The footfalls were heavy, and sure enough, they got closer to the cellar door. Balz remained as rock solid as the carpet-covered concrete he was standing on, certain that whoever it was, whatever it was… wasn’t a shadow. They didn’t weigh anything to make that kind of sound—
“I’m not the target you’re looking for,” came a dry voice on the far side of that closed door.
“Lassiter?” He lowered the guns. “What are you—”
The angel opened things up. “Well, you texted me—”
“—doing here?”
“—to come over, like I’m going to ignore that?”
“I didn’t actually hit send.”
“Oh, I smell spaghetti. Do you have any left?”
As the Scribe Virgin’s replacement came down the wooden steps, Balz had a moment of what-if-it’s-not-really-him, but then the subtle glimmer of the male’s halo registered—and that demon had a lot of things floating around her, but not anything that was like sunshine.
“You know, Balz, you didn’t have to choose your wording so carefully.” The angel marched right over to the chair next to the couch and sat down. “I mean, come on, my English skills top sitcom level at best. I’m not even on one-hour dramas when it comes to vocabulary.”
Balz blinked. Then he willed the lights back on and went over to the couch. “Okay. And ah, no, I ate all the pasta.”
“Bummer. But that’s cool, I’ll hit a Domino’s on the way home. Pizza Hut is too rough on the stomach.”
As Balz sat down, too, he tucked the guns behind one of the cushions. Then he eased forward and plugged his elbows into his knees.
“What do you have on your mind,” Lassiter asked gently.
“If you knew I was texting you without me hitting send, you know what I’m thinking about.”
“Humor me anyway. Besides, it’s nice to hear ourselves talk, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve always found that to be true, especially if the ‘ourselves’ in a question happens to be me.” The angel pointed to himself. “But I’ll give you the stage and mic right now.”
As Lassiter settled back and got comfortable, crossing his legs knee to knee, as opposed to assuming the more classic air-your-junk lap triangle that most males did, the guy looked like he couldn’t decide whether to be a member of a hair band or a gentleman’s club. The blond-and-black locks on his head and the Steven Tyler–ribboned layers of black and red on his body voted the former. His elegant hands and composure suggested the latter.
“I need to know…” Balz cleared his throat and glanced around Erika’s cellar. Then he laughed in a short, hard burst as he thought about that phone call he’d tried to have with V. “I’m not sure you’re going to even hear what I’m saying.”
“We’re four feet away from each other. But if you want to go the charades route, that’s fine with me. It’ll slow us down, but the element of guesswork could be fun. Plus exercise. Word.”
“What are you…” Balz tried to stay on track. “I’m sorry, but I’m not following you.”
There was a brief pause. Then Lassiter lost the jokey-jokey. “You want to know if the demon’s still in you.”
“Is she? I-I’ve been keeping myself awake for the last week, but I fell asleep today. Twice. And she didn’t come for me in my dreams.”
Lassiter focused on his fingernails, inspecting the cuticles as if he were a manicurist who didn’t approve of the job someone else had done on them, his brows all tight, his mouth a line.
“I know what she’s been doing to you,” the angel murmured.
Balz looked away. “It’s fine—”
“No, it’s not. It’s a violation.”
“I don’t want to talk about that. It’s all just in dreams, anyway. There’s no reason to get hysterical over a nightmare, right? It’s not really happening.”
“It’s totally wrong of her. But I’m not going to force you to go into it. I think you might want to see Mary, though.”
“Ah, Rhage’s shellan, the source of all personal realignment, the chiropractor to the conscience.” But he wasn’t bitching, more just exhausted. “Besides, maybe she’s out of me. The demon, I mean. So it’s a nonissue.”
It was then that he looked pointedly at the other male. And as he met the strange, silvery eyes of the angel, he was aware he was projecting both hope and desperation, which were not the kinds of things a fighter ever let anybody see—except maybe his female.
But he was beyond caring about pride.
Lassiter took a deep breath and slowly closed his lids. Then everything went quiet, no more whistling from the furnace or blowing through the vents or ambient noises from outside like a passing car or a dog barking. It was as if the volume had been turned down on the whole world.
As Balz waited for the verdict, he almost would have preferred to stay in the unknown. That way, at least there was a chance he was alone in his own skin—