Page 60 of Price of Angels

He didn’t want to leave his bike behind at the bar, so when her shift ended, he walked her to the Chevelle – his hand lingering on the door before he closed it, his breath pluming in the cold air, his eyes still on fire, the desire in him something she could feel against her skin – and then she followed his slender, menacing figure as he led the way on his Harley. A knight errant all in black, threatening and sinister with the leather, and the growl of the engine, and the way he carried himself like he owned all these dark streets around them. He did, didn’t he? The Lean Dogs owned this city.

He didn’t live far from the heart of town, in an older neighborhood full of tall, crowded trees, the streetlamps dim and flickering, the homes low-slung, well-built, most of the lights out at this ungodly hour. He turned into the driveway of a brick Craftsman home with a wide, concrete porch held up by thick brick columns, the drive sloping down to a parking pad shaded by pines, some errant shine of the moon catching the windows of the closed doors that marked the drive-under garage.

The dark frightened her, the absolute blackness of it, the way it seemed liquid and alive. The house was a dim shape above, same as the neighboring one, but the yards, the trees, the fences: all of it up to the imagination, and in her mind, crawling with threat.

The concrete was carpeted with fallen pine needles, and they crunched beneath her shoes as she climbed out. She shuddered hard against the cold, as it wrapped around her bare legs and cut through her thin leather jacket.

When she shut the door and turned, there was Michael, and his presence made the dark bearable, the cold less penetrating. Wordlessly, he slipped an arm around her waist, urging her against his side as they started up toward the house. Whether he meant it as support or affection, she didn’t care. He was warm, and solid, and strong, and she put her arm around him, too, inside his open jacket, where she could feel the heat of his skin against her hand, through his shirt.

“This is a big house,” she said, fighting the chattering of her teeth as they reached the top of the drive and she got her first good look at the dark lines of roof and porch. “I love this porch,” she said, as they stepped into its shade, and there was the sound of keys rattling as Michael fished them from his pocket.

He snorted. “You don’t have to compliment the house.”

“But I like it,” she protested. “It’s not what I expected.”

He made an inquiring sound, unlocking the deadbolt with one hand while he held onto her with the other.

“I thought you might have a cave up in the mountains somewhere,” she said, biting on a laugh.

“Sounds about right,” he said, pushing the door inward, pulling her in alongside him.

The warmth struck her first. It was cozily warm in here, the air dry and soothing, like he’d left the heat running while he was gone, the floor humming faintly underfoot to prove the point.

“Oh, that’s nice,” she murmured, as they finally broke apart and Michael turned to relock the door.

“I hate winter,” he muttered, as way of explanation, and Holly smiled. So he wasn’t all frigid and cold. She’d been learning that, but the blast of heat proved it further.

There was a small clicking sound and then buttery light filled the space around them, the house rushing to take shape.

They stood in a tiled foyer, the light coming from a pendant chandelier overhead. Two brick columns set off the entryway from the living room beyond, and the furnishings surprised her.

Here in the foyer, a slender table held a ceramic urn with a spray of silk pussy willow fanning against the cream wall. Opposite was a mirror, a coat rack, a brass umbrella stand in the shape of an opening tulip, tiny brass rabbits etched at its base.

The living room was painted a rich gold, the couch a comfy-looking sectional in a dark brown plaid, the carpet tall cream shag, the recliner a leather La-Z-Boy. There was a stone fireplace, its hearth heaped with logs, flanked on both sides by built-in bookcases. That was where the TV was, the only thing modern and shiny about the room – the big flat screen fitted into the proper alcove, bordered top and bottom by shelves stacked with DVD cases.

“I bought the place furnished,” Michael explained without her having to ask. “I didn’t see much sense in changing anything.”

“I understand,” she said, glancing toward him. “That’s how I feel about my loft. Why bother, you know?”

He wouldn’t look at her, took off his jacket and hung it up, reached for hers as she followed suit.

“Well,” she said, “at least it’s warm, and it’s cozy.”

“I’m having another drink,” he said, leaving her to follow as he set off through the living room.

He was nervous now, Holly guessed. Or reconsidering. Something. At least she knew she hadn’t imagined the burn in him before. Otherwise, she might have felt discouraged, might have felt her own heat dimming some.

The kitchen was spotless, but dated: glass-faced white cabinets, green soapstone counters, tiny octagonal floor tiles and white squares for the backsplash. There was a bay window, with a table in it, and beyond, Holly could just make out the shadows of trees. She wondered what the view was like during the day.

Michael reached into an upper cabinet, pulled down two squat blue glasses from what looked like a set of dozens, and a bottle of Jack Daniels. He poured more than either of them needed in each cup.

“Were the dishes part of the furnishings?” Holly asked, smiling.

“Yep.” He turned, and pressed one of the glasses into her hands.

She knew, the second her fingers touched his, but was confirmed when she glanced up and met his gaze: he was throbbing too. He was full of that same pulsing energy, just like her. It shone wildly in his eyes, caught in the sharp corners of his mouth, vibrated through his skin where their hands still touched.

Holly took a deep, shaky breath. “What is this?”

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