Promises of Virtue Randi Perrin Sample

Promises of Virtue Š 2017 by Randi Perrin All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied format without the express permission from the author or publisher as allowed under the terms and conditions with which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

Promises of Virtue is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and places found therein are either from the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons alive or dead, actual events, locations, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

For information, contact the publisher, Hot Tree Publishing. www.hottreepublishing.com Editing: Hot Tree Editing Cover Designer: RM Graphx ISBN-10: 1-925448-67-3 ISBN-13: 978-1-925448-67-2

Dedication

Pour J.H. ma “mère française:” Ton influence dans ma vie est évidente chaque jour. Merci du fond du cœur pour le voyage qui a formé une si grande partie de ma vie quotidienne, aussi bien la plupart des scènes dans ce livre.

Je t’aime.

Chapter One Luc

Luc adjusted the large leather bag full of paints and paintbrushes that cut into his shoulder as he stepped onto the RER train. He placed the heavy bag at his feet before he dropped down onto the hard seat. His left hand crossed in front of him and massaged his right shoulder, which screamed in pain from hauling the bag around.

Such was the life of a painter.

He had spent the day on the outskirts of Paris painting murals for a new orphanage set to open the following week. Doing philanthropic work was what he loved best.

The money that came from his canvas masterpieces was nice and was enough to keep him from working a real job, but he loved the opportunity to use his gifts and his passions

to

give

back

to

the

community,

albeit

anonymously.

His sore shoulder was the culmination of a weeklong stretch of work. In the dining hall, he did a mural of woodland creatures playing together beneath the cover of

the forest and a brilliant rainbow. He did a nighttime scene in each of the large dormitory rooms, depicting the same woodland creatures from the dining hall mural settling down to sleep while fairies darted around them. His original design had the fairies as angels, but he changed it at the last minute, because angels are a touchy subject, particularly to those who have such a hard time believing.

It wasn’t his place to convert people into believers, despite the fact that he knew the truth.

He knew angels were real because he was one of them and had been since the day he turned eighteen. Even so, he kept that fact to himself—there was no need to call attention to it. He was just Luc Chevalier, painter, who just so happened to be called on to do miracles from time to time by a higher power. No big deal, right?

The train rattled down the line, and he leaned back into the hard seat, longing for a hot shower to work out his sore muscles. At least I don’t have to work the other job tonight.

No sooner had the thought flitted across his brain than his back begin to itch. He looked up.

Really, Jude, that’s how you want to play?

In response, the itch on his back—where his wings rested just under the surface of his skin—intensified. He was needed, and soon.

The train came to a halt, and with a burst of adrenaline, he picked up his bag and was the first off the train. The itch graduated to a burn as he hurried through the underground métro tunnels, the bag banging out a painful rhythm against his back with each step. He followed the intensity to tell him where he needed to be, his eyes darting around, keeping a vigilant watch for what he was being called to do.

Beneath his shirt, his wings twitched, their release imminent despite his less-than-ideal surroundings. He took a breath, dropped his bag, and dashed through the throngs of people to answer the call of desperation on his back. It had been a long time since he had experienced one this strong, and he didn’t want to be late. Showing up too late to perform a miracle was the worst thing to happen to a virtue.

BOOM! The sound of an explosion rumbled and echoed through the underground tunnel, sending shockwaves through the crowd, leading to widespread panic. Hundreds of frantic feet ran for the nearest exit.

The jolt of the crowd ripped through him and his wings emerged from his skin with searing pain—he’d waited too long. He concentrated and turned himself

invisible before the wings opened behind him. Lifting himself into the air, he scanned the situation with a discerning eye—virtues tended to cling onto details that ordinary humans missed, but in the pandemonium, even he struggled.

The fire on his back told him he had to do something soon.

Below him, a group of four children hugged the wall just below graffiti that proclaimed Phillipe aime Pénélope.

A red-haired woman did her best to urge the scared children through the tunnel, but they would not be moved.

They couldn’t have been more than four years old, and all of them were in tears, each one louder than the last. The woman struggled to keep them calm despite the level of hysterics around them. Luc smiled at her attempt, despite the sense of dread that surrounded him when he laid eyes on her. He buried the feeling deep down and focused on the kids.

A large group of people pounded the pavement behind them, and Luc knew the kids would not be able to move their tiny feet fast enough to avoid being overrun. As the crowd grew closer, the wails from the children rang in his ears, louder than the cacophony of everyone else’s screams.

He looked around for a place to get the kids to safety.

Once he found it, he landed close to them and made himself visible—it was a dangerous situation, to be seen by humans, but no kids were going to handle it well if an invisible force picked them up and flew them to safety.

The little girl at the front of the line looked at him, her eyes wide.

“Relax, my name is Luc. I’m here to help you, okay? I need you and all your friends to grab onto me—just not my wings. Can you do that?” The little girl nodded, her eyes transfixed on his iridescent green wings.

Luc glanced up at the same moment the red-haired woman looked at him. They locked eyes and she smiled.

Despite the calm demeanor she had about her, which had to be a façade for the kids, her blue eyes projected her fear about the entire situation. “What can I do, Luc?” “Bring the kids to me. I’ll fly them to safety, okay?”

The woman corralled the kids around him. He picked two up, one in each arm, while the remaining two grasped onto his legs. Turning himself and the kids invisible, he lifted himself into the air just in time. Below him the stampede of people trampled the ground his feet had been on mere seconds before.

As soon as the wild cluster of people passed, he looked down to find the redheaded woman motionless and bloody on the floor. A wave of guilt and nausea ripped through him, and he struggled to remain airborne. One of the kids saw her body and screamed, so he flew out of the tunnel.

As his feet touched the ground again, he turned himself visible, and his wings retreated into his back. The children gathered around him, and he crouched down to their level.

“Are you an angel?”

Luc nodded. “Yes, I am, but shhh”—he put his finger to his lips—“that’s our secret.”

“Then where’s your halo?”

He chuckled and pondered how to answer, seeing as how, as an angel, he was incapable of lying. If ever an angel didn’t deserve a halo, it was Luc. He’d spent his entire eighteen years as an angel riding the line between wrong and right, doing what was asked of him while bending the rules as far as they’d go without breaking them and losing his powers.

“Not all angels have halos,” he said. Not a lie. No earthbounds had halos. “Now, this is our secret. Do you understand?” The four heads bobbed “yes” but their eyes were wide and full of questions.

Luc stood up and looked around, hoping to find someone to help. Finally, he spotted a métro employee and rushed over to him to explain the situation. The man spoke some quick words into his walkie-talkie and then ushered the children through a doorway where he promised he would notify their parents.

Thanking him, Luc backed away before the kids noticed his disappearance. He flew back to the spot where he’d found them, where she lay on the floor, covered in blood, her legs splayed in unnatural directions. The itch on his back subsided—he had done his job, which meant he could do nothing to help her.

With each step he took closer to the motionless body, his feet grew heavier. Kneeling down to cradle her head in his hands, he whispered, “Rebekah, can you hear me?”

Her bright blue eyes fluttered open. He had spent years looking into those baby blues, and despite the angry and hate-filled words that composed their last conversation, he had a hard time seeing her suffer. Not like this anyway—he had been known to be a jerk, but he wasn’t coldhearted.

“Are the kids okay?” she asked, her voice weak.

Luc nodded and stroked her bloody hair.

“You came back for me.”

Luc took a deep breath and shook his head. “No, those kids were what I was after. My job is complete now. But I’ll stay here with you until paramedics arrive.”

“But you can. I know you can.”

Luc shook his head again. “No, Rebekah, I can’t. If I save you, I lose my wings. Maybe there was a time in my life when I would have lost my wings for you, but that time has passed.”

Rebekah narrowed her eyes at him. The menacing look was bone-chilling and quite familiar. She gave him the same look when he walked out the door of their apartment for the last time. “That’s the second time you’ve refused me because of those stupid wings.”

“These stupid wings just saved those kids, but I’m not going to fight with you. Save your strength. You’ve a much bigger battle of your own coming.”

She closed her eyes one last time, and just as he promised, he stayed with her until the paramedics arrived, despite the fact that he wanted to cut and run after that last comment of hers. It was one thing for him to badmouth his gift, his calling, but quite another for someone else.

Once she had been loaded onto a stretcher and the emergency crew was out of view, he turned himself

invisible, unfurled his wings, and flew out of the subway as fast as his wings could carry him. *** Luc landed on the rooftop of his apartment building in the first arrondissement in Paris, around the corner from the Louvre. He had found the place after he and Rebekah parted ways, and if there were a better place for him, he would be hard-pressed to find it. The landlord had allowed him to convert the abandoned rooftop greenhouse into a studio, and it was perfect. It had amazing light and an unrivaled view of the Jardin des Tuileries. Up there he was surrounded by art in every form imaginable—the beauty of the gardens, the paintings he created, the fine art at the Louvre—and he loved it.

Once his feet were on the solid surface, he remembered his bag of stuff, left forgotten in the underground train system, which meant he’d just lost thousands of euros worth of high-end paint supplies. He ran his hands through his hair with a low moan of frustration.

It would figure she’d cost me my paints too. What more can you take from me, Rebekah?

He trudged down the stairs to his fourth-floor apartment. The apartment still reeked of the paint remover

he’d used when he spilled one of the cans of paint getting ready to leave that morning. The spot on the wooden floor was slightly discolored, but at least it wasn’t red anymore.

He hated the color red.

He opened his refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of Volvic. He unscrewed the top and took a long drag of the cool, refreshing liquid before he walked to the bathroom and stripped, leaving his paint-covered clothes in a heap on the floor.

When the water in the shower was scalding hot, he climbed in and allowed the hard pelt of water to loosen his muscles. He wasn’t sure if the tension was because of countless hours of painting, much of it over his head, the past few days or because of his run-in with Rebekah.

His mind wandered to his first date with her. Her red hair was shorter and much brighter then—much like the strawberries she seductively lifted to her lips on that sunny afternoon—but it couldn’t detract from those eyes. She wasn’t divine, but her eyes were more brilliant than those of most angels he’d ever met. He thought he saw forever reflecting back at him when he looked into them for the first time.

With time, he learned that lies and pain were all they held.

He shook thoughts of Rebekah out of his head. She was no longer his concern, in every sense of the word imaginable. The paramedics rushed her to the hospital and he’d crossed himself, whispering a prayer as she went.

He’d done his best.

He rotated his right shoulder, and when he could do so without a loud pop, he turned the water off and reached across the small, windowless room for a towel.

He dried off, brushed his short, dirty-blond hair with his fingers, and then put his paint-splattered jeans back on.

His chest and feet were still bare when he picked up his bottle of water and ascended the stairs to the rooftop. He needed to take stock of what he had left so he could make a trip to the art supply store later to recoup the items he lost in the bowels of the métro.

Looking around his studio, he sighed. Half-finished canvases of various sizes surrounded him. His agent was sure to threaten torture if he didn’t get something done for the next show, but inspiration hadn’t struck yet, and he knew better than to force it. Forced art was crappy art, and he was better than putting out anything without the heart and soul behind it to make it believable.

There, in the middle of the room, was his brown leather bag, and a man with a tight buzz cut and amber

eyes—wings the same color—stood next to it. Luc sucked in a shocked breath at the sight of his dominion angel, the one who bossed him around, in his studio. Under normal circumstances, he only appeared to him in dreams. This couldn’t be good.

“Jude, did I fall asleep in the shower or something?”

He put a hand to his short hair. Still wet. This is a realistic dream.

Jude smiled. “It’s a realistic dream because it’s real.”

Luc rolled his eyes and sneered. He hated the mind reading, and Jude knew it. “You promised no more mind reading.”

“Stop projecting, then,” Jude said with a laugh.

Luc stepped forward and gave Jude a man hug, making sure to avoid his wings, which was no easy task as they were larger than his own. Such was the advantage of being a true angel. “What brings you to the realm of your earthbound servants? Other than to return my bag, and I am quite grateful for that, by the way.” Earthbounds did the bidding of the higher angels, but they had the advantage of better understanding humans because they were humans— or at least they started out that way. Everything changed once they were chosen and gifted wings on their eighteenth birthdays. There were definitely benefits, among them not

being able to procreate, which made his dating life awesome. His inability to lie, swear, drink, or hit humans somewhat irritated him. Especially the latter, though he had only ever wanted to hit one guy, and he was long gone.

“You’re welcome. But it’s not a social call, much as I’d like it to be.” Although Jude was Luc’s angel boss now, the two became friends when he was second-in-command to

Michael.

Being

second-in-command,

made

him

responsible for the dirty work, namely Luc’s punishments when he used his wings unnecessarily, which happened a lot. Despite their early interactions, they hit it off.

Sometimes Luc questioned his sanity in calling his boss, who wasn’t even human, his best friend. Like it or not, Jude was the only one who had been there for him through everything—his mother’s death, graduate school in another country, and Rebekah’s lies.

Luc sat down on a stool; he knew whatever was about to emerge from Jude’s mouth wasn’t going to be pretty.

Anything that warranted a trip to Earth couldn’t be good.

“Rebekah’s dead.”

Chapter Two Cheryl

Sera hugged Cheryl and wiped a tear from her eye. “I can’t believe you’re going to France. Without me.”

Cheryl pulled back and slammed into a guy walking past her. He muttered a few choice words and continued on his way, his little black suitcase trailing behind him.

“There’s still time. Go pull your passport out of a box and get on a flight tomorrow. You can share my apartment.”

Sera laughed and looked down at her left hand, at the ring that had been there for about sixteen hours. “You know I can’t, not right now. I need to unpack all my stuff, get used to being here, and find a job.”

“It can all wait. Globe-trotting with your best friend should take precedence over all of that,” Cheryl said with a wink. She knew Sera would turn her down, but it still didn’t hurt to try.

“No offense, but I’ve lived with you for the past six weeks. I want to enjoy living with my fiancé now.”

“That is so weird to hear you say,” Cheryl replied. “I mean, just a few months ago you were telling me how you wouldn’t date anyone because of this deep, dark secret following you around, and now you’re engaged.”

“Things change,” Sera said with a cursory glance over her shoulder, where her wings used to reside.

She was right. Things did change, and when they did, they did so in a huge way.

Before their fall from grace—that took their divinity but not their dignity—Cheryl worked at Sera’s bakery in Virginia Beach, and she lived with her father. Now, she and her father weren’t on speaking terms. Sera was engaged to Destin and had moved to Chicago to be with him. Cheryl, on the other hand, still floundered a bit, unsure of what to do with herself. She was taking a month-long jaunt across the Atlantic to hang in France and take in her favorite thing in the world, art. A trip neither her father nor her dominion would have condoned. Sera had insurance money and helped her with the costs, along with the planning. As usual, Cheryl owed a lot to Sera—but true to the type of person she was, Sera would always say it was the other way around. It’s what made them work.

“Final boarding call for flight 1975 to Paris.” The airline worker who made the announcement looked straight at Cheryl, as if telling her to hurry up this goodbye.

Cheryl wrapped her arms around her best friend one more time. “I’ll e-mail as soon as I get there, and we’ll Skype every day.”

“You don’t have to Skype with me every day.”

“Yes, I do. So deal with it.”

Sera laughed and whispered in her ear. “I love you.”

“I love you too. I’ll be home in a month, and we can terrorize Destin together.” Sera scrunched her face. “Okay, well, I’ll be home in a month, and I can terrorize Destin.”

Cheryl turned around and took a few steps in the direction of the Jetway, her ticket and newly acquired passport leaving indentations in her hand.

“Cheryl, wait,” Sera called, taking a few steps in her direction. The backpack on Cheryl’s shoulders shifted and seemed five times heavier. “Didn’t want you to forget your phrase book. You’re going to need it.”

“Ha. It hasn’t helped in the past month, so what makes you think it will now?”

“Call it a hunch. Now go before the plane leaves without you.”

Cheryl joined the line behind a few other stragglers and turned to wave at Sera before she took a deep breath and walked down the ramp.

“Well, here goes nothing.” *** Cheryl stepped onto the large plane and smiled. She was one step closer to crossing the Louvre off her bucket list—a list she never thought she’d need until she lost her wings and her immortality.

Just one seven-and-a-half-hour flight and she’d be close enough to taste it. Hell, she could already taste it; it was sweet, even sweeter than the cookies Sera made that she claimed were just like the cookies she had at the food court at the Louvre. Sera got to do everything.

Wrapped up in the thought of cookies, she licked her lips as she wrestled her way through the aisles of the firstclass cabin. All of the first-class passengers were seated, and most of them had cracked books or magazines and pretended to avoid the stares of the coach passengers as they filed by.

Cheryl stepped through the curtain, on the hunt for seat 24A. She held her hand behind her back in an attempt to contain the bag on her shoulder that threatened to careen into fellow passengers, but her attempts failed in the

narrower rows of coach. Her bag hit a seat, and the thick French phrase book Sera had shoved into the front pocket flew out and landed on the lap of a man whose head was resting against the back of his upright seat with his eyes closed.

“Hmph,” he moaned as his eyes flew open.

The eyes that locked onto hers were the color of the lattes she liked, and they were the same shade as his hair.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she said as she retrieved the book from his outstretched hand. “Not a whole lot of room to maneuver.”

“It’s okay.” He gave her a smooth smile. One of his front teeth was a little crooked, and she wasn’t sure if she should find the imperfection irritating or cute. She took a step away from him, still looking for 24A, and put the quandary out of her mind. She had much more important things to worry about than his teeth.

She clasped the thick book to her chest with her left hand, while her right attempted to keep the bag from assaulting another one of the passengers in the next thirteen rows.

Cheryl made it to her seat without hitting anyone else, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she wrestled her backpack into the overhead compartment. She was sure she

would need it later, but it was safer for everyone involved if it was in the overhead bin.

She sat down in her window seat with her phrase book situated on her lap. She ran her hands over the cover, much like Sera used to do to her cookbooks before they burned up in the fire, though Cheryl wasn’t doing it to express love, as Sera did. She was procrastinating, avoiding the eventual frustration that would come when she opened it.

She had been practicing for the six weeks leading up to the trip, and the only French phrase she’d mastered was merci beaucoup.

Well, at least I’ll be a polite, ignorant American.

She rested her hands on the book and stared out the window at the guys in orange vests who were throwing the luggage around as if it weighed nothing. She happened to know her two suitcases weighed a lot more than nothing; in fact, one of them was overweight, which was not a cheap fee to absorb either.

The sound of a throat clearing above her grabbed her attention. Standing in the aisle was the cute guy with brown eyes her book had accosted. “Is this seat taken?”

Cheryl glanced at the empty seat. She wanted to reply with a smartass comment, but for some reason, the Queen

of Snark was unable to come up with anything good, so she just shook her head.

“If someone shows up with that ticket, are you going to let them sit on your lap?” she finally managed to ask as he buckled his seatbelt.

“Nah, I thought whoever it is and I could have a true fisticuffs brawl in the aisles over who got the right to sit next to you for the next seven and a half hours.”

Cheryl laughed, despite the voice inside her head telling her not to.

He glanced at the book in her lap. “I see the book has attacked your lap too. Someone should put it in time-out.”

“I wish someone would,” Cheryl admitted. “No matter how hard I try, I can’t remember anything. French is not my forte in life.”

The man’s shoulders shook before a soft laugh slipped past his lips. “It’s not that hard. I’ve been fluent since I was ten, so I bet I can help.”

She looked him over. His face was young, and she was suddenly quite self-conscious of the age gap she perceived between them. “So, you’ve been fluent for, what, two years?”

That time he didn’t even hide the laugh. “Try twenty, but I appreciate the compliment. Though, isn’t it I who

should compliment you about your age? This is a crazy role reversal, and I’m not sure I can handle it. But I can handle teaching you a few phrases.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but was interrupted by the stewardess who was giving the safety spiel. Her heart quickened when the thought settled into her brain that she was about to fly across the Atlantic in a metal tube— her days of flying on her own, with her beautiful green wings, and performing miracles were long behind her. She had no regrets about her fall from grace, but sometimes she couldn’t help the apprehensions and self-doubt that crept into her mind. Without her wings or powers, she was unable to protect herself. It was almost as if she lacked purpose.

Her eyes settled back on the man next to her, his lips curved into a seductive smile. His presence somehow calmed her nerves, and she was somewhat grateful her book attacked his lap. He would be a great distraction from her pessimistic thoughts throughout the flight.

“My name is Cheryl,” she said to him. “And I expect you to help me with my oxygen mask before you put yours on.”

He stuck out his hand, which she shook a bit too firmly judging by the surprise painted on his face. “Adam, and I promise. I should hope it doesn’t come to that.” *** After a horrible airline meal—which included a mini Toblerone, so it wasn’t all bad—Adam taught Cheryl a few common phrases she’d need while in Paris.

About ten phrases in, Cheryl leaned back and exhaled a long, uninterested sigh. “You’re done, aren’t you?” Adam asked, his words edged in frustration.

“I’m sorry. You’re an awesome teacher. I’m just…, I don’t know, hopeless.”

“You’re not hopeless. It’s much harder to learn as an adult than as a kid. Trust me, I learned French as a kid and Spanish as an adult, so I know.”

“Look at you, Mr. Trilingual. Aren’t you putting my sorry single language to shame?”

He laughed. “My mother taught French. I didn’t have a choice but to learn, since I was immersed in it. The Spanish, well, that was a whim of a decision before a trip to Mexico for vacation. What are you going to France for, anyway?”

“I’m going to museum hop.”

“There are museums to hop stateside.”

“Not the Louvre. You should know that.”

“Oh, I do, and I’ve been there plenty of times. It’s fantastic, if you’re into art, which I’m not.”

Oh, man, why did you have to go and ruin yourself?

You were damn near perfect. Save for that one tooth.

“That’s a shame because art is amazing,” Cheryl replied, her tone somewhat airy. “It’s so subjective, and what I see isn’t what someone else sees. The beauty is in the personal translation.”

He nodded his head. “You make me want to go to the Louvre again and give it another go. Maybe I’ll take you with me for a little inspiration into my personal translation.”

Is he asking me out?

She just smiled a goofy grin and looked down.

“What’s called you to the City of Lights?”

He sighed deeply. “Family emergency.”

Guilt pricked at her heart. “I’m sorry. I never should have asked.”

“It’s okay. I intend to do a little sightseeing too. You can never go to the Eiffel Tower too many times, as far as I’m concerned.”

The pilot announced their final descent into Paris, and Cheryl glued herself to the window to watch as the city

came into view. Her heart raced; she wasn’t sure if it was the looming view of the Eiffel Tower or the fact that she had survived a flight across the Atlantic without her wings.

Behind her, Adam laughed. Sure, she was a textbook tourist, and it was not her style to give much of a damn about what he thought about that. People didn’t have to like her; in fact, she had spent most of her life perfecting the sarcasm she used as a shield, warding off human connections.

“Where are you staying?”

“I don’t know, some place around the corner from the Louvre my best friend found,” she replied, her nose still pressed against the glass. Adam laid a hand on her back, and the touch sent a jolt of excitement through her.

“You’re staying in the first arrondissement. Fancy.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Is that good?”

Adam muffled a snicker behind her, and if it were possible, she became even more self-conscious of her ignorance. After all, he was American and laughing at her.

That couldn’t be good.

“Paris is broken up into sections, starting in the middle and fanning out. The farther you are from the center, the higher your number. You are right in the middle, the top.”

She turned to look at him, and the smile on his face made her stomach flop. It was filled with such adoration and affection, and something akin to pride. Was he proud of her for being there, or for him talking up a girl who was there?

“Where are you?”

“The twelfth, but it’s not too far from yours, although I know it sounds it. I would be happy to share a cab with you, maybe help you check in to your hotel. You may need a translator.”

Her eyes narrowed. That offended her. Then the rational part of her mind took over. He didn’t mean to hurt you. He wants to help you. And since when do you turn down help from hot guys anyway?

“I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”

The plane bounced on the ground, and the brakes locked so hard, Cheryl flew back in her seat.

“Bienvenue à Paris.” *** The black Mercedes cab was impressive, a far cry from the ancient, yellow Crown Victorias found in major metropolitan areas in the States. She shook in a mix of anticipation and intimidation as Adam slid into the seat

next to her and gave the cab driver directions in French that she didn’t have a chance of understanding.

Outside her window was a large city, nothing like the images of Paris she’d seen in books or on the various websites that Sera showed her as she booked the trip.

Cheryl was more than a little disappointed. Why does everyone claim this is so beautiful? It’s just like any other big city.

Disappointment consumed her for about twenty minutes, and then, in the far-off distance, the Eiffel Tower loomed into view, standing tall, keeping watch over the city. The cab turned right and the buildings gave way to the River Seine. To her right, Adam was giving her a history lesson about the Bastille, but the words he spoke fell onto deaf ears—she was lost in everything she saw. The view was more beautiful than the pictures made it out to be. She sighed and plastered herself up against the window, trying to drink it all in. Behind her, Adam stopped speaking and snickered.

“Okay, so I’m the typical tourist,” she snapped, her patience wearing thin for his mockery. “But this is more beautiful than any place I’ve ever seen.”

“Oui, it is beautiful.” He placed a hand on her back, and the irritation she had melted at his touch. “Just wait

until you see it at night. It is called the City of Lights for a reason. Perhaps I shall come back later to give you a tour.”

Cheryl turned to look at him. He was cute, and she longed to run her fingers through his messy brown hair. It just begged to be played with over and over again. Still, she knew nothing about him other than his mother taught French and he was in town for a family emergency.

If I play my cards wrong, I’ll be here for a family emergency—my own, seeing as how I’m no longer immortal.

She shrugged before her gaze returned to the sights outside the window, her mouth agape at the beauty before her. They passed a bridge, and there, across the water, was Notre Dame. Her heart caught in her throat. Since she lost her wings, she hadn’t given church much of a second thought, but this one was gorgeous, and it tugged at her, calling her name. She turned to watch the cathedral out the back window when Adam tapped her on the shoulder.

He pointed out the window on the right side of the cab.

“That is Le Louvre.”

If she thought Notre Dame was gorgeous, the Louvre blew her away as it seemed to stretch out for miles before her.

“The Louvre Palace used to be where the French royalty lived, up until Louis XIV moved to Versailles.”

Cheryl

nodded,

but

words

failed

her.

The

disappointment from twenty minutes earlier was forgotten.

Everything was beautiful, and she was in the middle of that beauty. She was before the museum that had been her dream vacation locale since her love of classic art began in her freshman World History class.

The cab kept going, and it wasn’t long before she caught a glimpse of the glass pyramid in front of the Louvre. She clambered over Adam and plastered herself against the window on the right. He laughed, not even trying to hide it, as he slid to the other side of the cab.

“Tu es très adorable.”

She thought she caught the word adorable in there.

“Uh, merci,” she replied, not paying attention.

She craned her neck to get a look at the beautiful gardens that now were on her left.

“That’s the Jardins des Tuileries.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Oui, but this city has many more beautiful things to offer. I can show them to you.”

The car made another turn and came to a stop in front of a building. The taxi driver climbed out and pulled

suitcases out of the trunk, glaring at her through the back window when he lifted the overweight bag. Cheryl and Adam stepped out of the taxi as well, and he asked the driver to stay for a moment.

“The e-mail said to go down to the corner store and ask for a key.”

Adam pointed to a small storefront three doors down from where they stood. “That’s it, come on.” The two walked down the street, and Adam slipped his hand around hers. It was hot and sweaty, and she tensed. He was cute, he was nice, and he was useful to have around, being fluent in both English and French, but she didn’t need—or want —a babysitter right now.

The man behind the register of the store sighed as he set the newspaper down. “Ça va?” “Ça va,” Adam replied. “La belle fille est là pour ramasser une clé pour un appartement.”

What kind of language is this? You answer a question with the same phrase?

“Oui.” The man pulled out two small envelopes, and furrowed his brow as he stared at each one. He shrugged and handed one to her. It had an apartment number written across the front.

“Merci,” she replied, slipping the envelope into her purse.

“Vous rendrez la clé ici à la fin de votre voyage.” He stared at her, and then looked at Adam.

“You will return the key here at the end of your trip,” he translated.

“Oh, okay,” she said.

“D’accord,” Adam replied. “Okay is d’accord.”

“D’accord,” she repeated, and the shop owner smiled.

“Elle ne parle pas Français?”

Adam shook his head. “Non, elle ne parle pas Français. Mais je l’aide.”

“Will you stop talking about me?” Cheryl asked, her hands placed on her narrow hips in defiance.

Adam laughed. “You don’t even know what we’re saying but know it’s about you. You’re intelligent. He just asked if you spoke French, and I said no, but that I was helping.” He reached down to take her hand again, but she pulled away.

The shop owner gave her a once-over, and with a slight laugh looked at Adam and said, “Bon chance.”

Adam smiled at him and turned to Cheryl. “Come on.

Let’s get you to your apartment. You’re probably exhausted.”

I’d

be

less

exhausted

if

you

wouldn’t

have

conversations that are about me that you know I can’t understand.

They walked down the street, past the taxi driver, who was leaning against the car, fingers flying across the screen of his phone. Adam reached for her bags, and she placed her hand out. “No, I’m fine. You go ahead. I don’t want you to have to pay any more for the cab.” She glanced into the taxi to see the meter hovering around fifty-five.

Fumbling with her wallet, she handed him sixty.

“Here, this should also cover tip.” Against her better judgment, she kissed his cheek. “Thank you for your help today. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime, la belle fille. Perhaps I can come by later, after you’re settled, and show you around the city?”

She faked a yawn. “Nah, I’ll just relax here for a bit, maybe take a nap. Perhaps another day.”

“Perhaps.” He gave her a tiny wave as he slid in the backseat of the taxi.

She pulled the envelope out of her purse. The apartment was 3A. She looked at her two large suitcases and sent up a small prayer to the apartment gods that this one had an elevator.

She rolled her luggage inside the building and looked around. No elevator. Shit.

Leaving the heavier suitcase at the door, she lugged the other one up the stairs. By the time she made it to the second floor, sweat rolled off her body into a puddle on the stairs. Her palms were covered, which made the handle slip out of her hand, and she struggled to grab it before it fell back down the stairs. After unlocking the door to apartment 3A, she rolled the bag inside and wrinkled her nose at the musty smell that greeted her—dust and old cheese. Then she went downstairs and repeated the process for the other bag, struggling under its weight. Someone walked through the front door of the building, so she hurried up the stairs, banging her brand-new suitcase against each step and not caring about the damage she did, just so she could avoid being the subject of more ridicule for the day.

Once in the safety of her apartment, she surveyed her new space. There was a double bed on one side covered by a threadbare gray blanket. On the other side was a wellworn and cracked leather loveseat. “Not that it matters. I don’t think I’ll have any company,” she said to the empty room, her words echoing around her. ***

Cheryl pulled out her computer and hooked it up to the Wi-Fi using the piece of paper inside the envelope that had contained her key. She didn’t understand the instructions, as they were in French, but a string of nonsensical letters and numbers seemed to resemble a password. She typed the random characters in and did a dance when it worked.

She opened Skype and called Sera. Her phone didn’t have international coverage, so Skype and messages through Destin’s e-mail—Sera refused to get her own email address—were the only means they had to communicate. She had not been away from Sera for any length of time in the past few years, not since Sera spent a semester abroad in culinary school, so she suspected her prediction of Skyping her every day would surely become reality.

“Hey, you,” Sera said with a smile. “I wasn’t expecting to talk to you yet.”

“You know me. Expect the unexpected.”

Sera laughed. “Understatement.”

“I met a cute guy,” Cheryl blurted out.

“Already? That was quick.”

“It’s a gift. What can I say?” Cheryl replied as she unzipped her backpack.

“You can start with the details.”

“Well, it’s kind of your fault.” Sera rolled her eyes, the disbelief at Cheryl’s words evident. “Had you not haphazardly shoved that evil book in my backpack, it never would have accosted him as I walked by, and then I never would have shared a cab with him to my apartment.”

As Cheryl spoke, she unpacked some of her stuff, placing clothes in the tiny chest of drawers near the bed.

“Aren’t you tired as all get out?”

“Yeah, I am. But it’s kind of hard to sleep right now.

I’m buzzing with excitement.”

“I’d be worried that you were sick if you didn’t buzz with excitement while you were in Paris.”

“Yeah, but….”

“But what?”

“It’s kind of lonely.”

“You hate people.” Cheryl glared at her computer screen. “Well, except me.”

Cheryl shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess it’s kind of the reality of you and Destin getting engaged. Maybe it’s time for me to grow up.” Cheryl fiddled with the necklace she wore, three stones in varying shades of green, while on the computer Sera played with her own, though hers was blue.

“Stop it.” The edge in Sera’s tone caught Cheryl off guard. “You’re playing with your necklace.”

“See, that just proves how immature I am.”

“Shut up. I’m playing with mine too. I always do. But you wouldn’t have that necklace if you hadn’t done the most amazing, unselfish, mature thing anyone could ever do.”

“Aww, if my tear ducts worked, I’d cry.”

Sera laughed. “Your tear ducts work just fine. You just don’t let yourself feel anything. Which is fine, because that’s just you, and I love you for that. But don’t ever convince yourself that you’re not mature.”

“Okay, maybe mature wasn’t the right word.”

“Nope. Try again.”

Cheryl put her now-empty suitcase into the closet.

“Maybe I hitched my wagon to the wrong star, and I’m chasing the wrong dreams. Maybe art isn’t what I’m supposed to do.”

“You are definitely jet-lagged because I’ve never heard you say such things. Please go to sleep and call me when my best friend has returned and kicked this insecure little brat to the curb.”

“I’m serious, Sera.”

Sera’s normally carefree and breathy voice lowered and turned serious. It was rare when it came out, but Cheryl always ended up hating the words when it did.

“You’re struggling with who you are now, aren’t you? You don’t have your wings, and now you just question everything about yourself.” Cheryl nodded. “Stop it. Do you remember what you told me six weeks ago? That my wings weren’t going to change the fact that Destin loved me? Your wings don’t change who you are or the fact that I love you. I loved you before the wings, during our divine days, and I still do now.”

“Thanks.”

“Now, stop wallowing in self-pity. You’re in the most amazing city in the world, and you’re still the most amazing person I know.”

Cheryl yawned. “Okay, goodnight. And for the love of all things holy, please don’t have sex with Destin in my bed while I’m gone.”

“Too late,” Sera said with a giggle.

“I have taught you well, grasshopper.”

“Indeed. Now go to sleep.”

Cheryl snapped the computer closed and collapsed onto the bed.

Chapter Three Luc

Luc had wrestled with going to Rebekah’s funeral since the moment Jude’s words escaped his lips two days before. He tossed and turned the night before the funeral, and when sleep finally crept in on him, Jude was waiting for him in his dreams.

“What, didn’t want to walk among the living to have this bout of conscience with me?” The smug smile on Luc’s face indicated he thought he won, but Jude folded his wings behind him with a look that implied Luc knew better.

“You have to go. You know you have to go.”

“I want to go. I owe her that much, I think. We were engaged, after all.”

Jude shot him an exasperated look. “Then what is your problem?”

“For a divine being who knows all and sees all, you seem to forget that two and a half years ago I walked out

on her while she was pregnant. Her parents never forgave me.”

“Even when they found out the truth?”

Luc crossed his arms in front of his broad chest and laughed. “They expected me to stay with her, even though the baby wasn’t mine. As far as the other truth, she was sworn to secrecy on that.”

Jude rolled his eyes. “I’m kind of surprised she kept it after all of that.”

“Yeah, well, so am I, but she did. Once again, I owe it to her.”

Jude clapped him on the back. “There’s your answer.

In everything that went down, she kept her mouth closed.

Is there something else? Are you feeling guilt for not saving her the other day?”

Luc shook his head, then nodded. “Not really. The rules. I bend them, but I don’t break them.”

“You did the right thing. It was her time, and it wasn’t your call to make.”

Luc nodded. “I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I am. Might I add, it’s time for you to stop being someone you’re not.”

“I’m still the same angel you know and love, Jude.” As if to prove the point, Luc batted his eyelashes at his boss.

Jude rolled his amber eyes and shook his head. “No, you’ve been in a funk since you two split. Quit the crap and just find another girl. You’re much easier to deal with when you have one.”

“Never again, Jude. I’m not opening myself up for that again. I’m doing what I want, no need for strings or attachments. It’s better this way.”

Jude threw his hands in the air and turned his back to take a step away from Luc. “I vehemently disagree, but what do I know?”

“Exactly, Jude, you don’t know. You’ve never had a girl.”

Jude whirled around and his amber eyes shot daggers at Luc. “No, I haven’t. A girl is what ruined my predecessor. But he knew the rules.” His gaze softened a bit, as did his tone. “But those rules don’t apply to you.”

Luc laughed. “This time I think I’m going to make one that even I don’t bend.”

“Miracles can happen.”

“I know. They are my job, after all.”

Jude smiled as he shook his head and snapped his fingers. Luc woke up with a start and looked around the room. A single ray of sunlight shone on his black suit that

had been hung over the edge of his closet door—and he knew he didn’t leave it there the night before. *** After a long shower, Luc mustered the courage to get dressed. He put on his black suit, with a white shirt underneath, and then he rummaged around in the back of his closet. He pulled the red silk tie free from the tangle of ugly ties he had amassed over the years. The color of blood, the color of pain—the color of her hair. Her favorite color.

He slicked back his short blond hair and added a dab of cologne before he made eye contact with himself in the mirror. “Okay, Luc, you can do this.”

Confidence welling in him, he stepped to the front door of his apartment. He turned the knob, and then he noticed the calendar by the door. He let go of the knob as if it were on fire and leaned against the door with a heavy sigh. He was supposed to be celebrating his second wedding anniversary with Rebekah—instead he was going to a church to pay his respects to a woman he no longer respected. “No, I can’t.”

You can, and you will, shouted Jude’s voice in his head. Luc rolled his eyes. The downfall to being best friends with an omnipotent being.

“All right, you win,” Luc said as he threw his hands up. He ran his fingers through his hair and then opened the door again. That time he stepped through and went down the stairs to the street.

He started in the direction of the métro station, but halfway there a vision of Rebekah on the floor of the subway hit him, and he decided to catch a cab instead. He could have driven, but he rarely took the car out unless he was leaving the city. *** Luc hid in the back of the church, doing his best to blend in with the dark wooden pews, which was hard to do given the fact that he was six foot two, blond, and had bright green eyes that Rebekah used to swear glowed in the dark. It wasn’t true, but he had always found it cute she thought that.

Even hiding in the shadows, the shivers that ran up his spine made him feel as if evil were present, which he knew was not possible. Demons lurked around, waiting for their chance to steal a soul from an angel of death. It had been days since a death angel welcomed her, so he had to be imagining things. Or, more likely, it was just his fear of having to deal with Rebekah’s family, none of whom could be considered his biggest fans.

A little girl with bright red hair and wearing a black dress overtop a cloth diaper toddled by him. The child looked up and, if he weren’t already certain it was Rebekah’s baby, the blue eyes staring back at him cemented the thought. She was adorable.

“Liliane. Liliane, come back here,” a man called as he came running into the sanctuary.

Of course she gave her a name that meant innocence.

Sweet irony at its finest.

The man, who Luc recognized as Rebekah’s brother Phillippe—he’d lost weight—picked up the baby and handed her to his mother. Through his first stroke of luck of the day, she didn’t look to the right to notice Luc watching.

A strong hand landed on Luc’s arm and dragged him outside.

“You have an awful lot of nerve being here.”

Luc flinched back. “Excuse me? I was the one engaged to her, remember?”

“If you loved her, you wouldn’t have left her when she needed you most.” Phillippe looked as if he were ready to throw a punch.

Over Phillippe’s shoulder, a few familiar faces entered the church, along with one that made the hair on the back

of his neck stand on end. Maybe that was the evil he had been sensing all along.

“You want to hit me, don’t you?” Luc asked. “Go ahead. She caused me enough pain during her life, so it should only make sense that she gets her chance with her death as well.”

Phillippe pulled his fist back, but Rebekah’s mother stepped out with the baby on her hip, wailing. Knowing he needed to escape, Luc went invisible and lifted himself into the air. “What are you doing? Come on, we’re about to get started.”

Phillippe shook his fist out. “Sorry, just getting my thoughts together.” He turned to where Luc stood and, when he was met with nothing, his head swiveled from side to side. Luc looked down at him from the air above and couldn’t contain the laugh.

Phillippe walked back into the church, throwing casual glances over his back every other step. Luc laughed even harder from the safety of the air.

He had two options: return to the sanctuary concealed in invisibility or let his wings carry him home and spend some time in the studio.

His wings took over, which gave him the answer, and he left the small Catholic church behind. He glanced back

over his shoulder, unable to shake the feeling that he was being followed. *** After landing on the rooftop of his apartment, Luc went downstairs to change into his favorite paint-splattered jeans. He learned years before to never paint in anything that he didn’t want covered in remnants of his craft. In his broken-in jeans and a threadbare T-shirt, he jerked the fridge open and pulled out a bottle of water before he returned to the roof.

He shoved the half-painted canvases out of his way and pulled out a fresh one. He inhaled deeply; the smell of freshness and creativity always wafted off a virgin canvas.

So new, so full of possibilities.

An ancient palette that was more dried paint than wood sat on the counter, and he grabbed it. Pulling out his paints, he twisted the lid off the tubes of acrylic colors— blue, yellow, black, white, and finally, red. He rarely used acrylics anymore, but for whatever reason, they called to him. Given his lack of motivation as of late, he would heed whatever call he could get.

He added a bit of each color to the palette and dug out a brush. He dipped the brush into the blue, then into the yellow, until he had mixed a brilliant green color,

resembling the fields outside the city on a summer day. The shade of green was perfect, so he moved his brush from the palette and pressed it against the pristine canvas. The rush and thrill of creation overtook him, and his hand moved of its own accord. Back into the green, back on the canvas, into the yellow, brush on canvas.

When he painted, everything around him ceased to exist. The giant pigeons that pecked on the greenhouse walls wanting a scrap of food would have to wait. The phone in his pocket vibrated, which he ignored. He had waited so long to find the zone again; he wasn’t going to leave it. A slight twinge raced up his back, but just as quickly as the itch began, it receded. Thank you, Jude.

He painted until he lost the light, but by then he had completed it. He stood back to admire the piece and smiled.

“For you, Rebekah. I’m just sorry you didn’t get a chance to see it.”

A chill ran up his spine and through his wings. He wrapped his arms around himself, then took one last look at the painting and smiled before he locked up his studio and went down to his apartment to make tea in an attempt to warm up.

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