Piercing blue-gray eyes held his, and Maddox tried to use his gifts, tried to sense the man’s emotions, but he felt nothing. No warmth deep inside of him. No connection to the Divine. To the celestial realm.
“Can’t…go to hospital. Look.” Maddox moved his right shoulder, extending the tip of his wing.
“Bloody hell,” the stranger muttered. “I can’t get involved in this, angel. If I do, I’ll be the death of you, and I am not going to have an angel’s end on my hands.” He started to rise, and an arc of light and power leapt from the man’s heart and hit Maddox in the chest.
The shock sent Mad’s body into convulsions, and he tasted blood. Warm hands cupped his cheeks. “Breathe, angel. Slowly. In and out.” As Maddox focused on the man’s voice and the kindness in his eyes, he managed to calm his body, but he still couldn’t move.
“Please...”
“I wish I could help, but I have to get somewhere far away from here before I hurt people. That bolt of magic? That was nothing.”
“Find the intruder!” a woman shrieked into the night, her words carrying over all of the screams around them. “Find the vial!”
The intruder. Him. Torture. Imprisonment. Death. Maddox barely managed to grunt what he feared would be his last free words in his long, supposedly immortal life.
“Left…jacket pocket. They’ll destroy me…for taking it. Hide it, at least.”
“This is a terrible idea,” the man said as he reached into Maddox’s pocket. “Fuck.” Jerking his hand back, he stared at the blood coating his fingers and the broken vial of celestial sand, a few grains of which landed on Maddox’s chest and infused him with a subtle warmth, turning the complete agony of his injuries into a more manageable torment.
Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, his potential savior wrapped the vial tightly and tucked it away. “I am going to regret this. What’s your name, angel?”
“Maddox.” The word escaped so quietly, it was only a whisper, and darkness encroached around the edges of his vision.
“Killian. Killian Wade. If my magic kills you, Maddox, put in a good word for me. I do not fancy spending eternity in Hell.”
As Killian slid his arm behind Mad’s back, the agony consumed him, every breath more painful than the last, and once he found himself cradled against his rescuer’s chest, he let go, falling into the void of unconsciousness—or death—thinking how good Killian smelled, and how he wished he could stay with him.
C H A P T E R F O U R
KILLIAN
A fucking angel? The man in his arms barely made a sound as Killian ducked down an alley on the way back to the Monarch Hotel. He’d saddled himself with an angel. And worse yet, one who apparently wasn’t as immortal as Killian had always thought they would be. The man’s hands were scraped and bleeding, one of his wings was bent, and his body shuddered with every breath.
The line of fire currently consuming Killian’s chest magnified, curling upwards towards his neck. What in the bloody hell had the curse done to him besides take away his most precious possession and leave him a danger to everyone. He groaned as he tightened his hold on Maddox. If he wasn’t careful, he’d drop the angel, and he didn’t know how much more Maddox could take.
Just before he burst out onto Bourbon Street, Killian peered around the corner. Shite. There had to be two hundred people between him and his hotel. Two hundred people who’d see him carrying a bloody man with breathtaking white wings folded against his back. Couldn’t angels hide the damn things?
Well, it was Samhain. The wings probably wouldn’t get a second glance. The blood, however…
“If I blow a hole in the eastern seaboard,” he said to Maddox quietly, “I’m blaming you.” The last time he’d tried to use any sort of magic, he’d fried his fingers to a crisp. And now, without his cuff, he had no way to control his power.
His head still ached from the curse, and he could feel the blood from his ears drying on his neck. Killian closed his eyes, his back pressed to the wall of a squat building. The magic started as a spark inside him, warming, growing, until it was a living, breathing energy fighting to be free.
“Mark this place and stop its time. Fleet of foot and smooth of tongue, let us pass unseen among.”
The sounds of Bourbon Street faded into silence, and when Killian risked a glance, every single living thing—man, woman, child, dog, and even mosquito—had frozen in place. It was the first spell he’d tried in years that hadn’t destroyed everything around him.
Only pausing for a moment to wonder why he’d gotten so lucky, Killian took off at a slow jog— all he could manage with the solidly build angel in his arms—and wove among the frozen people, ducking and twisting, until he came to the hotel. Pushing against the door with his back, he almost fell into the lobby, but even here, everyone was completely still.
Not until he reached Room 13 did he release the spell, and the after-effects hit him like a sledge hammer. He barely got Maddox to the bed before Killian dropped to his knees, grabbing his head with a mournful, inhuman howl.
Clawing his way to the window, he parted the curtains. Out on Bourbon Street, people continued to celebrate Samhain, and Killian fell back down with a choking sob. He’d done it. Cast a spell, released it, and hadn’t killed anyone. Thank the Divine.
From the bed, Maddox coughed weakly, and Killian got to his knees, fighting off the dizziness to crawl back to the bed.
Was this why he’d been summoned to New Orleans? To be hit by this blasted curse and get himself entangled with an angel? He did not know who’d cast the spell or why, but the words were burned into his brain.
“Betrayers! Gather close and hear.
