“No kitchen,” he replied curtly. “I have no flesh to feed you, bloodborn. Animal or otherwise.”
I ignored his insinuation and glanced around at the few tables in the reception area, one of which was occupied by a quartet of elderly gentlemen playing dominoes. I imagined their iron-rich blood like an aged Cabernet, flowing just beneath the surface of their weathered hides. A thirst for human heme was an unfortunate side effect of my parentage. Thankfully, it only manifested when I occupied a human host.
But I could control that.
The scrape and click of dominoes against the wooden table provided a steady background percussion, as did the men’s mild bickering in Spanish. None of them seemed at all interested in me. Perhaps Santiago had cast an aversion. There was a bar that served both coffee and alcoholic drinks, and behind it, an open door curtained with burlap sacks. I knew from past visits this led to a big open room where factory workers rolled cigars.
This building served as Santiago’s headquarters, where he conducted his operations and received guests both human and divine. Malakhim were the envoy between gods and mortals. They called themselves messengers, but in my experience, they were gossips at best, and at worst, spies. Using a cigar factory as home base was strategic on Santiago’s part. There was no better way to get a bead on the goings on in one’s territory than to pack a bunch of people into a tight area where nattering was the best way to pass the long hours rolling tobacco.
In an effort to dampen my hunger, I plucked up Santiago’s already lit cigar between Jed’s grimy fingers and took a couple short puffs, careful not to inhale the smoke and induce a coughing fit. I hadn’t enjoyed a good cigar in ages. If I only had a couple of hours inside a human form with taste buds and synapses and a circulatory system, I was going to make the most of it. Santiago pushed his ashtray toward me with a distasteful expression. I breathed in the rich, earthen aroma as a handsome young man approached our table and asked if we’d like a drink. I requested the Cuban specialty, a mojito.
Santiago nodded his approval and dismissed the man with a wave of his manicured hand. “Apúrate,Xavier.”
“So handsome.” My gaze lingered on the young man’s shape. Santiago tended to keep the front house stocked with pleasing specimens. The bartender’s shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and the muscles of his forearms flexed as he muddled the lime, mint, and sugar behind the polished bar. His skin contrasted nicely with the white fabric of his shirt. Humans and their many delectable parts.
“Who is he?”
“None of your concern,” Santiago said briskly and shot the bartender a proprietary glance.
As if I could seduce the man in my current condition. But perhaps with a shower and a shave… Alas, inhabiting human bodies with their engorged sex organs and aching desire to touch and be touched reminded me too much of the body I’d lost.
“Mixing business with pleasure, are we?” I asked innocently. It never hurt to have a little dirt on my Malakhim overlord.
“You must know why you’ve been summoned,” Santiago said, skipping the usual pleasantries.
“Am I being promoted?”
His oily eyes narrowed at me. Likely, he’d prefer I were demoted, right out of his territory altogether.
“No, Nephilim, you are not beingpromoted.”
Angels like Santiago despised Nephilim and heralded our kind as ghastly examples of what happens when divinity consorts with humans, but Azrael had found a use for my seductive powers. Still, in all my centuries of service, I’d never risen above my lowly station. Gods held grudges, that much was certain.
“I go by Henri these days.” If I was to address him by his name of choice, then he should do the same for me. It was good manners after all.
Santiago straightened his shoulders as a hen fluffs up her wings before settling down to roost. “I can see your self-perceived splendor hasn’t diminished.”
“How long did it take you to fix your hair in that fashion?” I asked. Santiago’s condescension always brought out my obstinate streak. There was a time when I was more powerful than he, and perhaps there would be again. Like cards, the deck of divinity was always being cut and reshuffled.
The bartender brought over my drink, and I thanked him with a wink. I would have tipped him as well, but Jed was short on cash.
Santiago cleared his throat in an attempt to regain my attention. “There is the matter of one Roger Cunningham, shot to death in a robbery at a convenience store five miles from his residence.”
I was there when it happened, to see it through to completion. I had to make sure he wouldn’t be able to harm you again.
“Some people shouldn’t play the hero.”
“He was shot while trying to run away.”
I took a long drink, enjoying the sensation of the cool liquid as it soothed my dry throat and quenched my thirst. The minty sweetness excited my tongue, and the alcohol warmed my stomach. Something in Jed’s brain clicked into place. The man may have had an alcohol addiction.
“That’s delicious,” I said appreciatively while attempting to evade Santiago’s implication.
“The robbery?”
I sat back a little in my chair and gave Santiago a cool stare. If they intended to punish me for my involvement, I wouldn’t be sitting here. I’d be interrogated by an Imperium foot soldier or tortured for information in one of their many strongholds—perhaps chained to a rock with a regenerative liver so that it might be devoured daily by an eagle with a taste for pâté. The gods’ creativity truly shined when it came to our punishments.
A summons meant this was a gray area.
