Sinner: Feathers and Fire Book 5 Read online

  I glanced over my shoulder to find Cleo enmeshed in a conversation with a great bear of a man who seemed to be introducing her to two other women in an overly animated manner. Cleo shot me an apologetic look from the corner of her eyes and almost imperceptibly shrugged her shoulders as if to let me know she had been picked off and hadn’t been able to deny the man introducing her to his friends.

  I smiled in understanding. That was kind of the point of the evening—to network with our neighbors. “At least I won’t have to babysit,” I murmured under my breath as I turned away.

  “Baby, you can sit on me anytime,” a man’s seductive voice whispered in my ears.

  I rolled my eyes at the familiar voice. “Easy, Dorian. Kitty has claws.” I turned to face him and couldn’t help but appreciate the specimen of a man before me.

  Dorian was undeniably beautiful. When he entered a room, spoke in your ear, or touched you in any way whatsoever, reality seemed to shift and flicker like he was some godling arriving to take away all pain in the world and to sing that Disney song, I will show you the world…

  While conveniently taking off your undergarments—gender would not save you from his silver tongue. His fetishes were multi-faceted and his appetite was multi-sexual.

  Dorian was still smirking at my threat. “Why else would I try to seduce you? I love claws.” I sighed, shaking my head. “Tell me, why is the most beautiful woman in the room standing all alone at the very party she orchestrated?” he asked gently.

  I gave up, the compliment warming my heart. I slipped my arm through his to let him escort me through the room, which had the benefit of preventing any interruption as we continued walking through the party. Now that we were touching each other I had to focus more intently, battling away the almost euphoric feeling of being in such close proximity to Dorian. But the benefit was that absolutely no one interrupted us. Sure, we received hungry looks from almost everyone we passed—one obvious couple was openly, longingly staring at us, entirely unaware that their date was doing the exact same thing. I watched as the two snapped out of their daze to look at each other warily, only to realize they had both suffered the same wandering eye.

  Then they smiled devilishly at each other. As if seeing their partner stare at us had been some great revelation that silently opened up new avenues for fresh, late-night games. Jesus, even seeing Dorian led couples into considering inviting others into their bedrooms. He was like a plague of depravity. But I had to admit…he did it with style.

  He was immortal, but looked to be thirty-something. His steel gray eyes were intense and, as usual, his shoulder-length light brown hair was meticulously styled. He wore red loafers, a sleek white suit with faint silver pinstripes, and his black dress shirt was open to reveal his muscular chest. He wore a flashy, diamond-encrusted medallion neckpiece like a rap icon that said Lie’ve Portrait. I rolled my eyes at the clever double entendre—that his beauty was a lie, and that he really was a walking, living portrait.

  Because Dorian Gray only remained so beautiful because every sinful act he committed had zero effect on his physical body—any harm transferring instead to a portrait of himself that was locked away in a secret vault that he’d recently relocated thanks to my prying eyes. I’d found it and extorted his assistance by holding a butane torch to it.

  We’d been friends ever since.

  “You look delectable this evening,” he said in a low, meaningful murmur.

  I blushed, hurriedly and clumsily reaching into my clutch purse to pull out a compact mirror to check my makeup as I finally picked up on the accent of the French man speaking behind me. I’d been so entranced that I’d momentarily forgotten about my target tonight, but Dorian’s careful use of our prearranged codeword delectable had snapped me back into action, letting me know I was within range. I used the compact mirror to distract anyone from noticing that I was actually pressing a button on one of the two phones tucked into my purse. After a few seconds, the screen flashed with green text: Cloning complete.

  I snapped my compact mirror closed and grinned as I slipped it back inside my purse. “Thank you, Dorian,” I told him, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek and slip the phone into his inner jacket pocket. “Let’s get the party started, shall we?”

  His smirk looked wolfish as he nodded, casually buttoning up his jacket with one hand as he touched his cheek longingly with the other. Right where I had kissed him. Then, like a good lead, he guided me on through the deadliest dance of the night to mingle through the room a little bit so as not to look suspicious. My work here was pretty much finished.

  The rest of the evening was about retribution—taking a moment to appreciate the fireworks. Maybe have another glass of rosé…

  Chapter 3

  We meandered through the crowd, nodding and smiling at those we passed. I saw Starlight representing the local shifter bears. They had chosen to send their smallest, cutest, most mysterious—and possibly the most dangerous—member of their Cave. Starlight was perpetually in bear form, about the size of an adolescent black bear but with gray fur tinging his muzzle, belying that he was no young cub.

  He’d once told me that he had been a wizard in his younger days, and had purposely chosen to become a shifter bear. He’d also chosen to live in that form, not bothering with a human form.

  He smiled widely at my approach, leaning closer to place a paw on my shoulder and whisper in my ear. “Be aware of never-ending explosions.”

  I reeled back to stare at him, noticing his eyes were slightly glazed over as if he had sampled some of his notorious shifter weed—a hallucinogen. Before I could ask what the blazes he had meant, a sudden commotion in the crowd pulled him into a conversation with a group of witches.

  I couldn’t risk making a scene, so promised I would corner him about it later even if I had to use a pot of honey to bribe the truth from him. The bears were friends.

  My best friend, Claire Stone had joined their Cave—what they called their pack—and was currently at their retreat in the Alaskan wilderness, learning more about her new form. And probably spending quite a bit of time with Kenai, one of the bears she seemed to have taken a particular fancy to.

  Dorian tugged me onward, not wanting to risk getting sucked—totally unlike him, figuratively speaking—into a lengthy conversation with anyone. He still had a job to do tonight.

  We reached relative privacy and he let out a sigh of relief, turning to face me with a broad smile on his face for anyone watching us too closely. He reached out to flick my hair, smiling. “I love the dress,” he complimented me. “White suits you. And those slits down the side will still let you murder and maim if the chance presents itself.” I nodded with a grin, glad he had noticed. “I’m glad you have your long hair back. It must grow very fast…” he added in a suspicious tone.

  I shrugged, not wanting to tell him about the magic hair straightener my hacker friend, Othello, had given me in Vegas not long ago. She worked for Nate Temple—the billionaire wizard king of St. Louis—in a company he owned that focused on fusing magic with modern technology. They’d come up with any number of amazing products, and most weren’t listed in their catalog, because they pretended to be just another tech company for the world at large.

  For all intents and purposes, Grimm Tech was just a spinoff from his parents’ now-defunct company, Temple Industries. But to anyone who knew Nate or Othello…well, Christmas would very likely kick serious ass. Or he and I were going to have a long conversation.

  Because I’d recently kissed Nate Temple and, barring all the other warm and fuzzy feelings associated with that decision and its impending consequences, my kiss better have put me on the very top of his priority list.

  Or we would have a very short conversation.

  “How was Vegas?” Dorian pressed, smirking devilishly at the unbidden smile on my cheeks.

  I scowled at him, shaking my head. “Fat chance. I’m still cleaning mud out of my ears,” I growled in a cute but polite enough tone to be suit
able for a party.

  He frowned disappointedly, but I wasn’t falling for his sad puppy-dog eyes.

  I’d been roped into a twenty-first birthday bash for some shifter dragon girlfriends from St. Louis, along with Othello and a new friend named Quinn MacKenna from Boston. I’d learned that she was a black magic arms dealer, and decided that we could be friends—again, thinking solely of Christmas. Quinn was one hell of a drinker, but she really excelled at brawling and cursing. It had been a night to remember. Or forget. A drunken shamble that ended in a bar fight with leprechauns had ironically resulted in only one fatality—a shifter stripper named Lucky had been ripped in half by one of their rainbows when they demanded we return the gold bar one of the birthday girls had accidentally acquired from their vault.

  Rest in pieces, Lucky, I thought to myself.

  But Dorian had provided part of the entertainment, roping us into a mud-wrestling match in one of the underground night clubs he apparently owned on the Strip. Mentioning where or how I’d found my hair straightener that could alter my locks in any number of ways—lengthening or shortening it—would only invite questions leading to any number of alleged felonies we had been involved in that night.

  I realized Dorian was watching me closely and, for the first time, he looked truly hesitant. My shoulders tensed instinctively and I risked a glance over my shoulder, wondering what had startled him. But I saw nothing. I turned back to him, suddenly anxious. “What is it?”

  He let out an unsteady sigh. “I want to bring something up, but I don’t want you to kill me.”

  I nodded, encouraging him to proceed. “I won’t kill you. I’m not a monster, Dorian.”

  This didn’t seem to appease him. In fact, it made him wince. “Funny you should choose that word…” he said softly.

  I began tapping my foot, not bothering to hide my displeasure. A private argument might be even better camouflage for our night’s activities. “Out with it before I change my mind…”

  He held up a hand, stalling me. “Right. Know that I am being sincere and that I’m concerned for you. Truly,” he said, locking eyes with me meaningfully. I nodded uncertainly, almost afraid to hear him out. “It’s just…you’ve been kind of going off the books a lot lately. Like you’re just looking for fights everywhere you go. Almost like you’re lost and are searching for…a purpose?” he ventured hesitantly.

  My breath caught in my throat because…well, I had felt that way recently. I’d chosen to not ally myself with the Vatican Shepherds—the group that had spent over a decade training me how to use my magic and hunt monsters on their behalves—because when my mentor Roland had needed their support, they had turned their backs on him so swiftly that I realized they only saw two colors.

  Black and white.

  Even for a man who had spent his entire life working for them as a Shepherd, one of the noblest men I’d ever met in my life…he was now only a vampire. They didn’t care that he had chosen his fate in order to protect them, to prevent a war. No. He was now just a vampire, no longer welcome.

  I hadn’t necessarily wanted to become a Shepherd anyway, but after that…yeah, as a group, they could choke on a string of rosaries. The Shepherds and the arthritic group of milk-eyed wizards—the Conclave—that commanded them. One Shepherd, a man named Fabrizio, had proven his loyalty, sticking his neck out to vouch for Roland, but it hadn’t changed anything. Well, it had proven his friendship and that he was the only Shepherd with even a shred of decency to him.

  But the rest of them…death by rosaries.

  The Conclave had rewarded Fabrizio’s progressive view on vampires by promoting him to Head Shepherd and then promptly shipping him off to Kansas City to fill the spot vacated by Roland and me, running Abundant Angel Catholic Church until a replacement could be found.

  Knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that I no longer wanted anything to do with them had left me strangely adrift. I had no other family in the magical sense. Roland was now a vampire and I couldn’t really hang out with their kind without making them fidget. Like dangling a steak in front of dogs and expecting them to ignore it. The smarter vampires knew the steak would kill them, but that didn’t help my cause either. Fact was, I didn’t belong with them.

  Same with my other friends. Dorian hung out at orgies with witches and Claire was lazing about with the shifter bears.

  I was all alone. I had taken to sticking my nose in anywhere it wasn’t welcome in the local supernatural community. Essentially, picking fights with anyone who looked at me crossly. I’d even had to kill a few lately, and I’d heard the whispered rumors about the White Rose—the apparent moniker I’d been given. I wasn’t sure whether it was due to my white hair and last name Penrose, or if it signified a white rose cast upon a casket at a funeral. Either worked.

  In fact, I had even been warned about that crazy, white-haired lady rebranding the City of Fountains to the City of Blood Fountains. Direct quote, for the record. Although, the gossiper had quickly made the connection between my own white hair and that of Kansas City’s newest supervillain, and had then promptly run away from me, begging for his life.

  While we were in line at lunchtime in a deli downtown.

  The rest of the wait for my sandwich had been particularly awkward after that.

  This fear was evident in many of the wary looks I had received tonight. I’d chosen white for this exact reason, relishing the nickname I’d been given. But that was mere pettiness on my part.

  Dorian’s claim, bless his heart, was spot on.

  Chapter 4

  I nodded at him calmly. “You’re not wrong,” I admitted. “But why were you scared to tell me? We’re friends, Dorian,” I said, feeling slightly hurt at the fear in his eyes. To scare someone who couldn’t die meant I was more than just a rumor. I was a force of nature in his eyes. And if he was thinking it, thousands were saying it.

  He nodded slowly. “I’m concerned because the way you’re running around town…I don’t know if you might someday find a reason to take me out. I’m not the only friendly face to say this, by the way,” he added in a whisper, letting me know I was even scaring my staunch friends and allies. That was a shock to hear. Then again, I hadn’t really spoken to anyone recently, not after sending most of those I cared about away from town for a while.

  Because I’d released a Greater Demon from his prison, and I was pretty sure he would personally come to thank me in the very near future, even though I’d heard nothing to satisfy that claim. I just knew how Demons thought. They thanked people by destroying them. They didn’t like owing favors. It was much easier to ‘accidentally murder’ the one you owed the favor to and apologize after. Demons, by nature of existence, weren’t that great on honoring their prior obligations.

  Samael would come for me. Likely sooner rather than later. So, I had bought tickets to send my adopted father, Terry and his lady-friend, Raidia trekking across Europe for a few months. I’d purchased their return flight ahead of time to guarantee their extended vacation. Because his girlfriend and I had history that I didn’t quite want to hash out with her yet, and she had been present when I broke Samael out of his cage. She would likely be a target.

  The others who had been involved with that night had their own protection, so I hadn’t been as concerned with them. Beckett Killian was spending his time smoking out any of the existing Templars and their Commander, Olin Fuentes. He hadn’t found him yet, but had surprisingly recruited many of the old Templars to his cause, becoming the de-facto Templar Commander to counter Olin. Which meant a civil war was brewing for the future.

  Alyksandre and his Nephilim had been shaken to the core to see their Angel boss, Nameless, Fall from Grace. But they were even more horrified to see me catch the Angel and bind him to my service by wrapping him around my finger. I was still waiting for the consequences of that action to hit me and had advised the Nephilim to keep their distance from me in case Nameless’ Angel brothers decided to pay me a visit for a talk.

 
Recently, I’d pretty much spent time only around Cain—the world’s first murderer—and Roland. Dorian, too, but he wasn’t looking too honored to be my friend right now. He looked like a startled rabbit with his leg caught in a trap. And I was the trap.

  Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn white tonight.

  “Well,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I’m not angry or anything. This isn’t vengeance.”

  He grunted, unconvinced. “You bound an Angel, killed two Demons, have been seen in St. Louis for a whole mess of earth-shattering wars Nate Temple keeps starting, and you’ve single-handedly broken the Vatican, the Templars, and the Nephilim,” he said in what sounded like a rehearsed speech. “You look like you are perpetually angry, Callie. Very, very angry. I’m glad to hear you say otherwise, but you need to know how everyone else feels. I think they are too scared to tell you,” he said.

  “Okay. I’ll…temper myself. It’s just…” I swept the room as I took a sip of my drink, suddenly feeling like I wanted to just leave and abandon my mission. I noticed dozens of pairs of eyes flinch away, not wanting me to catch them watching Dorian and I talk. I gritted my teeth at the real-world example of Dorian’s claims. I just wanted to go on a vacation. To run away to St. Louis and have Nate whisk me off to Fae where I could kill to my heart’s content. Until this pain inside me was drowned in pools of blood—

  I cut off the thought abruptly, surprised at my own vehemence and that I was openly panting.

  Huh.

  Maybe I did have a problem.

  I met Dorian’s eyes and, even though I hadn’t said any of that out loud, his face looked like he had heard every thought. I lifted my hand, hoping he would take it, but careful not to appear threatening. He didn’t even hesitate, or I might have broken down in tears. Which really would have scared everyone—to see the terror of Kansas City have an emotional breakdown.