Things I’ll Never Say (3 page)

Not that Quincie seems the least impressed. Then again, she is the priority. It's my sacred mission as her GA to watch over her, to encourage her innate goodness, and to make sure she aces English. “You should hit the books,” I suggest, draining my glass of Chianti. “You have a test on Monday.” It's her senior year of high school, but she spends afternoons at Sanguini's: A Very Rare Restaurant in conjunction with a work-study program. Actually, she's here the vast majority of the time.

Besides us, the dining room is currently empty. The front doors don't open until sunset. So I'm caught off-guard when a woman in green body paint and an artfully tattered black-and-gray gown lurches in through the crimson velvet curtains from the foyer. She pauses. “I'm lost.”

“That way and down the hall.” Quincie points. “Look for the door that reads
Manager's Office.
”

Once the Bride of Frankenstein departs, Quincie explains, “Freddy's doing callbacks today for the catering department. He requested full dress for the occasion.”

No surprise there. Working Sanguini's means embracing cosplay in a big way.

Quincie inherited the place from her parents, who inherited it from her Italian-immigrant grandparents. It was her mother's passion, and to Quincie, the place has become a living tribute to her mom's memory.

Reaching for a pink taffeta crinkle chair sash, Quincie says, “I can't concentrate.”

Any waver in her focus is a cause for some concern. Quincie's the first wholly souled vampire in the history of humanity's dance with the demonic. Typically, after the transformation, the soul of the cursed gradually rots away with each slip into maniacal selfishness. Not so with Quincie; despite a close call early on, she's never succumbed to bloodlust to the point of taking a life.

She's mostly a normal teenager, raised in a family business. She drives a classic yellow Olds convertible, plays paintball with her friends, and employs more shifters on the sly than any other South Congress business owner. She's mastered bloodlust, bested dark forces, and come in first on the
Cap City News
list of “Top Twenty Under Twenty.” In heaven above, odes are recited to honor the power of her will. I'm not aware of any angst between her and her boyfriend, Kieren, but I nevertheless suspect boy trouble. “Something non-academic on your mind?”

Fiddling with the oversize chair bow, she asks, “Is sex before marriage always a sin?”

“Huh?” I fumble the centerpiece I've been toying with but manage to snag it in midair before it hits the carpet. It's fascinating how knowing for sure about the existence of the Big Boss changes the way mortals weigh their moral choices. When I look at the suffering they inflict on one another, part of me is tempted to preach the Word from the rooftops, to punt the whole faith-based approach and lay it out so they can make informed decisions.

It's blasphemous to even think that.

The Big Boss is hugely into free will — gift and burden, blessing and curse.

I'm saved by lunch. Jamal cruises in from the kitchen with a tray hoisted over one broad shoulder. He's stylin' a mesh pink shirt and black leather pants that set off the bat shape shaved into his short Afro. He's been helping Freddy and Willa field candidates for extending our catering crew.

“Kumquat sherbet with tossed frozen eyes of newt, hold the butter cookie, for the lady,” he announces, presenting Quincie with a dessert bowl she'll only pick at (the undead have digestive issues). “West Texas rattlesnake ravioli for the gentleman.”

The aroma of the marinara is intoxicating. I join Quincie at the nearest booth, tie my long dreads back with a woven gold cord, and flip open the bat-shaped napkin to rest it on my lap. It's understood that the sex-sin topic is on hold until we're alone again.

“I'll be right back with refills on . . .” Jamal tilts his head at a centerpiece. “What's that? A werebird of some kind? Werepelican?”

Quincie narrows her eyes at me, like I told him to say it. “It's Cupid!” she exclaims. “What is wrong with you two? Everyone adores Cupid. And if they don't . . .” With a grin, she adjusts the centerpiece so the drawn bow is pointed at me. “He has the means to make them.”

Jamal laughs. “If you say so, but look at the proportions. His wings are too small to lift his weight. He could . . . maybe use them for display, to intimidate rivals, for attracting a mate. Or to swat flies.” Jamal's a freshman at the University of Texas, planning to double major in biology and anthropology.

“But they're wings of love,” Quincie argues, glancing at her empty glass.

As Jamal cuts out to fetch refills, Quincie whispers, “You're so grumpy lately. Are you jealous? Or, you know, envious, since Cupid has superpowers and you don't?”

I'm a “slipped” angel. Not fallen,
slipped.
To be fallen is to be damned. To be slipped is more like a time-out for bad behavior. “I'm the real deal,” I point out. “Not some mythical and anatomically incorrect imitation.”

More like angel light. Get it? Like light beer, only divine, and because of the Light, and . . . never mind.

Anyway, my cranky-face, killjoy ex-supervisor archangel, Michael, has grounded me — no wings, no radiance — in strictly corporeal form until I redeem myself. Meanwhile, I'm watching over Quincie, bunking in her attic, and working undercover as a waiter.

I miss flying. I miss grooming heaven's warhorses. I miss partnering at pinochle in the Penultimate with the guardian angel Idelle. Here on earth, only Quincie and Kieren know what I am. Don't get me wrong; they're great kids. But I'm still getting to know them. Every once in a while, my best friend, Zachary, pops in from heaven to micromanage me. But since he was promoted from GA to archangel, and my new supervisor at that, it's been awkward between us.

On the upside? Earthly pleasures — chief among them Chef Nora's cooking. My ravioli is delish.

Jamal reappears to pour another glass of porcine blood for Quincie and offer a frosted goblet of raspberry soda to me. He cocks one eyebrow at the glittery glass Cupid in the center of the table. “‘Paradise,'” Jamal says, flashing a smile. “That's an old Temptations song. You know it, Joshua?”

“Can't say that I do,” I reply. “But I know something about temptation.”

It sounds worse out loud than it did in my head, and Quincie's suppressed snort of a laugh is in no way helpful. Meanwhile, a gaunt young man in a ghostly pirate costume marches across the room toward the hall. A jaunty captain's hat completes the ensemble, and his face is painted in black-and-white stage makeup to look like a skull.

“Ahoy, matey,” Jamal greets him, pivoting away. “I'll show you where you're supposed to go.”

The two chitchat as they exit together. Jamal makes the new arrival laugh. He's good at that, putting people at ease. The hostess, Yanira, was saying only last night that she tries to seat guests on a first date — she claims to have a sixth sense about such things — in Jamal's section because his low-key charm and good humor have a way of soothing their nerves.

“You like him,” Quincie whispers, leaning closer over the table.

It's as though she can read my mind. I play dumb anyway. “The cursed buccaneer?”

“
Jamal.
And he likes you, I can tell. But according to Sebastian, who told Mercedes, who told Freddy, who told me, he's shy. I don't think he's ever had a boyfriend.”

“You little gossip!” Somebody's put a lot of thought into this.

She's undaunted. “It's Valentine's Day. It's a sign. You should ask him out.” Quincie pops an eye of newt into her mouth and sucks on it. “Are you allowed to ask him out? You know, being an angel and all and him . . . mortal? I know it's not like being a priest. Zachary did his share of getting busy when he was earthbound.”

I reach for my goblet of soda. “My sacred duty is to you.”

“Pfft,”
Quincie says, blowing auburn bangs out of her eyes. “I appreciate that heaven itself finds me worthy of a twenty-four–seven babysitter, but I'm getting exactly nada private sexy-fun time with my boyfriend. Either you find a boyfriend of your own or I'm going to have to sign you up for beading classes.”

“I might enjoy beading classes,” I shoot back, stopping short at another newcomer's appearance.

An authentic-looking hell-spawn demon — from his pointy horns to his red spiky tail (it sticks out through a hole in the seat of his Levi's) — strolls past us, does a jig across the dance floor, and disappears through the drapes leading to the back hall, blowing a kiss over his shoulder. I don't know what his restaurant experience is like, but if I were Freddy, I'd hire him if only as a decoration.

Refusing to be further distracted, Quincie arches an inquisitive brow at me.
“Joshua.”

I repress a sigh. “Okay, cutie. I surrender. Rock on with your private sexy-fun time. It's not my mission to cramp your style to the point you're not experiencing this existence the way you should.” She and Kieren have reservations for dinner here tonight anyway. I can watch over her until after “Count Sanguini's” signature midnight toast. “But leave my hypothetical love life out of it. I don't think of Jamal that way.”

Quincie licks her spoon. “Last time I checked, lying is a top-ten sin.” She frowns. “Speaking of sins, we were talking about sex and . . .”

I set down my fork, all kidding aside. “It's not my place, as your GA, to absolve or interpret Scripture or elevate one faith over another in your eyes. But I can promise you that the Big Boss
is
love.”

Guests pore over menus labeled “Predator” and menus labeled “Prey” as Sinatra sings “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” over the speakers. I'd swear Ol' Blue Eyes is taunting me.

Meanwhile, Quincie has scooted her chair closer to Kieren's. They're underdressed — him in black jeans, boots, and a shiny black western-style shirt, her in a flapper-inspired red sheath, antique rhinestone jewelry, and platform wedges. I wonder what they're whispering.

No, I don't care. I'm not hovering. I even asked the hostess not to sit them in my section. Quincie's a teenager. Of course she needs space. And maybe, as long as I'm here among mortals, I do need to get a life of my own.

Before my chat with Quincie, I swung by All the World's a Stage, the costume shop down the street, for a pair of faux black wings to wear with my short-sleeve black leather shirt, pink-plaid-accented black leather pants, and hot-pink oxford shoes with black laces.

The dining room staff was encouraged to wear Valentine's colors, and everybody else's wardrobe is heavy on bloodred.

I've just refilled a guest's glass when Jamal strolls by, carrying a carnivore taster and wasabi deviled quail eggs. “Nice threads, Josh,” he says. “We match.”

“Match made in heaven,” I shoot back, continuing to the service station.

He ducks his head with a half grin, holding eye contact.

Crap. Quincie's right. We do flirt all the time. It's even possible that I — subconsciously, mind you — made an effort to match him tonight, having previewed his outfit of choice earlier this afternoon.

“Behind you,” Mercedes warns, raising her tray as she pivots past in a Betty Boop–inspired strapless, backless red micro-mini that shows off a garter belt blinged out with candy hearts.

Pausing to watch Jamal deliver the
primo
course, I take stock. He's nineteen and from Lubbock. I'm one of the Big Boss's newbie angels, created after the first atomic blast in 1945. But by heaven's standards, I'm the equivalent of a twenty-year-old . . . twenty-two tops. I wouldn't be the first guardian angel to fall in love with a human, but that seldom ends well. Still, there's a big difference between “seldom” and “never.”

A hand waves in my line of vision. “Joshua?” It's Sergio, the restaurant manager. “Check your station. Glasses empty, plates to clear. Table eleven is waiting on their check.”

I snap to, taking full advantage of my dimples to damage-control the situation.

Obsessing over Jamal is ridiculous. Other than the fact that we both work at Sanguini's and our names both begin with the letter
J
, we have nothing in common. He is fascinated by Creation, though, based on his studies. . . . Forget it. I've witnessed enough star-crossed love stories to know better.

“Repent or suffer eternal damnation!” shouts a gruff voice from the foyer.

From across the dining room, the slight shake of Quincie's head tells me that this isn't part of Sanguini's script. Meanwhile, the hostess is motioning to our werebear security guards to step in.

I raise a finger, urging Quincie to stay put — not that I expect she will for long — as bouncers Uri and Olek lumber their way through the crowd to the entrance.

“Werebeast lovers!” the jackass shouts. “Demon lovers! God will make you pay!”

It pisses me off when humans confuse shape-shifters with the demonic. Werepeople, as they sometimes prefer to be called, are children of the Big Boss. It pisses me off even more when morons like this dude presume to speak for the Big Boss about . . . anything.

Peering through the crimson drapes, I note that the hater in question sports a weathered face, dad jeans, and zero sense of humor. A handful of bigots likewise dressed in T-shirts with the National Council for Preserving Humanity logo are all puffed up, crowding in the foyer behind him. They take a halting step back at the sight of Uri and Olek.

It's harder for werebears to pass for human than it is for most other shifters. For one thing, the males tend to clock in at over three hundred pounds each.

Sounding less sure of himself, the leader adds, “You will pay the penalty for —”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Olek says, and then he and Uri forcibly evict the guys.