he asked under his breath.
“Six that I can tell, very close,” I responded. I gestured toward a nearby side street. “Let’s lead them down there.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to make a run for the safe house?”
I shook my head. We couldn’t lead them back to the other Grigori—and to Phoenix. “But can you…” I struggled to find the words. I wished it would make a difference if I asked him to fight as my partner and not just jump in the way of every danger I faced. But there was no point. I knew he would. I just had to hope we made it out. We could manage six.
“We can’t leave loose ends,” I said instead.
Lincoln looked at me strangely but let it go, giving me a tight nod. “You don’t want word to spread that you’re here.”
I shrugged. For whatever reason, Sammael had an interest in me and I wasn’t going to make it any easier for him.
“It’s clever, Vi. You’re a smart fighter,” he said.
I gulped, wishing the praise didn’t affect me. But Lincoln had been my first trainer; he was my partner—despite what I told myself—and no matter what had happened between us, when it came to the fight, his praise carried more weight than anyone else’s.
A crowd in front of us began to clear, and we saw them. As the street hummed with the activity of partygoers, the exiles were obvious, remaining statuesque, their eyes intent and fixed on us.
We ran down the side street, trying to get as far into the shadows as possible. In such a populated area, it really would have helped if we’d had some glamour Grigori around to mask the inevitable fight, but we were on our own.
When we stopped and turned, the six exiles—all typically handsome and dressed in varying combinations of fitted denim and leather to blend with the city’s trendier socialites—were stalking toward us. Their desire for death and blood showed in everything from their hurried, rigid movements to the snarls on their lips and the hunger in their eyes.
We withdrew our Grigori daggers, and I pushed out my power, not bothering to delay with so much on the line. My amethyst mist suddenly surrounded me, and I heard Lincoln’s intake of breath beside me. I ignored it and pushed my power out, willing it to do my bidding.
The mist moved like an extension of myself, growing until all six exiles were within my range, and then I used it to shock them immobile. Lincoln didn’t hesitate.
He stood in front of
the first one, who, draped in leather and wearing heavy eyeliner, looked like he should have been the lead singer of a band instead of an exiled angel. Lincoln leveled the point of his Grigori blade against the exile’s heart.
“Release him,” he said.
I did, keeping the others easily within my hold. I could feel my power urging me on, as if it wanted me to push more and move into my incorporeal state. But I was all too aware of the warnings I’d received—none more so than the one’s I’d received from Mom. She was adamant that I needed to avoid spending too much time within my Sight—and, in particular, giving in to the lure of it. I knew she worried that my corporeal body could separate from me permanently. I feared at times she was right.
So I held myself in place.
“Choose,” Lincoln ordered the exile. He stood before Lincoln, a dagger at his chest, and only smiled.
“There is no choice left. Humanity as you know it is in its final days.”
Lincoln drove his dagger into the exile’s heart, the glistening colors of his power misting the immediate area as he sent the exile to face his judgment. By the time the exile disappeared, Lincoln was facing the next one to deliver the same question.
They had a choice. But no one ever chose this.
Why? I wondered for the millionth time.
Why can’t they see?
Even while they live as men—apart from a few rare exceptions, who take female forms—in our world, they have no idea what it is to be human. They don’t see the beauty that emotions bring and a physical body provides. When they exile and find human form, only insanity awaits.
All six chose the same end. Lincoln and I were methodical, but we knew each time what answer to expect. As soon as the last one was returned, I spun to check no partygoers had stumbled across the scene, just in time to see the four exiles I’d been too preoccupied to sense drop from the rooftops on either side of us.
Before I had a chance to unleash my power again, I caught a fist to the face and a foot to the gut. There was no way around this one but combat.
Again, Lincoln didn’t hesitate. He faced the two who had landed closest to him while I quickly found my footing and tended to the other two. Of course, just as I thought that this wouldn’t be too bad, another two dropped down in front of me.
Shit.
The sounds of flesh against flesh echoed from the narrow street as Lincoln and I fought hard. I took down one exile quickly, but the other three boxed me in and I copped it from all sides. I saw the glow of Lincoln’s power in my peripheral vision, relieved to see he’d dispersed one of his opponents.
I took a few hard hits to the side of my face, and damn if my temple didn’t want to explode as I felt my nose trickle blood. I managed to angle my dagger up and take out one more exile, leaving me with two to deal with.
I saw Lincoln’s power erupt again, and I quickly divided myself off from one of the exiles now facing me, knowing that Lincoln would pick up the slack. But the one fighting me was tall and had a football player’s muscular and wide build. On top of that, he was old and therefore experienced, which made him fast and strong. With the beating I’d already taken, he was quickly gaining ground on me. When I kicked out hard, causing his arm to snap back, he struck me hard across the side of my face, the force throwing me to the ground. I shuffled backward.
He shook his head, smiling. And then he stepped on my hand, breaking the small bones instantly and causing me to lose my grip on my dagger.
I really hate that.
I kept scurrying back as he prowled over me. “Like all the rest of them in the end, aren’t you? Crawling on your hands and knees? Just as you should.”
I let him talk. They couldn’t help themselves, especially if they got one up on me. Their egos simply exploded.
“Will you beg now?” he goaded.
While he told me I was the scum of the universe and that he would take pleasure in feeding my insides to the river rats, I gradually edged back and reached for the arrow resting against my spine.
Lincoln’s power erupted one more time and I heard him run in my direction, screaming my name. But I kept my eyes fixed on the exile—who had just stunned me by pulling out a gun.
Exiles have no ethics. It’s a well-understood fact for all Grigori that exiles will kill us with no regret, but we hardly ever see guns. Exiles can barely contemplate the idea of giving up a barehanded kill to a human-made weapon. They enjoy the power of blades, sure, but not guns.
My eyes went wide as he cocked the safety, smiling even as he cradled his left arm, which looked broken.
And will heal in about one minute.
I knew that if Lincoln threw himself in front of me, the exile would shoot him dead. Desperate to protect Lincoln, I let my eyes dart to him quickly and called out just two words. “Trust me!”
I didn’t have time to look back again. I half expected the exile to already be turning on Lincoln and firing, but instead, he maintained his stance over me, kicking me hard on my shin for good measure. I grunted. It hurt like hell and had my vision blacking out for a second, but I was fairly certain he hadn’t broken it.
My fingers touched my arrow.
I just have to get it out and tip it with my blood.
Suddenly grateful I hadn’t bothered with my wrist cuffs since taking them off at dinner, my hand wrapped around the arrow and I moved it down from underneath my shirt, my broken and trembling hand somehow holding me up.
The exile, smiling victoriously, swung his boot out again, this time colliding with the same side of my face that had already taken too many hard knocks. He aimed the gun.
I saw his trigger finger twitch. But I was already moving. Using the speed that Phoenix had gifted me, and ignoring the pain that shot through my leg and hand, I sliced the arrow across my wrist and threw it straight and true into the exile’s chest. The gun went off as I flung my body hard to the left, managing to protect my heart, catching the bullet in my shoulder as reward.
Panting hard, I kept my eyes on the exile the whole time, watching his smile disappear just before he did. And as soon as he was gone, I saw beyond, to where Lincoln stood, exactly where I’d seen him last when I’d begged him to trust me.
And my heart stuttered to life.
Because he had.
“Things do not change; we change.”
Henry David Thoreau
“Can you walk?” Lincoln asked, his voice controlled but strained.
It was a good question.
The fact was, I was stunned stupid and it had nothing to do with the bullet or various other injuries.
“I think so,” I said, desperately trying to rally. “You didn’t help me,” I blurted, clearly failing.
He paused, looming over me, eyebrow raised. “You asked me to trust you. I do.” He held out his hand and I took it, still dazed as he pulled me to my feet. He focused his attention on my shoulder and methodically checked the entry and exit wounds until he was satisfied. He gestured to my hand. “Broken?”
“Yes.”
“There could be more on the way. We need to get back to the safe house,” Lincoln said, keeping his eyes on our surroundings, all while mine stared dumbly at him.
“Were you hurt?” I asked.
He glanced at me briefly then away.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, swaying a little as I adjusted my weight to the leg that hurt the least.
His eyes shot to me then, overflowing with so much emotion that some of it spilled into me so hard, I staggered back a step.
I gasped.
Fear. Conflict. Concern. Desperation. Longing…Love.
He shook his head as if he knew I could sense it all. “You’re bleeding and broken, Violet, and I stood by and let it happen. I’m trying here, but…Jesus, let’s just get you back so I can…” He closed his eyes and drew a deep, shuddering breath befor
e opening them again, resigned. “So you can fix yourself.”
I nodded and let him put my good arm around his neck as we jogged toward the safe house. I tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore the pain. But it was starting to become abundantly clear that the real pain was not about to go away—not unless I was willing to do something about it.
Sneaking the odd glance at Lincoln while he helped support my weight, I didn’t know what to make of the night. He’d only been back in my life for a handful of days and already I was starting to question everything.
I’d left for a reason.
A good reason.
I’d consoled myself day and night that my motives had been valid. If I’d stayed behind, I honestly believed that he would have died, but something…He was different, changed in a way that can only occur through time and contemplation.
I paused as we reached the gates to the safe house.
“Are you okay?” Lincoln asked, worry creasing his forehead.
I nodded, but really, I wasn’t okay.
Not even close.
Because I realized one other thing.
“I’ve changed too,” I admitted to myself, not noticing I’d said the words aloud until Lincoln’s hand brushed the hair back from my bloodied face.
He tilted my chin until my eyes met his.
Beautifully green, even in the dark.
“Some things never change, Vi,” he said, his voice husky, his fingers lingering on my face.
I was faintly aware of the blood dripping from my fingers as my arm hung limp at my side. I also vaguely noticed that lights had come on, flooding the area around us, and that voices were nearing. But only one thing held my focus, kept me grounded.
I stared into Lincoln’s eyes and I knew he was the only one who would ever truly see me.
Suddenly, he broke eye contact and everything else came rushing toward me—the light, the people, the noise.
“What the hell have you done now?” Phoenix hissed, pushing others aside until he was in front of me.