The Five Deaths of Roxanne Love (4 page)

But even in the Beyond—or perhaps
especially
in the Beyond—anomalies existed. Lilith, Mammon, Beelzebub, Lucifer . . .

And Abaddon, a name most humans wouldn’t recognize even though it was the very reason they feared death. A name that marked a place in hell all its own. Scavenger demons took delight in killing, in the terror that consumed their victims, but Abaddon had bathed in their blood. He’d been so cruel, so vicious that he’d been locked away, named for the place of destruction where he’d been banished.

What humans had never understood was that hell had been made for creatures of the Beyond, not for mortals. God would never send one of His beloved creations there, no matter how great the sin. But His army . . . His workers . . . His devoted servants . . . He expected more
of them. Those who broke ranks found themselves alongside Lucifer, roasting under the seething displeasure of their maker.

He’d seen Abaddon’s messengers and minions tonight and more, like the thing that had followed him. It had been unnatural, even for a creature from the Beyond. And what had been that building pressure he’d felt in Roxanne’s last moments? The hot whip of wind that couldn’t have existed?

Why had they let him leave with Roxanne? Did that mean she was not their target?

Though
he
was not her brother’s reaper, the twins shared more than a birthday. Reece and Roxanne shared death days, too. Four of them, counting tonight.

He disliked the turn of his thoughts. Disliked that they led him away from the prize. And he fucking hated that he could feel the human urging them on.

Creatures of the Beyond had manifested in Roxanne’s restaurant tonight. Now he couldn’t just reap her and return home as if he hadn’t seen it. Nor could he go back to the Beyond and report it. He shouldn’t be here. If he was caught, he’d be banished to Abaddon.

Both demon and domain, Abaddon stood for and personified evil and darkness. Abaddon made hell look like paradise. If at all possible, the reaper—
Santo
, an irritated voice in his head reprimanded—would like to avoid it.

That left him one course of action. He couldn’t reap
Roxanne Love. Not yet. Not until he understood what he’d seen tonight.

He scowled at the relief that flooded his system, wanting to purge the remnants of the human causing it. He consoled himself with the reminder. His goal had been delayed. Not changed. He’d waited for her before. He could wait again.

He didn’t have a plan. Didn’t know what the next step would be and certainly didn’t like the ambiguity of allowing an unstable, suicidal cop to make the calls. But the reaper recognized danger when he saw it, and left without choices, he’d do what he had to do. And when it came time, he
would
reap Roxanne Love.

The pledge echoed in his head as he turned west and headed for the hotel he’d checked into the night before, using Santo’s credit card to pay for the room. A few minutes later, he parked in the lot and shut off the engine. In the sudden quiet, he gazed at the unmoving woman sprawled on the seat, limp and unresponsive.

Her skin looked like pearl against the hue of his fingers. He brushed his knuckles over her cheek, fascinated by the contrast in their color, by the silken feel of her. He couldn’t look away as he willed her to take a breath. To open her eyes.

She’d gone to the darkness without him there to meet her. Was she afraid? Did she search for him?

“Come back to me,” he whispered.

Gently, he traced his fingertips along the curve of
her jaw, then the pad of his thumb across that full bottom lip. He leaned closer, his mouth a breath from hers, his hand gliding down her smooth throat to settle over her silent, unbeating heart.

“Come back,” he murmured against her mouth.

Some part of him noted the irony of his actions. Death’s kiss never restored a life, yet as he pressed his lips to hers, his senses awoke and ricocheted throughout him. He felt a jolt go through her body, racing like lightning across a stormy sky, a current that stretched from his touch to her absent soul.

Triumph welled up inside him as he felt her heart stutter and thump beneath his fingers. He stole her first shivering breath and replaced it with his own.

R
oxanne regained consciousness by degrees, a part of her unwilling to give up the embrace of oblivion. She recognized it—she’d been here before. Within the layered darkness she’d find
him,
the one who always waited there. He’d comforted her as an infant, wiped her tears as a child, and held her as a woman. He needed her, desired her . . . and frightened her all at the same time.

But now she was alone and that frightened her even more. Where had he gone? Why wasn’t he waiting? What would she find here without him? She began to search for him just as she felt the warmth on her cheek, a caress against her throat. Lips pressed to hers. At last. . . .

She opened her eyes with a soft gasp and found
herself caught in the midnight depths of Santo Castillo’s gaze. He leaned over her, one hand braced against the back of her seat, the other resting just above her heart. Within his stare she saw a tangle of emotions. Worry, relief, victory, suspicion. The mix was too complex for her to unravel.

“Welcome back,” he said in that deep voice she’d already come to know.

He eased away and settled in his seat beside her, and immediately she missed his warmth. She wanted to follow him so she could huddle in it and let his heat sink into her bones. Disconcerted by the power of the yearning, she looked away and took stock of her surroundings. She sat in an unfamiliar SUV parked on the fringe of a half-empty lot, location unknown. The clock on the dash said 11:20. She had no idea how she’d gotten there.

“Where am I?” she asked.

He nodded at the building squatting near the edge of the blacktop. “That’s my hotel.”

She narrowed her eyes, trying to make sense of that answer.
His hotel?
Why was he staying in a hotel? And more important, why had he brought
her
here? She struggled to work it out, but a deep murk had veiled her thoughts, making it hard to distinguish one from the other. She’d been at work and he’d come in and then . . .

An avalanche of memory rumbled down on top of her. The bugs. The stench. The seeping stain and the . . . No.
No, no, no
. That hadn’t been real.
Couldn’t
be real. She knew from experience that dying brought with it a host of hallucinations. What she thought she’d seen could only be part imagination, part trauma. How many times had one doctor or another told her what a mysterious, indecipherable organ the brain was? How lack of oxygen could cause delusions? Her brain, after so many deaths, couldn’t be trusted.

Stains did not come alive. Bugs didn’t commit mass suicide by window for absolutely no reason. And whatever it was she thought had come through the back door—they
definitely
had to be a delusion.

But something
had
happened. A robbery. A shooting.

In her mind’s eye she saw Manny’s body on the floor. Manny, who washed dishes for a living and wouldn’t hurt anyone. He was a special needs worker they’d hired six years ago. He’d been such a good employee that they’d made it a practice to hire other disabled workers, but Manny had been with them the longest. He was like family.

Who would shoot him? Was he okay? And what about the rest of them? Reece? Jim? Sal?

“Where is my brother?” she asked. “Is he alive?”

Santo cocked his head, as if weighing the validity of her query. The small questioning gesture set off a spark of panic.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said after a moment.

Her
guess
? “What—”

“How much do you remember?” Santo went on. “Dying?”

The questions felt overwhelming. Answering them, impossible. She shifted, realizing only then that she wore his leather jacket. It was big and warm, the sleeves long enough to cover her hands. It held the scent of the man. Clean. Masculine. Distracting.

“Do you remember dying, Roxanne?” he repeated patiently.

“I remember being shot.”

“Not the same thing,” he replied.

His indifference stung, though there was nothing apathetic in his expression. His gaze was so intense that she
felt
it. She studied his face, trying to get a read on what he was thinking. He gazed back implacably. He could be plotting a revolution or thinking about cheese for all she could tell.

“Why am I not in a hospital?” she asked.

“It seemed unnecessary under the circumstances.”

“Which are?”

“You can’t die, Roxanne,” he said as if speaking to a child.

“That’s a lie. Of course I can.”

His smile mocked her, but he didn’t argue.

“Is that what this is about?”

“This?” he said.

“Yes. This.” She moved her hand between them. “What am I doing here? Why did you come to Love’s tonight?”

“I had questions. Now I have even more. Let’s go upstairs and talk.”

“Upstairs? You mean to your
room
?”

“Or we could stay here and have our discussion in the parking lot. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“What if I don’t want to talk to you? What if I refuse?”

“You won’t.”

He opened his door and came around to the other side. She fumbled with the latch, intending to get out before he reached her, but the sleeves of his jacket got in her way and her body moved sluggishly, her limbs still numb. It would take time before she had the strength to do more than keep her wits about her. She certainly didn’t have the defenses to spar—physically
or
mentally—with someone like Santo Castillo.

He opened her door without a word and slid one arm beneath her legs and the other around her back. His face was very close to hers, and his warmth felt like a balm to her frozen body.

“I could scream,” she said.

“Go ahead.”

“Someone will hear me and call the police,” she warned.

“I am the police, remember?”

She eyed him, not in the least reassured.

“Relax, Roxanne,” he said gently. “You haven’t been abducted. I just want to talk, and I needed to get you someplace safe to do it. When we’re done, I’ll take you wherever you want to go. Hospital. Police station. Home. Your call.”

When she remained stiff and silent, he leaned closer and his warm scent enveloped her.

“I showed you my badge. You can see it again if that would make you feel better.”

Yes, he had shown it to her. She’d seen his picture and name on the ID. And, if any of her memory could be believed, he’d also put his body between her and a man with a gun. He’d tried to get her out of danger before it all went bad. But the bad had come too fast.

“Think about it,” he said. “What you saw tonight. You have bigger things to fear than me.” At her startled glance, he went on. “I don’t care if the safe was open. That wasn’t a robbery and you know it.”

She swallowed, an instant replay flashing in her head and forcing her to call it a memory. The man with the mask . . . the chill of his eyes. The open safe. Her brother, shouting as the black stain washed the kitchen walls. The shot that killed him just as the back door opened.

She halted her thoughts before they turned the corner. Santo was right. Whatever had happened, robbery was only a small part of it.

In Love’s kitchen, Santo had faced that terrifying unknown fearlessly.
That
memory she knew was real.

“I still don’t see why you thought bringing me to your hotel was the best option.”

“It’s complicated.”

He lifted her effortlessly and she settled against him without even a token resistance. Dying had a way of draining the reserves and she doubted she could walk just yet, let alone run or fight. Better to cooperate than reveal exactly how weak she was. Besides, she didn’t feel threatened by him. Not now anyway.

All of those muscles she’d noted from a distance felt hard and unyielding up close. Her softer curves molded to them like she belonged there, in his arms. She stiffened, resisting the urge to give in to his strength. She needed to keep what little wits she possessed lined up and on alert.

The door closed with a soft
thunk
before he jangled the keys dangling from the hand that rested just beneath her breast.

“Lock it,” he said.

The action felt bigger than it should, slipping the keys from his fingers and clicking the button on the fob until the alarm chirped, but he didn’t seem to notice the tension that filled her as she did it.

He took the outdoor stairs up to the third floor,
managing to avoid running into anyone else on the way. Not a single witness was there to see Roxanne Love enter this man’s hotel room.

Not just a man,
a voice reassured her in her head.
A cop. Someone who protected you.