He crossed his arms, stretching the sleeves of his fine navy suit. Skull-and-bones cufflinks gleamed on his white shirt cuffs. “Monsieur Adler was myuncle.”
“Oh.Um,okay.”
“Why are youhere?”
“To explain my motivations.” The only way he’d accept my help was if I packaged it as something else entirely. “I bet my best friend I could get you to doonekind act, and I stand to lose a lot if I fail.” I waited for a feather to loosen from my wings because I hadn’t actually placed any wagers. Angels weren’t allowed to gamble, not even if it wasn’t for monetary gain. For some reason, perhaps because there was some truth in what I’d just said, no feather detached itself from mywings.
“Kind acts don’t benefit me in anyway.”
“They benefit yoursoul.”
His nostrils pulsed with a snort. “I like my soul just the way itis.”
I gaped at him.He’s a Triple, I reminded myself.Triples don’t care about their souls, the same way they don’t care about anyone but themselves. I glanced at the street that was empty of passersby and cars. What was I still doinghere?
Right. . .
Celeste.
Asherceleste.
“You wouldn’t like your soul the way it was if you knew what it meant,” Isaid.
“What it meant?” Jarod dipped his stubble-coated chin into his neck. “What does itmean,Feather?”
I was about to feed him a basic explanation, the one we were allowed to share with humans, when my mind caught up with the word he’d just uttered.Feather.The pounding in my chest migrated to my temples. “Why did you call methat?”
“Why did I call youwhat?”
“You just called her Feather,” Tristansupplied.
Time stretched on endlessly before Jarod said, “Because she looks soft and spineless. Like afeather.”
I should’ve winced or balked at the use of the word soft—first Tristan, now Jarod . . . couldn’t I be described any other way?—but the nickname struck too close to home. “Worms are spineless; feathers haveshafts.”
“Shafts aren’t spines.” A smile played on Jarod’s lips. “But if you’d rather I call youWorm—”
“No! Feather’s fine.” I licked my lips. “Does this mean you’ll give me a secondchance?”
“Well, you’re nicer to look at thanTristan.”
“Salaud,” Tristan cursed, but his chuckling told me he wasn’tangry.
Jarod pivoted toward the porte-cochère. “This should beamusing.”
This wouldn’t be amusing. Not in the least. But if I could get him to amend just one of his terrible ways, then it would be worthit.
As he rang his own doorbell—did he not have a key to his house?—he turned back toward me, “How long before your betexpires?”
“Amonth.”
Click.
He pressed his fingers into the lacquered wood. “You have twenty-fourhours.”
“What?” Isqueaked.
“I’m yours for a day. Once your time’s up, you’ll never seek me out again, and you’ll stop stalkingme.”
