The Beautiful and the Damned (7 page)

The winner of the fight was still clutching the handle of his sword and bent down
on the ground. Cyn hesitantly walked over to him. Smoke curled off of him like steam,
and she didn’t want to get too close. His shoulder-length dark hair fell around his
face, revealing the nape of his neck and the large “13” tattooed there.

Wasn’t that what Octopus Guy called him? Thirteen?

“Um, Thirteen? Are you okay?”

“Don’t touch me.” His voice was barely recognizable.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

One of the burn marks on his arm deepened, and she stared at it. It looked like it
was burning its way
through
his skin. From the inside out.

Then he looked up and she saw the horns.

A
vian had to give the girl some credit—she didn’t lean over and throw up before passing
out at the sight of his slice and dice with Bryn. She was just fine with that. It
was the sight of
him
that did it to her.

Getting to his feet, Avian slid his sword into its scabbard and put his coat back
on. Then he glanced down at his boots. One of those suck-mouth bastards had managed
to strip away a good chunk of the sole. He’d have to get that fixed before he left
town.

The scars on his back burned a bit less now, but he knew it was still too dangerous
to go near her. “Cash!” he yelled. “Get out here.”

Cash appeared an instant later and took in Bryn’s mangled body with the same nonchalance
he would have if there was some trash ready to be taken out. “I’ll take care of it,”
he said. “Don’t worry.”

“Not him.
Her.
” He gestured to the girl lying inelegantly next to a pile of puke. “Can you put her
up for a couple of hours? I just need some time to cool down.”

“Want me to take her home?”

“No. I’ll do it. She’s an Echo.”

Cash gazed at her. “Shiiiit. I’ve only met one of those before. I didn’t see it.”

“The last one I came across was Shelley. It’s been a while for me, too.”

The ache in Thirteen’s voice was a wound that still hadn’t healed, even after all
this time. And Cash knew better than to bring up old memories.

“I’ll put her in the supply room. I’ve got an extra blanket in there. She’ll be fine.”

“Thanks. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

~  ~  ~

He went to the roof of the church. Just like he always did when the fire inside got
to be too much. Father Montgomery had invited him to come inside more than once, but
the demon part
of him
really
didn’t like that idea. The other side of him yearned for a higher connection. This
was as close to a compromise as he was willing to make.

Perched among the roof eaves, Avian watched the clouds change and the sky lighten.
He knew what he looked like fresh after a fight. More monster than man, it was enough
to scare anyone away. A fact he often used to his advantage.

Eventually, the scars on his back would recede and his horns would retract. But the
nubs never fully went away. Concentrating on the color of his eyes, he changed them
so that any remaining red would be hidden by a glamour. He always chose brown to blend
in. His skin repaired itself—the tiny rips and tears stitching back together. But
he left the scar under his left ear.

It was the only thing he had to remember Shelley by.

When he was sure that everything was under control again, he made his way back to
the Black Cadillac. It was closed, but Cash let him inside and gestured to the back
room. “Sleeping like a baby. Never woke up.”

Avian leaned over the girl and touched her forehead. Like the other Revenants, he
could read memories. He traced back through her day to see where she lived and recognized
a building that used to be a printing place. She weighed nothing in his
arms, so he left his motorcycle at the bar and carried her the couple of blocks there.

The building had a vacant look to it, and there wasn’t a lock on the door. Which wasn’t
strictly necessary in this part of town but was stupid any way you looked at it. A
string brushed the side of his face as he entered the empty room, and he pulled on
it. A single bulb flared to life.

A sleeping bag in the corner, a rusty heater, and an open suitcase were obvious signs
that someone was living there, but at best it could only be described as spartan.
There was no bed, no kitchen. Not even a shower, from what he could see. The only
thing she did seem to have an abundance of was plants. There were a bunch of dead
ones lined up against the windows.

“You better hope one of those souls inside of you has a green thumb that you just
haven’t tapped into yet, because it looks like you’re going to need it,” he said out
loud.

She didn’t stir.

Dumping her onto the sleeping bag, he took another look around the grim space. Even
the most basic room Mint had to offer at his hotel looked luxurious compared with
this. Was this why she was at the bar? Trying to drown her sorrows over a troubled
home life?

He almost felt a moment of pity for her, but then it passed. She was an Echo. She’d
find someone else to manipulate into setting her up with something new. Echoes didn’t
seem to have any trouble with things like that.

~  ~  ~

The sun was almost up, and Father Montgomery was waiting for him when Avian got back
to the rectory, so they sat down for an early-morning cup of coffee.

“Were you out all night?” Father Montgomery asked. “I have your old cello in the church.
Perhaps that might help?”

The priest could always tell when he’d had a busy evening.

“You know I haven’t played in years. I just went to a bar and ended up taking out
some garbage.”

“Sounds like a normal evening for you, then.”

Father Montgomery knew what Avian did, was well aware of what was out there. But they
never talked about the side of him that flared up at the end of the fight. The demon
part Avian had struggled with for so long.

It had been. Except there was something that still bothered Avian. That nagging feeling
in his gut. He glanced over at the priest. “A girl came by here the other night. She
wanted to see you. It was late, though, and she left.”

“What did she look like?”

“I don’t know. You humans all look alike to me. She was younger, with brown hair.
Lives in an abandoned building a couple of blocks from the bar. Has a bunch of plants.”

“Ah, yes.” Father Montgomery shook his head. “Her name is Cyn. She’s stopped by to
see me a couple of times at the church. Likes to talk about her plants.”

“She came into the bar tonight too. Seems to be running from something.” Avian’s large
hands wrapped around his coffee cup, overlapping each other. “You need to be careful,
Father. She’s an Echo.”

Avian rarely called him that. It was usually Father Montgomery, or “priest.” But in
that small, simple word his true feelings were revealed.

“Maybe she’s running from that and doesn’t realize it. Did you have the chance to . . . ?”
Father Montgomery gestured to his forehead.

“Read her memories? Nothing beyond where she lives. She was incapacitated, so I just
dropped her off.”

Father Montgomery frowned and gazed down into his drink. “I think she needs help.
She hasn’t come right out and asked for it, but it’s there nonetheless.”

“I’m sure she’ll find someone else to give her what she wants. But it’s not going
to be you.”

“You know my door is always open to those in need, Avian. As long as—”

“That doesn’t apply to Echos. I’ve told you before what they’re capable of.”

“Shelley was an Echo, and she didn’t take advantage.”

Avian’s grip tightened. “Shelley wasn’t like the others.”

Father Montgomery glanced up at the subtle shift in Avian’s tone. “You’re right, of
course. But my vows require me to help my fellow man, and that’s something I take
quite seriously.”

“Then let me put your mind at ease, Father.” Avian stood up. “This time I’ll take
care of it.”

W
hen Cyn woke up, she had no idea how she’d gotten home from the bar and why she was
lying on top of the sleeping bag instead of in it. Sunlight was streaming through
the windows, but the room was
freezing
. She flipped the switch for the heater, and it started making a ticking sound. She
didn’t know how much longer it would last, but the front coils slowly began to turn
orange.

Her mouth tasted terrible, and she grabbed a second pair of socks before padding into
the bathroom. The tap wasn’t usable, but she kept a bottle of water by the sink to
brush her teeth. A small mirror hung on the wall, and she glanced at it as she passed
by.

That face was there beneath hers again.

Cyn gripped the edges of the sink. “Go away,” she said. “I don’t want you here. This
is
my
body, and you can’t have it!”

But that smug bastard used her own face against her—the blackened teeth projected
like a ghostly image beneath her skin and split into a parody of a smile. She felt
that sudden pull of darkness begin to wash over her, and she gripped the sink even
harder. “No!”

Cyn fought him with everything she had. She didn’t want to black out and wake up to
find herself on the edge of a cliff again.

Or surrounded by someone else’s blood.

Her head felt like it was splitting open, and she screamed at the intensity. The edges
of her vision started to blur, and a feeling like cotton balls being wedged inside
her ears made every sound go mute. Her grip loosened, and then she was gone.

~  ~  ~

The darkness was all wrong in the room when she opened her eyes. It felt more like
early morning than late evening. But the alarm hadn’t gone off. Cyn remembered that
she wasn’t scheduled to work tonight, though, so it wasn’t like she was missing her
shift if she’d overslept.

Groping for the clock next to her bed, Cyn’s fingers bumped the edge of something
hard. And cold.

Come to think of it,
she
was lying on something hard and cold.

There was an odd smell around her. Like old metal. And what should have been the warm
fleece lining of a sleeping bag beneath her fingertips was instead cracked tile. She
opened her eyes all the way and saw streaks of dried blood in front of her.

Oh God. Oh my God. Did it happen again? Where am I? Who did I hurt this time?

Slowly, recognition dawned, and she realized that she was lying in the single-stall
bathroom of her building. A permanently stained sink and a dirty toilet were the only
fixtures, along with a faded black and white tiled floor.

Raising shaking hands to touch her face, Cyn held a jagged piece of tile in her left
palm. She dropped it, and it bounced on the floor before coming to a stop.

Glancing down at her arms, Cyn saw right away where the blood had come from. Clotted
streaks and crude gashes made a macabre road map of connect-the-dots up and down the
translucent veins that pulsed beneath her skin. Dried blood covered the wall and the
base of the sink she was lying in front of.

Apparently, in her sleep she’d somehow managed to come into the bathroom, pry up a
piece of loose floor tile, and use its rough edge to try to slit her wrists.

“No, no, no, no, no . . .” Hysteria bubbled up, and all she could see in her mind
was the blood all over Hunter. “This can’t happen again!”

Cyn got to her feet, and the room dipped sideways. She was light headed. But she couldn’t
tell if that was due to blood loss or because she couldn’t remember the last time
she’d had something to eat.

She turned on the faucet, and it spewed dark and dirty water. She didn’t like the
idea of washing up with it, but she didn’t have any choice. There wasn’t enough bottled
water left.

Gingerly wiping the open edges of the cuts with a wad of tissue, Cyn used as little
of the dirty water as she could. Wincing at the sight more than the pain, she dried
her arms and took in her injuries. There were so many of them. Mostly shallow cuts.
Although two were deep enough to be worried about.