Page 59 of Vanish Into Light

He tried to process that. “Did you…read that out of a book or something?” It sounded like a manual on human behavior written by an alien.

Or an angel, he supposed, and who was to say that wasn’t the same thing?

“It’s an observation,” she said. “Humans mate with one another for many reasons – not ever for no reason, even if they say otherwise, sometimes.”

“Okay. And your point is?”

She frowned. “You feel shame for mating with Arthur Becket.”

He waited for the guilty heat to stain his face, for his breath to get short; waited for the self-beratement. But hearing her say it out loud was a small revelation. He’d felt squirmy inside all day, wanting to wriggle out from beneath the gazes of the others. Wanting to be alone, or with Rose. But it was their opinion he didn’t want. When he took a second to reflect, to search for shame, he found none. In the wee hours, while rain struck the window glass, when Beck had sank down onto him, claws pricking at his chest, the last of his shame had dissolved.

“No,” he said, now. “Actually, I don’t.”

“Well, that’s good to hear,” Beck’s voice said from behind him, and he whirled.

Beck stood in the threshold, coat and wings dripping rainwater. He shook his head, once, droplets flying off the ends, then smoothed it back with both hands and entered.

The quickening of Lance’s pulse and breath, that spike of emotion in his belly that felt an awful lot like gladness, was remarkedly akin to the way he felt when Rose entered a room. He didn’t examine that feeling; didn’t try to shove it away. He let it bloom, and spread through him.

Beck halted, three steps inside, gaze fixing on his face. Whatever his expression did, it caused Beck’s brows to lift, and his face to smooth a moment with surprise. Then he twitched the smallest of grins and donned a superior expression – a mask, Lance realized, with a ping of shock. He wore masks, and he was learning to read them.

“How did it go?” he asked.

Beck’s gaze landed on the towel on the counter, and Lance tossed it to him. Beck nodded his thanks and wiped at his face and horns. “Well enough,” he said, voice muffled, and then set about drying his hands. “Damien was reluctant – mostly because he’s an idiot who doesn’t know anything important. But he did tell me where to find Raphael – in a roundabout way.”

“Where?” Rose asked, slipping into the room.

Beck turned to her, expression going careful. “Are the others in the library? Let’s go there and I’ll tell everyone together.”

Rose nodded, and slipped back out.

Morgan hopped off the counter and followed, still munching chips.

Beck caught Lance by the elbow, and held him back a moment, once the girls were gone. In a low voice, he said, “You were there that day, weren’t you? When she fought Raphael?”

It was one of Lance’s least favorite memories. “Yeah. That’s the only time I’ve seen her rattled on an op. Well. That and…” He trailed off. He’d lost a lot of blood, vision swimming in and out of focus, but he recalled the blank look on her face that day in Shubert’s penthouse; when Beck had drunk from the conduit’s vein and fled with him; had leaped out of a window and left them all behind to clean up the mess.

A humorless smirk touched Beck’s mouth. “Yes, well. There’s shocked, and then there’sfrightened. Which was she with Raphael?”

It felt like a betrayal to Rose…but here he stood with the only other person who cared about Rose in the way he did. Who saw how strong, and fierce, and resilient she was, and loved her for it. It was a connection they’d always shared – but one he was only just now realizing; another silken, powerful thread in the web steadily gaining points of attachment between them. “She was afraid,” he admitted. “She would deny that. But.”

Beck nodded. And then his gaze dropped to Lance’s mouth, and Lance’s lips tingled in sudden, thrilling anticipation.

When Beck said, “Come along, then,” and turned away, disappointment sank heavy as a stone in his belly. He’d expected a kiss – perhaps even the sharp nip of fangs, the hot thrust of a tongue, and claws pricking at his skin through his shirt. He’d gotten none of that, and he wished he had, and Lance wiped a hand down his face, embarrassed, wanting,stupid.

At the door, Beck paused, and glanced back over his shoulder. Grinned, fast, sharp, wicked, and then continued.

“Fucker,” Lance muttered, before he followed, but the warmth in his chest felt very much like fondness.

~*~

According to Damien, the Archangel Raphael was currently housed inside the body of a twenty-two year-old underwear model named Colton Benson – because even in the Wild West landscape of the post-Rift world, the elites stayed elite, and there was always an excuse, and a means, for celebrity.

“Last time he was in a carpenter,” Lance said with obvious disgust.

Beck snorted – as with all his speech and expressions, it was an elegant gesture. “How very Jesus of him. Well, I take it he learned from that mistake. This time he’s grafted himself to a handsome, rich young man who lives behind two gates, four locked doors, and is surrounded by private security. He’s taking no chances.”

“Where?” Tris said. His scowl was still skeptical, Rose noted, but he was shifted forward in his chair, listening to Beck, apparently taking him seriously.

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