Undead for a Day (28 page)

And maybe mortals should know better.

She landed lightly on her bare feet, wings outstretched and at the ready. Tris had run toward the streets feeding off the main one and had ducked into an alley. He was injured and had left a trail of blood behind. Tiny droplets appeared to her enhanced vision like small scarlet nightlights on the pavement. Any demon worth its title would easily be able to find him. For a vampire demon the likes of
Le Stryge,
it would be a no-brainer.

Worry, to Izzy, felt like thunder rolling through her veins. Like she had swallowed something combustible. What kind of loophole in the dark magic arena would allow for her side to break every rule in the book?

Her wings fluttered in agitation. Her shoulder blades twitched. She stopped glancing from side to side when light suddenly blazed from an overhead source. Used to the dark, Izzy narrowed her eyes to shield them from the dazzling, blinding radiance. Her throat smarted as she breathed in particles pulsing with the vibrancy of the sun.

There was no mistaking who and what this was, and that the light was a warning for the Dark Side to behave. This light had
“stop the insanity, or else”
written all over it.

At least the angels knew about what was going on.

“He’s hurt,” Izzy said, without looking for the source of the light. “I’m here to try to restore the balance. Where were you a minute ago?”

She swallowed more light and nearly choked, but was mad enough to address the newcomers again.

“As a matter of fact, where have you been all this time? You do know how long this has been going on? Yet you’ve never flipped the final light switch in all these years. It’s as if you didn’t really care about him.”

The light remained concentrated and extreme. Night, on this section of pavement, had become day.

Izzy wasn’t afraid to speak again. After all, she didn’t have to worry about scoring points with these guys. It was far too late for that.

“You might want to turn the wattage down,” she said, “so as not to call too much attention to yourselves.”

Flapping her wings in annoyance, she concluded with the first and last thing on her mind. “Somebody has to watch his back.”

Just like that, the light went out.
Poof.
Its disappearance threw the area back into a darkness that left Izzy with brilliant afterimages and two stinging eyes.

Safe from the dizzying phosphorescence, she looked up at the moon and saw something fly past the round silver disc.
Angels, maybe, since witches don’t really ride broomsticks?

Had the good guys backed off?

Angels didn’t belong in the physical world, but then on so many levels, neither did she. Still, she had been human once-upon-a-time, though she barely remembered those days, and she hadn’t lost her love for the earth plane. She might have been a teacher, early on, before it all went south. She might have been an artist. Remembering details about her mortal life was tough.

Izzy waited for the hand of God to smite her for confronting the angels. No smiting came. No sulfurous cavern to the great flaming pit opened up at her feet from the other side.

Wasn’t that odd?

Perhaps an attempt to maintain some sort of balance when Hell had cheated by letting
Le Stryge
loose was okay with the angels. Maybe they assumed that allowing the Dark Side to fight among themselves was the better way to keep their golden halos clean.

She didn’t take much stock in the angels, who hadn’t lifted a wing tip in all these years to sway the direction or outcome of Tristan’s shackled livelihood. However, now that she had placed her cards on the table with no ensuing retribution...maybe she could push the limits a bit further.

Maybe the angels were giving her their blessing on the balance issue, just this once.

So, now there was a man to find.

Her lover.

Her love.

The reason she continued to breathe.

The motive for tolerating so much abuse.

“Hang on, Tris,” she said with a steely determination that caused her feathers to ruffle. “I’m right behind you.”

*

Tristan saw a flash of light behind him and did not look back. He knew trouble when he smelled it, and the night stank.

He passed two quaint restaurants before slowing. No one seemed to notice or care about a monk out for an evening jog, and that was probably a good thing. Less attention to detail was better tonight, especially since there were numerous creatures hugging the shadows, and several more hanging monkeylike beneath colorful awnings.

Tristan finally paused beneath a streetlight to look at his forearm. The wound didn’t seem deep enough to have caused real damage, though it continued to bleed. There wasn’t a single bandage option in sight, and the burlap robe was too rough for him to consider tearing off a piece. He pressed his hand to the injury hoping to staunch the flow as he glanced around to see where he was.

Noises rose from several nearby patios where people were celebrating this weird holiday with decanters of fine French wine. He smelled that wine from where he stood. He remembered the taste, and how he had discovered his favorite vintage on his first trip to France. It had been on his second visit that he had found that infamous gallery.

Strange, how he didn’t really miss those days, with all the activity since, and with his mind and heart filled with Izzy.

A streak of color in his peripheral vision made Tristan spin with his heart pounding. It wasn’t a monster this time, though. It was a good rendition of Marie Antoinette that bustled by him on the arm of a courtier dressed in icy blue silk. They paid him no attention. Both costumed humans, with eyes only for each other, were also seemingly unaware of the small, brown, contorted face peeking out from beneath the dragging hem of Marie’s rustling skirts as the pair whisked by.

Tristan followed the couple with his eyes wide. Monsters were everywhere and unavoidable on this unearthly holiday. Tonight, though, it all pointed to something. He was certain the real trouble would soon begin.

Where was Izzy?

“Are you there?” he called out.

If she was near, this would be worrisome. If allowed to get away with following him, Izzy would find out how little he actually did to find his replacement. She would add things up and conclude that he couldn’t, in his heart and in his soul, wish a stone cocoon for anyone else.

This was true.

Yet he had to play the game, and keep on playing. For her. And for the innocent folks who had no idea what this night meant, and what he was supposed to do to one of them in order to regain his freedom.

“Say,” a youthful female voice said, behind him. “Are you a real monk, or a
faux?”

The back of Tristan’s neck bristled as he turned.
“Faux,”
he replied casually, facing a shapely woman in a tight black cat suit and a black sequined mask.

In the dimness of the fallout from a nearby street light, the woman’s eyes, seen through the slits in the mask, shone a vivid amethyst blue. She had smooth white skin and a small mouth painted candy-apple red.

The suit had been poured over her abundant, slightly fleshy curves, and clung fiercely to each one of them in a blatant display of raw female sexuality. Her hair was the color of wheat, on fire.

Tristan stepped back, instantly on alert. Unless women had found a way to access their inner power to a major degree in the time since he’d last walked the streets of Paris, this one was a cause for concern. Not only was she looking at him like he was about to be dinner, she smelled a little like Izzy. He recognized the slightly smoky, fragrantly musky scent of scalded pheromones.

“I particularly like monks,” Catwoman said, her voice simulating a purr. “Faux, or otherwise.”

“Oh?” Tristan said cautiously.

She nodded. “Ultimately, they all fall.”

A span of silence ensued before Tristan could think of what to say. His instincts had been correct. This was no mere woman in a costume. This was the real deal, one of Satan’s spawn.

“Well, it’s been nice running into you.” Tristan backed up without turning from her. What he absolutely did not need right now was a hindrance of this sort.

Catwoman’s bright eyes remained riveted on him in a disconcerting fashion. He thought she saw her lick her lips.

“Actually, I’m meeting someone,” he said, sliding a hand to his wound. “Please excuse me. I hope you find another monk to–”

Unable to finish that, because he didn’t want to imagine what this kind of creature might do to any victim she caught in her trap, Tristan retreated around a corner where he breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

Relief was short-lived. The ground began to quake. His thoughts turned to
Le Stryge.

Sounds of galloping horses interrupted those thoughts. The unmistakable clatter of hooves on pavement suggested they were coming on fast.

Horses. In present day Paris?

Is this another trick?

*

Izzy batted her wings slowly, hovering over the street, above the buildings. Tension spiraled up her back and into her face. The angels had vanished, but other things had taken their place. The vibe of the area was bad.

Tristan had held his own against a formidable foe on the ground, and had gotten away unscathed.
Wanda
, as the demon across from him liked to be called, wore a black cat suit, and was the worst of the Recruiters. Or the best of them, depending on whose side a person was on.

Wanda was a Recruiter Extraordinaire; a notorious rebel for the Dark Side, formidable, hard core, and far from her U.S. turf. Which meant that Wanda had a special assignment tonight.

But that target wasn’t Tristan.

Recruiters had a schedule they were supposed to adhere to. Dire consequences resulted from slip-ups. The more a Recruiter slipped up, the closer to the great, fiery chasm she got. The better the Recruiter, the more time on the surface of the earth she got to spend, breathing fresh air and enjoying the scenery.

This system might have seemed counter-intuitive, but was actually a good incentive to be very, very bad. Izzy was willing to bet that Wanda had never dipped so much as a big toe into the pit.

“Tristan belongs to me,” Izzy said aloud.

One mortal per Recruiter was the way things went down. No one was to muscle in on her territory. Not Wanda. Not even a creep named
Le Stryge
with an illegal agenda of its own.

Tilting her head back, Wanda grinned up at Izzy wickedly. Izzy definitely wasn’t comfortable taking her eyes off Wanda. She wasn’t sure how long she would be able to stay off Notre Dame’s gallery, and close to Tristan. Already, Tris had sidestepped trouble twice.

Both she and Wanda turned their heads toward the end of the street at the same time, listening to the strange noises rolling through the quiet. These were disturbing noises, and unrelated to the usual French moral high-jinx.

“Good luck,” Wanda said in a smoky voice. “Word of warning, though. They’re pulling out all the stops. Your mission must be something special.” And then Wanda, cat suit and all, vanished in a little spark of flame.

Izzy wrinkled her nose. Her sense of smell had been tweaked by the scent accompanying the sounds in the distance. Animal smells: fur, and damp, frothy flesh.

Horses?

Not happy with the implication of that, Izzy gave her wings a shake, spread them even wider, and soared upward on a dark, wayward breeze, hoping to find out what in hell was going on.

It was a black coach, pulled by black horses. Tristan watched it as he returned to the bank above the Seine.

The horses’ hooves made ringing sounds on the cobbles. Great wheels rolled with a creak of wood on stone. Possibly, this was part of a richly appointed Halloween party. People with money to spare would appreciate outrageous things like fancy coach rentals. The year before, it had been limos.

He leaned over the iron railing to get a better look, wondering if one of the rich revelers inside that coach might be the suitable replacement he’d been meant to find tonight. Why else had the sounds drawn him here?

If that proved to be the case, he needed to make a fast getaway, because a volunteer meant he’d have to leave Izzy, and he didn’t see how he’d be able to stand that.

Plus, anyone slated for a stone casing would likely be stuck on the cathedral’s rooftop forever. Who would look out for the next person if there was no champion like his? Who would fill the next person in on the details?

Thoughts fled as the coach slowed.

A jolt of surprise ran through Tristan when it stopped on the lower bank, right beneath where he stood.

The sleek black horses, their heads topped by tall white plumes of feathers, stamped their hooves impatiently. On the front of the coach, the driver, dressed in black from head to toe, sat very still, without looking up.

The door of the coach started to open. A white gloved hand appeared, and beckoned with a slow turn of wrist. Tristan glanced around, finding no one else nearby. Was this an invitation to hop aboard a coach that was picking up strangers for the fun of it, or was this the really bad thing his fine-tuned intuition told him it was? Irish folk believed in black coaches coming from unknown places to pick up the souls of the dead.

He shook his head. “Still breathing,” he said loudly. “At least for now.”

Striding away from the overlook, Tristan found himself beside a quaint café called
Tres Chic!
As he looked the place over, a woman emerged. Eyeing him, she slipped off the curb, stumbled, and fell to the gutter rather ungracefully.

Mistrusting even this seemingly benign encounter, Tristan watched her reach for her ankle. Maybe she really was hurt. Maybe this was okay, and not a trap.

He offered his hand. “Are you all right?”

“Oh. Yes.” Her voice was deep, and rich. “Thanks.”

Something about this woman’s pretty face seemed familiar in an
off
kind of way that Tristan couldn’t immediately lay a finger on. Her closeness affected him on an intimate level, and as though the long, slender fingers she slipped into his hand had meaningfully stroked his palm.