She barely made it to the privy before being sick. Blood. So much blood.
Exhausted, she slumped back, her shaking hand to her mouth. Always waking up with blood on her skin. What was she?
Memories surged forth. She was Layla. Layla Starling. The world saw her as an innocent heiress and a talented singer. But she knew the truth. She was a monster.
Chapter Two
One might think being an immortal was a blessing—never grow old, never grow sick, never die. At one time in St. John Evernight’s life, he’d considered it a blessing too. He would be around long after the simple humans who surrounded him were nothing but dust. They could stare all they liked at his “strange” hair and frosty green eyes. They could gossip and speculate about him until they lost their voices. It didn’t matter. He was untouchable, and they were but fragile sacks of blood and bone.
How naïve he’d been. Because living forever merely meant a lack of escape from the desolation of regret and loneliness. He knew now that he could walk down Jermyn Street endlessly, see the sands of time shift and rearrange before him, and never be a part of life.
“Brooding, Mr. Evernight?”
Sin almost jumped at the sudden sound of Augustus’s voice by his side. Damn, the blasted man loved to startle him. He gave Augustus a passing glance. Dressed in conservative brown tweed and a bowler hat, the angel appeared every inch the English gentleman, save for his dark coloring that marked him to be from Southern climes.
“It’s really quite the trick, popping up like a soap bubble whenever you choose, Augustus. You must teach me how one day.”
The man’s mouth twitched. “With your luck, you’d pop up in the middle of a parliamentary session.”
Yes, Sin had abominable luck. Or perhaps it was more a matter of making abominable choices.
“You’re brooding again,” Augustus remarked.
“I’m not brooding. This is simply my face.”
Augustus snorted but remained silent as they walked along, past Trafalgar Square and down Whitehall.
“Care to tell me why you called me here?” Sin asked when they came upon the grounds of Westminster. For the past year, Sin had been in Rome, soaking in the warmer temperatures, drinking espresso in cafés along the Piazza della Rotonda, under the shade of the ancient Pantheon. He’d eaten simple but delicious food, and listened to the rapid fire of Italian, and felt . . . well, not peace, but a measure of contentment.
Until Augustus had sent for him last month with a message to “sit tight” until Augustus could met with him. Returning to England sat like a stone in his gut. But he would obey. Augustus was his mentor, and the man who’d given him salvation. The price was a lifetime of servitude. To be fair, his role was for justice, not evil, which was a nice change of pace.
A massive dray rattled past, kicking up dust and sending a fug of stale manure into the air. They hurried past the cloud and headed for Westminster Abbey. Sin hadn’t planned on visiting today, but here they were all the same. He wondered if Augustus somehow had led him to their usual meeting place or if Sin had merely headed that way because of the man’s sudden arrival.
He’d like to think the latter. It did not sit well with him having another control his actions. Not since a certain evil fae had kept Sin as a blood slave for years. Even now, the memory made his stomach turn.
Not a soul acknowledged them as they walked through the abbey and into the cloisters. Here, a rare bit of sunlight peeked through the constant cloud cover and cast lacy shadows along the walkway. The sound of their boot heels clacked out a steady rhythm as they strolled along.
“Layla returns to London tonight.”
At the mention of her name, Sin’s heart stilled within his breast. He’d tried his best to ward off all finer feelings, to remain numb, detached from life. And yet he could not, for the life of him, remain immune to Layla Starling. His childhood friend. The one woman who could take his breath, his reason, simply by laying eyes upon her.
Stuffing his shaking hands into his trouser pockets, Sin forced himself to keep an even tone. “So then I am to begin watching over her?”
God, but he did not want to. It would be agony, staying so close to her and never being allowed to show his true feelings. And yet a thrum of anticipation went through him at the mere prospect of seeing Layla once more.
“Are you ready?” Augustus asked, though his expression told Sin he fully expected an affirmative answer.
So Sin told him the only truth left to him. “I will not fail her.”
Chapter Three
Layla Starling had not been in London for over a year. She’d been touring the continent—Paris, Vienna, Prague, Austria, Venice. After a while, the cities began to blur, and no matter how luxuriously appointed the hotel rooms were, they did not feel like a home.
She longed for a permanent home. But she’d never really had one. Augustus, her guardian, had always kept them moving, never settling in one place for too long. It had changed something in her, made her into a restless vagabond. So, really, she couldn’t quite fathom why she longed to remain in one place now. Perhaps it was loneliness.
She felt it keenly now that she was an adult. Augustus’s company, while always a comfort, was not enough anymore. She hadn’t any friends, only employees. Ones that looked after her newfound career as a singer.
For her entire life, Layla possessed a love for singing. It was her joy, the soaring power of freedom and love and sorrow all rolled into one. She sang and she was alive, wholly and completely. Even better, she sang, and people stopped to listen. It seemed only natural to take to the stage. A dream made reality.
Only reality was not a dream. She felt drained. Her throat hurt constantly, and her body battered. Layla had sent her manager and her assistant on holiday, cancelled all further performances, and took the first steamer back to London where Augustus lived. Now she wanted nothing more than to find her room in Augustus’s newest town home and sleep for two weeks solid.
And as the fine carriage turned into the circular drive, rocking slightly as it took the corner, she nearly wept with relief. Home. At least for now.
A footman dressed in crisp black awaited, opening the door as soon as the coach halted. Gathering her skirts, Layla stepped down. She ignored the strange, sweet scent of the man, unnerved that she knew it was the rich blood running through his body. Since hitting womanhood, Layla had smelled the blood of others and found it . . . tantalizing. The older she became, the stronger her sense of smell.
The stronger she became. As it was, she had to watch herself or she’d snap the stem of any wineglass she held. Yet another reason to take a holiday. Her gloved hands began to shake as the faint smudges of a memory began to sharpen in her mind.
No. She would not think of the waking up on the stateroom floor, or of Venice. Of The Incidents. Her fingers curled into a tight fist. But they still felt cold and slick, as if old blood lingered on her skin.
Frowning, she alighted the stairs. She needed to talk to Augustus. He would make sense of this. He always seemed to know just the right thing to say.
A butler waited for her at the front door, letting her in with a nod. “Miss Starling, I am Pole, at your service.”
Another oddity about Augustus’s household; he never employed the same people for very long. It did not matter how well they did their duties; he simply liked new faces.
“Hello, Pole. Is the master in?”
“He and the gentleman are waiting for you in the drawing room, Miss.”
In a breath, Layla deflated. She had little patience to entertain or make nice with a visitor. But she knew without doubt that Augustus was aware of her arrival. To slink off now would be unforgivably rude.
Squaring her shoulders, Layla followed Pole.
She spotted Augustus first, standing by the mantel, his lean frame silhouetted by the fire crackling in the hearth. His coal black hair glinted in the flickering light of the gas sconces flanking either side of the fireplace. His
skin was smooth and golden.
He never aged. This was simply fact. Layla recalled the day he’d sat her on his knee in her nursery and told her that he, unlike other men, would never have a gray hair upon his head, and his skin would never wrinkle or sag.
“It is simply my nature, child,” he’d told her then. “As much a part of me as are the freckles upon your little nose.”
Because she’d been a girl of merely five, she’d accepted his story. It was only when she’d grown older and understood more of the order of things that she’d begun to realize there was nothing natural about it at all. It did not, however, alter her affection for the man she thought of as her father. But she feared. Deep in her heart she worried that, while Augustus remained unchanged, she would grow old and eventually die. Who would look after him then? And why did he not age? She’d always been too afraid that she’d upset him if she asked.
Now, she simply gave him a happy smile. “Augustus, it is so good to see you again.”
Layla moved to cross the room and embrace her guardian when she caught sight of another man, standing just to the left of Augustus. He’d been clinging to the shadows as if not wanting to be seen. But it was too late; her attention lit upon him and she promptly froze, the blood draining from her cheeks then rushing back with a force that made her skin prickle.
She had not laid eyes upon that face since she was fifteen years old, when this man had been no more than a youth himself. And perhaps she ought not recognize him at all. But there was no forgetting those eyes, green sea glass, surrounded by long, ink-black lashes. Or that strange, unearthly hair that had caused the boy such trouble—shiny black with red tips, as if his very hair was aflame.
He used to shear that hair right off his head, hating the sight of it. Only to despair when it grew back thick and full in a fortnight.
And here he was, standing in her parlor, his pale green gaze so potent it made her knees weak and her breath short.
Happiness fluttered in her heart. “Saint?”
Until then, his expression had been stoic, a frozen mask she knew he often wore among strangers. That had hurt. But at the sound of his nickname, the firm curve of his lower lip kicked up at one corner, and his eyes grew warm, the pale green darkening.
“Hello, little bird.” His voice was much deeper now, carrying a resonance that spoke of power. “I wondered if you would remember me.”
“Remember you?” A small laugh left her, as her heart did that fluttering thing again. “Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you in some small way.”
At that, he blinked with the slightest jerk of his head, a look of extreme discomfort flitting across his features. Layla winced, cursing her loose lips. But the moment was gone, and he was looking upon her as if she was some exotic bird suddenly let out of its cage.
So she did the only thing she could. Uttering a little sound of apology mixed with self-deprecation, she hurried forward and embraced him, just as she would any other dear friend.
A mistake realized in hindsight, as the smoky, amber scent of him surrounded her, and his intense warmth buffeted her skin. He held himself stiff as new starch, his chin grazing the top of her head as he peered down at her. Lord but he was unmistakably a man now, tall and strong. His shoulders were like oak beneath her palms.
“Hello, Sin,” she murmured, flushing a little as she drew away. “I’m so happy so see you.”
The gentle brush of his fingertips at her elbow sent awareness skittering down her spine. Or maybe she imagined it, for he remained as reserved as ever, and both of his hands hung at his sides, as if he’d never moved at all.
Unable to look him in the eye, she quickly turned to Augustus, who wore an irksome smile as if she’d amused him greatly. She gave him the slightest reproving look, one well-hidden from a silent Sin, before giving her guardian a kiss on his smooth cheek. “Are you going to welcome me home, old man?”
He huffed out a laugh. “I deserved that,” he said at her ear. “Welcome home, dear girl.”
Fortunately, the arrival of tea gave Layla a moment to settle. After she’d served them all a cup, she sat back with a sigh of relief. Regardless of whether Sin was here or not, it was good to be with Augustus once more.
“Please do not take this as rude, Sin,” she said, “but we haven’t seen each other for years. What brings you here now?”
It was Augustus who spoke, however. “St. John and I have become well acquainted since you’ve been gone. I’ve asked him to stay here with us while he is in London.”
Sin made a slight sound in his chest, then leaned forward in his seat, resting his forearms upon his bent knees. “I am here to watch over you.”
“What? Why?” Her gaze darted from him to Augustus, who was glaring at Sin.
Sin returned the look with a placid one. “I’ll not lie to her. And Layla needs to know. Duplicity will only make my task more difficult.”
With one last frown at Sin, Augustus turned back to her. “I did not want to cause you undue concern. However, St. John speaks the truth. He is to be your guard.”
When Layla had performed on stage, Augustus had employed men to protect her. Some admirers could be aggressive. And while that was all well and good then, she could only gape at Augustus, hurt pressing into her ribs. He knew that was all moot now.
“Are you deliberately trying to be cruel?” she asked him.
“No,” Augustus said quietly as Sin frowned on, his gaze darting between them.
“Then why throw this at my head? Because it feels very much like a sick joke.”
Sin tried to speak. “Perhaps we had better—”
“No,” she snapped, getting to her feet. “I’m going to assume you had no part in this, so let me inform you, St. John. I can no longer sing.” A sob struggled to break free. She would not let it. “My voice is gone. Destroyed, and I cannot bring it back.”
She had not gotten past the complete devastation she’d felt when, a few weeks ago, Layla had opened her mouth to sing and ugly, discordant tones tumbled out instead.
Sin blinked up at her. “You cannot sing?”
“Is that not what I just stated? At first I thought I’d come down with the ague or some such thing, only I felt fine in all other regards. My voice was simply . . . broken.” She shot her quiet guardian a hateful glare. “Something Augustus knows.”
Sin’s expression turned sorrowful, and she stiffened. “I am finished with all that. So you can see why I will not be needing your . . . services.”
For a moment, she thought she caught a flash of humor in his eyes but he did not smile, only turned his attention to Augustus. “Care to explain to the class, old man?”
Layla had embraced him. Sin could still feel the imprint of her body against his chest. Her fragrance, like that of summer cherries, lingered on his coat. It had taken all his restraint to keep still and back away from her. Because, in truth, her touch and nearness had been like nails dragging over his skin.
Ever since his enslavement by the evil fae queen Mab, he abhorred the touch of others. It did not matter who touched him; he reacted the same, as if he’d sooner flay his skin off rather than endure another moment of contact.
And yet, he’d wanted to touch Layla. As it was, he could not keep his eyes off her. He drank in the sight of Layla like a man does a mirage in the desert. She could not be real. Not be here in front of him. Sin fought the urge to reach out and run his fingers along the smooth crest of her rosy cheek just to make certain.
But he had a task to do and it did not involve flights of fancy. And his mentor was finally willing to talk, which felt like a minor miracle in and of itself. So he tucked his hands in his pockets and leaned against the arm of the couch.
“I’m quite comfortable now,” he told Augustus. “I do believe Layla is as well.” He glanced at her and she sat back in her chair, tucking her heels under her skirts as if to settle in. Sin wanted to smile but turned back to Augustus. “Shall we continue?”
; Augustus snorted softly through his nose. “Cheeky, the both of you.” He sat as well, resting his hands upon the arms of his chair. “There is a saying: pull the thorn out quickly. I suppose it applies here.” He looked at Layla. “My dearest girl, I am not what I seem.”
“What you seem?” she asked with a little laugh, and Sin was struck by the husky quality of the sound. She was a contralto, her beautiful voice smooth and low. And nervous now.
“Human,” Augustus answered. “Though perhaps you might have suspected this already.”
A furrow grew between Layla’s winged brows. “I don’t . . .”
“Come now, my dear,” he said. “I haven’t aged a day. You know as well as I that isn’t normal.”
She flushed prettily. “I thought you said that was just how you are.”
Augustus smiled. “Yes, and I lied. And I think you know it.”
At that, Layla frowned. “All right, it’s true, I knew something was not quite right. But I did not want to hurt your feelings by questioning you. And now what am I to believe? That you were having a laugh on me? This entire time? Of course I’d trust your word. I was a child. And you were my family.”
“I was an ass to do that. But I had no other way to protect you at the time. You are no longer a child, though, and now you need the truth.”
She looked off and the light of day hit the line of her neck, her profile, setting her skin aglow. It was a lovely honey-cream color, a sharp contrast to her glossy mahogany hair and eyes. Again Sin felt the urge to touch her, to trace the delicate curve of her jaw up to the plump earlobe just visible beneath her updo. He’d been in her shoes before and knew the shock and discomfort she was surely feeling. But Augustus was right. It was best to get the truth out and over with.
“Tell her what you are,” Sin ordered.
His mentor lifted a brow but did not argue. His voice was calm and easy when he spoke again to Layla. “I am a Judgment angel.”