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And I am no longer that terrified boy in Uncle’s carriage. If he could see me now…
I detach myself from the wall and fly upward again, to allow myself one last glimpse of Casziel. He’s fallen asleep on the couch, his handsome face in profile, eyes closed, a small smile playing over his lips.
Sleeping, I scoff. I have no need of it. But to curl up on the couch with someone… To be held…
My hundred beetle wings twitch at the notion. That is weakness.Hisweakness. Casziel had been an archduke of hell and yet let himself fall prey to a mere human woman. An unremarkable one at that. I will never be that foolish. Never let anyone lay a hand on me unless it’s to further my own desire. I am powerful now and will not give it up for anything.
On the street, I reform myself into a human, walking and thinking. I’ll return to London and find Cole Matheson and—
“Destroy him?”
My words seem to hang, frozen, in the chill New York night.
It would be agonizing to Casziel and Lucy if I drove Cole to the Other Side. Asmodai would be pleased that I’d not only obeyed his command but that I’d punished the demon who escaped him and his human lover at the same time. A satisfactory outcome all around.
Especially for me.
Yet…
Why do you hesitate? Humans brutally murdered you. Casziel has forgotten you. They all deserve a little taste of the pain you’ve been force-fed your entire life.
I brush off the last tendrils of hesitation.
“Cole Matheson, it is.”
three
“No noise after eight p.m., no parties, no girls.”
I smirked behind the woman’s back as we surveyed the tiny basement apartment in Whitechapel. “How about boys?”
Velma Thomas, my potential new landlady, turned and squinted at me through eyes nestled in wrinkles. She wore a shabby housedress and slippers and a perpetual frown that was etched into her jowls.
“What’d you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Hmph. Rent is first of the month, not a day later. Also, no pets, no loud music, no smoking…”
As she droned on about all the things I wasn’t allowed to do, I glanced around. Dim, dusty, drafty. Hardly more than a square box with walls painted black, as if Ms. Thomas held open-mic nights or taught improv here. One window showed a thin rectangle of street. Other amenities included a hot plate, a mini fridge, and a bathroom with a curtain for a door. But the flat had its own entrance down a harrowing flight of narrow stairs, and I wouldn’t have to share that tiny bathroom with anyone. It was a shoebox, but if I shoved all my stuff—which wasn’t much—to one side, I’d have room to paint.
No light to paintby, but I’d jump off that bridge when I came to it.
“Well?”
“I’ll take it.”
As if I have a choice.
Ms. Thomas left me to unpack—a five-minute job—and I slumped onto the bed. Dust puffed up around me and the wind whistled at the window, little tendrils of cold air snaking their way in through cracks in the caulking.
It was going to be a long winter.
Later that afternoon, a pal from the bar helped me lug my portraits, each wrapped in moving blankets, down the narrow stairs and into my place. I leaned them against the wall and rubbed my chin, contemplating the entirety of my life’s work. My phone had been silent for days—no messages or texts from Vaughn. I thought about calling or maybe texting a casual,Hey, how are you?
“Do not be that pathetic,” I muttered in my tiny place, butdesperatewas closer to the mark—Vaughn was leaving for Paris any day now.
He’d promised to contact the gallery owner through his agent,but that didn’t mean I didn’t have work to do. I couldn’t rely on other people to make my future. I took off my jacket and put a blank canvas on the easel. My supplies were low, but I had enough for a new piece. At Uni, my professors were always telling me I had a way of looking inside the subject of a portrait and really seeing their inner selves. I needed only a glimpse of the person, and they’d be burned into my mind, allowing me to paint them from memory if they couldn’t sit for me.
