The Five Deaths of Roxanne Love (7 page)

He rubbed a hand over his face. His body was drawn tight as a bow and he had a bulge in his jeans that mocked his ambition of distance and control.

He still meant to reap Roxanne, to keep her with him forever. Becoming more embroiled in the human world would not serve that purpose. Best to shut down his rampant desires now. He pulled his gaze from the bathroom door. He needed to focus on his
brethren,
not Roxanne’s enticing curves.

His little human might be in denial over what she’d seen tonight, but
he
had no doubts. The creatures at Love’s had all been demons—even the one in the mask. Especially the one in the mask.

Santo recognized that one for what he was and what he had been once before: a reaper, like himself. A reaper who had been condemned to Abaddon because of his thirst for souls. Every reaper felt the craving for them, but only a few crossed sacred lines to quench it. The demon with the mask was one who did. A soul junkie.

Santo took a deep breath. Reaping held too much rapture and elation for it not to be addicting. It had to be that way. What else would keep reapers in their roles for eons upon eons? Without the exhilaration that came with dragging a soul into the Beyond, a reaper couldn’t
be controlled. The reward of the reaping kept them in line, yearning for the next time. For that fraction of a second when life intermingled with death as the last breath rattled out and the reaper took what remained. Inside him, he carried a small piece of every soul he’d taken.

Each time Roxanne died and returned to life, he collected a sliver of her soul and those small shards made him yearn for more of her. Always more. It’s what had pulled him from the Beyond to take the rest.

But what had lured the demon who shot Roxanne here? After being condemned to Abaddon, how had he managed to breach the barriers of the Beyond and come to this world? The demon had been caught feasting on the living, driving them to their deaths by twisting their minds and bending their wills as he devoured their souls. In short, eating them alive.

The demon had been branded
scavenger
and sent to Abaddon. Once there, he should not have been able to escape. Not even Abaddon himself could escape. Yet here was one of his minions, on earth. He’d brought the black tides and locusts. He’d brought other creatures that Santo couldn’t even identify. How? Why?

Santo shook his head and turned on the TV, scanning until he found a news station. The front doors of Love’s filled the screen. In silence, he listened as a reporter described a bizarre robbery that had officials baffled. Witnesses—he hadn’t realized there’d been any—claimed to have heard buzzing that sounded like
bees or wasps. Some claimed there’d been a pack of wolves roaming the streets.

Wolves?
Only if they came sized like a human.

The only fact that could be verified was that a robbery and shooting had taken place at Love’s. The police seemed to believe that three to five people had been inside at the time. From the evidence left behind, all were feared dead.

But no bodies had been found. Not one.

Santo sat back. He’d expected the deaths, but what had they done with the bodies? Had the creatures like the one that followed them out devoured the flesh as the scavenger demon made a meal of the souls? A very real possibility, and yet . . .

He rolled his head back, trying to ease his tension and organize the disorder in his mind. But a traitorous part of him had never stopped listening to the shower or thinking of Roxanne naked beneath the spray. He was more than a human,
better
than a human, but he couldn’t seem to quell his desire to open the door, to shed his clothing, to join her. . . .

Fuck
.

The water in the bathroom turned off and Santo quieted his breath so he could hear. A few moments later, Roxanne emerged, a white towel wrapped around her brown hair and his T-shirt and sweatpants hanging on her small frame. She’d donned his jacket once more, but it hung open, and he saw the faint bounce of her breasts as she walked. A slicing tension went through
him as he remembered how they’d felt when he’d held her in his arms.

As if hearing his thoughts, her startled gaze locked with his, layered grays and lightning gold mixed together. His chest grew tight, his lungs constricted.

A knock on the door freed him from the hold she seemed to have over him. Cursing beneath his breath, Santo opened it to the delivery boy who waited on the other side. The kid looked to be about eighteen, with black skin and a nametag proclaiming him Chidi. He gave Santo a bright, mischievous smile that made his eyes sparkle—as if he’d just heard a joke and could barely keep his laughter inside. Flashing white teeth, he stepped into the room and held up a bag of food and a cardboard tray with two cups.

“Good evening, sir, madam,” he said in heavily accented English. “I am Chidi. I bring your dinner.”

Roxanne smiled sweetly and thanked him.

Scowling, Santo took the bag and drinks and paid him. Before the boy knew what had happened, Santo had ushered the kid out the door and shut it. His last glimpse was of indignation on the young man’s face at his abrupt ejection, and an inkling of embarrassment caught Santo by surprise. What did he care about this stranger and his feelings?

Frowning, he faced his room and the woman in his bed.
His
bed. There it was again, that possessive trill that seemed to pulse with his blood whenever he
thought of her. She’d climbed beneath the covers again and watched him with that wariness that grated against his overwrought senses.

He wanted her to trust him. Another irony he couldn’t escape.

“Did you get in touch with my brother and sister?” she asked. “Did you find out how everyone is? Are they okay?”

“Five people were shot, including you,” he said without preamble. “That’s all they know. They’re not saying if the victims are dead or alive.”

“Why?” she breathed.

“Because the bodies are gone.”

Gone with the black tide and the demons, if lack of mention could be attributed.

“All of them? My brother, too?”

He nodded, hating the pain he saw in her expression.

“But . . . gone . . . where?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

She waited for him to continue, but he wasn’t sure where to go from there. He couldn’t tell her the truth, and the way her eyes followed his every move said that he’d need to be very careful how he worded his lies.

“What do
you
think happened to them, Santo?” she asked. “Did the . . . demons take them?”

Ah. Now she was willing to call them by name. She must have done some heavy thinking in the shower.

Again the thought brought the visual. Creamy skin, slick as silk . . .

He cleared his throat. “I don’t know why they would have taken them. Demons are interested in the soul. They have no use for the body.”

She swallowed hard and took a drink of her soda. After a deep breath she asked, “How is my brother Ryan holding up? And Ruby? My sister?”

“I don’t know. But the officer I talked to said he’d get word to them.”

Her grateful expression made the lie taste like sludge. Annoyed, he looked away.

“What do they want us to do now?” she asked.

“Lay low. Wait for orders.”

She tilted her head to the side, and a damp lock of hair brushed her shoulder. “Wait?”

He’d known she wouldn’t like that, just as he knew that bringing her on board with his plans would be so much easier if she thought she’d made the decision herself.

“Do they—the officers you talked to—do they know what they’re dealing with?”

“The same thing they deal with every day. A fucked-up world.”

The bitter statement came from someplace deep and unexpected. The human. Again.

Roxanne nodded, muttering, “Fucked-up is right.”

He kept quiet, counting the moments as she thought
through their situation and worried over the idea of waiting. At last, she asked the question he wanted to hear.

“What do
you
want us to do, Santo?”

“Find them. Your brother, your friends. The demons who took them.”

She nodded without hesitation. “I like that plan better.”

“I thought you would.”

“So do you think we can? Find them?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

She smiled, and he felt the praise in it all the way to his toes. Exasperated with himself, he watched her tear open the wrapper around her burger and take a bite. She ate with gusto, pausing only to wipe her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m starving.”

A tiny barb lodged in his flesh. She’d been starving and he hadn’t even known. He had no idea why that bothered him, but it did. Greatly.

He was hungry, too—another new sensation he didn’t like. He’d taken her lead and ordered the same thing she had. The soft drink had a bittersweet flavor, but the cheeseburger tasted so good that he ate the whole thing. Afterwards, it felt like a lead ball had landed in his stomach. Roxanne stopped halfway, munched a few more fries, and devoured the brownie. He watched her as each chocolate bite found her lips. He couldn’t help it.

When she looked up and caught him staring, she
blushed. She did that a lot and he suspected that he caused it. But he didn’t know how to interpret the reaction. What did the color flooding her face signify? That his presence unbalanced her as much as hers did him? He hoped so, no matter how pointless that hope might be.

He stuffed their trash in the small can by the desk, leaving her drink on the bedside table.

“Get some rest,” he said. “The sun will be up in a few hours. We’ll figure out how to find your brother in the morning.”

“I’m not tired. Let’s figure it out now.”

“Give me fifty jumping jacks and you have a deal.”

She flopped back against the pillows and glared.

“You’re exhausted. It’s the middle of the night. We don’t even know where to start.”

She looked like she wanted to keep arguing, but he’d spoken the truth, and for all that she was stubborn, she was also smart enough to know it. “Do you think he could still be alive?” she asked.

“Your brother? Sure. He’s a survivor, just like you.” Hurt glimmered in her eyes, though he hadn’t said it to injure her. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s just . . . he’s alone this time.”

“You think he’s survived in the past because of you?” he asked curiously. “Do you
do
something that makes it happen?”

“Of course not. What could
I
do?” she asked in
earnest, addressing a question that had puzzled him. She didn’t know why she was special.

“Go to sleep,
angelita
. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

“Don’t call me that,” she muttered, but she couldn’t fight the pull of fatigue.

His jacket had bunched up around her and he eased it off, ignoring her protest as he spread it over her feet and pulled the covers up to her shoulders.

“Just a few hours?” she asked in a drifting voice.

“Just a few,” he confirmed.

“Thank you, Santo.”

He didn’t understand the feelings her use of his name inspired—a name that didn’t even belong to him but had somehow become as integral as the stolen body. But the emotions—at once fierce, tender, and possessive—raged within him, ruling him against his will.

Gently, he brushed his fingertips over her cheek, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her skin felt like satin—just as he’d imagined. Captivated and mystified, he watched her sleep until finally, he eased back beside her, kicking off his shoes and arranging the extra pillows behind him.

He scanned the stations on the television for a while before the soft sounds of Roxanne’s even breathing lulled him into a dreamless sleep beside the woman he intended to protect . . . right up until the moment he would reap her once and for all.

R
oxanne woke up warm for the first time in what felt like forever. For a few peaceful minutes, she drifted between sleep and wakefulness. On some level, she was aware of the television flickering light into the dark. She shifted drowsily beneath her blankets, and something tightened around her, keeping her in place.

Her eyes snapped open, and instantly she remembered everything. With a soft gasp, she twisted to find Santo Castillo asleep behind her, his body curled around hers like a protective shield, one arm beneath her head, the other wrapped around her waist. He was still dressed, except for his shoes, and he lay on top of the covers, yet the intimacy of him holding her in his sleep reverberated through every nerve ending.

She tried to wiggle out of his grasp without waking
him, but a second later those long lashes lifted and his black eyes looked into hers, warm as velvet. Sleep had disoriented him—she could see it in his soft, unfocused gaze. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, he pulled her closer, and his heavy-lidded eyes heated, his stare moving over her face, then dropping lower to her breasts pressed against his chest.