Downside Rain: Downside book one (16 page)

He
sits on the far end but she sidles across until a few inches separate them.

“You’re
a handsome boy,” she says as she plays with a strand of his long hair. Her
tongue, pink and moist, skims her top lip. “Tell me about yourself.”

Transfixed,
River develops tunnel vision. He sees only her lips, her tongue. Strained,
raspy, a voice which doesn’t sound like his says, “All I have is my name.”

“River.
River. I like it.” She inches nearer until her breast touches his arm. The hard
nub of her nipple indents his soft flesh.

A
bowl of grapes sits center on a small table in front of the sofa. She leans to
pluck one, the low neck of her dress gaping to show the swell of her breasts
and deep valley between. Holding the grape by the stem, she asks, “Would you
like some?”

His
mind is fuddled. Does she mean the fruit or something else? Unable to speak, he’s
pleasantly woozy and grins like an imbecile.

There’s
something incredibly suggestive in the manner she makes an O of her lips, puts
the grape to them and sucks it into her mouth. “Mm,” she says, pausing in her chewing.
“Delicious.”

She
lies against his upper arm, a full breast either side as if large, firm hands
hold him. Her fingers whisper down his neck, creating tingling trails over his
skin. His flesh bulks, not because she makes it so, because he wants to be
solid beneath her hand and experience her touch in all its astounding entirety.

“Are
you sure you don’t want a taste?”

Yes,
he wants a taste, but not of grapes. She has other fruit he’s sure is as plump
and juicy. River becomes painfully rigid and wants to take her hand and hold it
to the bulge in his pants.

Her
thigh slides over his, her knee presses hard against the swelling at his groin.
One eyebrow inches up sardonically. “Mm, what have we here?”

He
wants to tear her clothes off, but can’t move, can barely think straight.

A
familiar figure walks past the window and his vision suddenly clears.

River
shifts, dislodging Angelina, and all but throws himself from the couch. “There’s
Rain. I’d better get back.”

Snatching
his coat from the sofa, he makes for the door.

“Come
back and see me sometime,” Angelina husks, and follows with a low, sultry
chuckle.

~*~

Head
muzzy with too many thoughts, I walk along Kings Way. Disgust and anger, at myself.
After resisting Alain for so long, a penetrating look from heavy-lidded eyes
made me lose control. I
won’t
be an item on his to-do list: number
twenty-five, fuck a wraith.

“Castle?
You here?”

“Yup.”

Although
I brace for his appearance, he makes my heart stutter. He’ll decide
“let’s
scare the living daylights out of Rain”
is a fun new game if he knows how
he made me start.

“Did
you listen in?”

“Nope.
Cross my heart and hope to die.”

 Castle
has stopped walking, or whatever ghosts do. His hands create elaborate
crisscross patterns over his chest.

“All
right, I believe you.”

I
continue on, as do my thoughts, from the mystery of Alain Sauvageau to River
and what Alain said about him. A tiny needle of doubt pierces my chest. I trust
River for no other reason than he’s a wraith. Maybe it’s not good enough.

Lips
stiff, I shake my head. I don’t want to believe Alain but his words have taken
root my mind.

“Castle,
do you know anything about River that I don’t?”

“Huh?
How could I?”

“Don’t
the dead gain insight into the living world when they pass over?”

“Where
did you get that idea?”

“I
don’t know, one of those things you hear but can’t remember where from.”

“Maybe
it’s true, but you’re forgetting something, I didn’t pass over.” He glances
back. “If I were all knowing and all seeing, I’d know who killed me. Why are
you asking about River?”

I
tell him what Alain said.

“I
bet the guy sees conspiracies everywhere,” Castle says. “If he really knew what
we can and can’t do, he’d see his ideas are convoluted. Or he spoke off the
cuff without putting much thought into it.”

It
didn’t sound that way to me; Alain seemed pretty sure of his reasoning.

At
the end of the street, I stop walking and smack my forehead with the flat of my
hand. Castle can’t help but our conversation gave me an idea. I know what can
tell me about River, if I can make sense of what it says.

Castle
doesn’t comment on my self-abuse; he’s looking over his shoulder again.

“What’s
caught your interest?”

“The
new club.”

Neon
flashes a block back. People wait in line; music pounds from the entrance. I
walked past the club without noticing. The music didn’t penetrate my inner
contemplation.

“If
you don’t have anything planned, I’m going back to lurk, listen and observe. It
looks like a wild place.”

“Don’t
get drunk.”

“You’re
so funny it hurts. See you later, babe.” Castle salutes me with two fingers to his
forehead, and blinks out.

I
mount the steps to my building. River stumbles out of Angelina’s unit as I pass.
His amethyst eyes are cloudy, unfocused. My heart plummets. Of all the dumb,
fool, idiotic. . . .

I
grab his arm. “Upstairs.”

I
have to get him away from Angie. Pushing him in front, I shove him up the stairs
one step at a time with my hands in the small of his back. He’s not exactly
fighting me, more as though he’s forgotten how his legs work. Once the door is
open, I force him inside.

He
staggers a few paces before I catch his lapels and ram his back into the wall.
“You fool! You stay away from her!”

His
eyes clear and take on an obdurate aspect. “Nothing happened. And what business
is it of yours?”

I’m
probably overreacting; he wouldn’t have escaped her apartment had she put the
fullness of her enchantment on him. I release his jacket and close my eyes as I
run the back of my hand over my brow. He doesn’t understand what Angelina can
do. “
Something
happened. You should thank the gods it didn’t go too
far.”

If
Angie wanted him, she would have taken him. She doesn’t as a rule invite in a
future conquest for assessment, so I bet she was playing with him. Still, he’s
in her sights.

A
horrible thought blooms in my brain. “She didn’t sing to you, did she?”

“No.”
River looks at me like I’m crazy. I inhale deeply to calm my pounding pulse. If
Angie sang her siren song, I’d have to watch him every minute to stop him going
back to her.

I
go to the bed and collapse on the mattress. Fear for River and all the emotion
makes me very, very exasperated. “She’s a siren. She’ll chew you up and spit
out the husk.”

Still
at the wall, River sounds awed. “She
eats
people?”

I
can’t help it - I laugh wearily. “She feeds off a person’s essence. She siphons
a man’s free will until he can’t think, can’t act, can’t do anything but be her
plaything. And when he no longer entertains her, she tosses him aside.”

I
meet his astonished gaze. “She’s not a bad person, not really. Most people give
in to their nature and she’s no exception,” I say generously, feeling anything
but munificent. Nature be damned, she has enough self-control to leave her
tenants and their guests alone. I’d like to plant my foot on her beautiful
face.

“You
were fortunate, but please don’t go back there,” I add.

“I
don’t plan to. Not that I knew about her. You could have warned me.”

“Seems
I should.” Hells, didn’t think of it. Had other things on my mind, like a
hundred of them. And I never guessed Angie would jump my house-guest. Bitch.

I
remember what I meant to do and haul my butt off the bed. “I have to go see
someone and I’d like you to come along.”

River
pushes off from the wall. “Who is it?”

“The
angel.”

I
meant to visit the angel to ask it about Castle. Now I have another reason. It
will look at River and know his past, including what motivated him. I hope it
will try to warn me. Whether I can decipher the warning or what the angel knows
of Castle’s murder is another matter. Still, how it reacts to River may give me
a clue.

I
don’t want to believe what Alain said but I’ll be a fool to dismiss it.

“An
angel?”

“A
fallen angel.” I warily study River’s face. He may know of the angel and what
it can do if he came from the Greché. If, according to one of Alain’s theories,
he’s a Downsider, he’ll definitely want to avoid a meeting.

His
expression is thoughtful, eyes aglow with curiosity.

The
sky is dark and sullen but I don’t smell rain. We avoid a shopkeeper who wheels
display racks on the sidewalk. I trudge beside River past an antique mart and
turn right along an alley. The alley takes us to another running parallel.
Alert, I try to look everywhere at once. Walking here makes me edgy. I should
have chosen another route through streets more populated. Dark as Hades, these
empty streets are perfect for an ambush.

We
stand at the entrance to Tempor Square a few minutes later.

There
is something terribly desolate about the square and its old brick buildings. Daubed
on before the angel came, old graffiti smears walls and sidewalks. Soot streaks
charred brick and wood, burned bricks have exploded from the walls. It was always
a poor area but people did live here until the angel took up residence. Land is
at a premium in Gettaholt and the city would raze this place and rebuild, if
not for the angel.

Jagged
holes with blackened edges in several roofs are visible from the street; the
castellated brick rim of another roof is all but gone. The angel throws
lightning when it has a drunken temper tantrum. Thus, the residents abandoned
the square soon after the angel arrived. It doesn’t intentionally hurt people
but neither does it avoid them when they are in its path. I don’t know whether
it notices them.

The
angel is always drunk.
How
drunk is what one has to watch for.

Castle’s
curiosity brought him to the angel years ago. He discovered it consumes
prestigious amounts of alcohol, speaks in verse and sees everything. He
returned several times, and although he had no idea what the angel thought of
him, whether it relished his visits or couldn’t be bothered to chase him away, they
did have some kind of relationship and what could pass as conversation. Did
Castle intrigue the angel and break up the monotony of its existence?

Having
Castle here would be handy. He understands the angel better than I do. Trust
him to be elsewhere when I need him. There again, he’s not likely to appear
while I’m with River.

“What
is this place?” River asks.

“The
Shrine of the Weeping God.”

The
angel likes the derelict shrine, the tallest structure in the old part of the
city. Perhaps its melancholy disposition appreciates the decay.

“Are
you going to tell me why we’re here?”

“The
angel knows everything. A child weeps, a bug is crushed underfoot, a man lies
to his wife. Everything. I hope it can tell me who killed Castle.”

“Hope?
It knows everything but may be unwilling to share?”

“No.
I don’t know.” My brow wrinkles. “It speaks another language. You’ll see what I
mean when we get there.”

“Castle.
When are you going to tell me what happened to him?”

He’s
good at lobbing awkward questions when I don’t expect them. Feeling his gaze on
me as if it has substance, I look upward at the spire. My eyes swim and my
teeth grind together, but I decide to answer. “Someone stabbed him in the neck.
They held him so he couldn’t disappear. He bled out.”

“And
only a vampire or a wraith can do that.”

I
nod mutely and try to swallow the lump in my throat. Will a time ever come when
I speak of Castle and don’t visualize his body in a pool of blood?

My
gaze slants to River. “Don’t say anything when we get up there. Sit and keep quiet.
Please? The angel is unpredictable.”

His
shoulders jog up, which I interpret as agreement.

The
great arched porch to the shrine once had a door, now long gone. We pick a path
through the entrance and into the hall over broken brick and glass. Stained
glass no longer enhances the tall arched windows, the remaining lead is
crooked, warped. The benches where supplicants once rested their bones are
shattered splinters. Glass shards are everywhere. We go to the east corner
where a spiral iron staircase disappears into the gloom above. Tiny puffs of
pearly-white angel fluff lie thickly around the bottom step.

A
plastic crate filled with liquor bottles waits at the bottom. Merchants leave
alcohol for the angel, otherwise it will take it anyway and wreck their stores
in the process; not on purpose, but it tends to go from point A to point B in a
direct path and mow through anything in between. So the drink is a kind of
offering, though not one of worship.

“Bombs
bursting on air!”
a high, thin, chillingly beautiful voice
trills.

“Hells!”
I grab River’s hand and haul him aside to avoid the bottle which crashes on the
floor and disintegrates in shards.

I
wait a moment, but nothing more flies down from above. “I think we’re safe.
Come on.”

I
climb the steps with River following and precede him through the trapdoor into
the loft. The wooden loft is big, with a high vaulted ceiling. The angel needs
space to spread its wings and the sloping east ceiling, the angel’s way out of
the room, is gone but for a few broken boards around the edge.

The
angel is a shade under ten feet tall today. I’ve seen it taller, and shorter.
With pale, perfectly smooth skin like off-white marble, it looks like a masterfully
carved statue, except divine sculptures don’t hold a bottle of malt liquor in
one hand. It lounges in the loft, leaning back on the wall, one leg
outstretched, the other bent at the knee. The hand not holding the bottle is fisted.

Castle
thinks it drinks to numb the pain of being cast into the mortal realm.

It’s
beautiful in an androgynous way. Graceful even when totally smashed, and long-limbed,
its silver eyes are brilliant, dazzling and difficult to look at, like faintly
faceted mirrors. Long, perfectly straight silver hair waterfalls from head to
shoulders but its body is hairless. Huge wings trail along the floor either
side; the fluffy feathers near the shoulders are white but the contour feathers
gradually become mother-of-pearl which darkens to a burnished oil-on-water
iridescence. The tips are sharp as the thinnest steel. Remarkably, considering the
angel’s permanently plastered condition, the short, white sleeveless tunic is
always immaculate. If that isn’t magic, I don’t know what is.

Uncomfortably
on edge, I sit cross-legged on the filthy floor. River joins me after a second.
His expression mirrors mine the first time I saw the angel: awe.

“This
is River,” I say unnecessarily. The angel knows his name and everything about
him.