Fallen. Michele Hauf
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as much distance between himself and the Sinistari as possible.
A schush and clatter signaled the arriving train. Cooper slam-dunked the bloody shirt into a trash can, and jumped onto the train, insinuating himself within the crowd.
It was after midnight. The club rush, both standing and seated, filled the train. Sure he was shirtless and sporting an ash-dusted kilt, but he didn’t raise any eyebrows from those with spiked hair, elaborate makeup or high-cut skirts that dared to show more than tease.
Cooper let out a breath. He’d never run from danger. He had once been the instigator of danger and chaos, and … death.
Those were innate characteristics he wished to change. And he would. He must if he wished to belong. Walking away had been the right thing.
Focus on what can be yours.
Now that his nervous energy had begun to relax, his senses opened wide to his surroundings. He liked the close quarters and the mingling of scents and bodies. A man could fall in love with someone if he closed his eyes and breathed the exotic spice of flesh, perfume and life. Humanity was a marvel.
The doors clattered shut and the car tugged into motion.
Bye, bye, vampires.
Seriously? Vampires? They couldn’t have known they pursued a Fallen one and a demon. Only vampires who would do that were stupid, or ash.
He noticed a smear of vamp blood down the side of his kilt, and turned so that thigh was concealed against the train wall.
A long slender body pressed along Cooper’s backside. She wrapped her arms about his waist and spread her fingers up his chest. The Parisians were so friendly.
Turning, he huffed when he saw Red smiling at him.
“What the hell are you doing?” He tried to shove her off, but it was too crowded. “Don’t press your bits against me,” he whispered by her ear. The man next to him smiled and waggled his brows. “You’re a crazy one.”
“There’s nothing else to hang on to. You don’t want me to fall on top of the old lady sitting behind me, do you?”
“Won’t happen. And don’t try that pouty, innocent look with me. Where do you live? You can’t possibly be going the same direction as me.”
“Nowhere. Only been here a day.”
He’d been here a couple weeks, but already he’d found himself a sweet little place tucked away from the world in the 16th arrondissement, yet still within Metro distance of all the hotspots. And in that time, he’d already slain one Sinistari in much the same method he’d employed against the vamp. Though Sinistari hearts did not bleed and were as strong as steel.
Much as he liked the feel of this female’s body warming up against his—and making things very hard—he didn’t want the trouble that accompanied her. Or the confusion over whether to slay her or to turn around and kiss her.
“They were after you,” he said. “I’ve had no problem with vampires until you showed up.”
“Says the guy who needed rescue from two vampires.”
“Rescue? Are you mentally unbalanced? Oh, right, you are.”
He flicked some ash from the shoulder of her men’s shirt that sported a design of blood and now some of her own black demon blood. She fluttered her lashes at him.
Not going to work on him. Not even when her pupils dilated, pushing the kaleidoscope perimeter of iris to a narrow band.
He averted his attention to the wounds above her ear. “You’re bleeding.”
“That’s the vampire blood.”
“No, sweetie, that stuff is black.”
She touched her head in a moment of panic. “Is it bad?”
“No,” he said under his breath. “You don’t feel pain?”
“A little, but it’s healed. Hope you can’t catch rabies from vamps. Ugg. That thing was hungry.”
“It’s all over your shirt. You’re not being very covert.”
“Didn’t know that was a requirement. You want me to take my shirt off, too? That’ll show ‘em how covert I can be.”
“I’ll give you all the attention you need if you play it cool around mortals and keep your shirt on.”
“Mmm …” She slid closer to him, and if he didn’t know better, he’d guess she was angling for some touch and man, did his body react. The brush of her shirtsleeve across his nipple did not preach patience.
But he did know better. She was Sinistari. She had come to kill him, not snuggle with him.
His stop was next. No doubt, she would follow him out no matter where he got off. The demon was like a tick. But she wouldn’t find nourishment from him because he had no intention of giving her what she wanted. If his muse were in the vicinity, Cooper intended to walk the opposite direction.
Just because a Sinistari had found him didn’t mean he was close to his muse. He’d actually landed on earth in New Jersey. Upon feeling the compulsion to stay there—and seek his muse—he’d immediately flashed across the ocean.
The doors opened and he nudged the demon’s hip with his. She took the signal, wrapping her arm around his back and leading him out onto the platform.
“I don’t need an escort,” he said as he plodded under the sorte sign toward the stairs.
The tick clung. At the very least, she was hanging on to him on the side of the blood smear.
Surfacing on the sidewalk in the center of the 16th arrondissement, Cooper sighted the distant lights twinkling down the always-busy Champs Elysees.
“You’re not coming home with me, so shove off,” he told her. “You are like one of those sad-eyed puppy dogs, aren’t you?”
“Fine. I don’t need to see where you go, I can track you by vibration.” She leaned against a metal street post and crossed her legs at the ankle. The cowboy boots pointed toward the sky. Drawing her finger along her lower lip, she looked up through her thick ginger lashes. “Nightie night, Cooper.”
That lip demanded a nibble. Or two. And those lashes. What would it feel like to brush his mouth over them?
Cooper huffed, and marched down the narrow cobblestoned street toward his building. This quarter of the city boasted homes from medieval times sandwiched between twentieth-century buildings. The eclectic mix appealed to his sense of craft and artistry.
He forgot about demons and vampires—until he thought of them—and he scanned all around him and searched the darkness in between buildings.
At the door to his building he punched the numbers into the digital security box, then jogged the three flights up to his apartment. Listening acutely before he closed the door, he reassured himself she’d not followed him. But then, before he did close the door, he heard the street-level door creak.
“You can’t sleep in the foyer!” he called down.
“Says who?”
Rolling his eyes, he slammed his door and stalked through the darkness to the bedroom.
The moon was high and it shimmered through the tall window facing the distant Seine. He kicked off his boots, then landed the bed on his back, arms spread. A pillow wobbled onto his face and he punched it away.
He’d thought his existence on earth would go easy if he kept a low profile and didn’t answer the compulsion to seek his muse.
Someone had different plans for him. And it wasn’t the Sinistari that worried him most.
Why in Beneath were vampires after him?
Antonio del Gado strode