Page 69 of Sleeping Redemption
Eventually, I tapped out for the day. My eyes flirted with the idea of bleeding like some crackpot’s claim of a statue crying blood and calling it a sign from God.
I found myself in a state of melancholy, nestled between Atlas and Rook on the couch in the living room. A football game played on the television in front of us, though I couldn’t tell you who the teams were. Three beers sat on the coffee table, mine remaining untouched.
Atlas had his arm wrapped around my shoulders, holding me to his side. Softly, his fingers drifted over my arm, running upto my shoulder and then tracing back down to the crook of my elbow, where he would use his thumb to draw several circles before repeating the process.
My head rested against the front of his shoulder, his heartbeat just a short distance away, reassuring me that my Atlassian was there underneath the surface. With my hand resting on his bunched-up abs, it rose with the light rise and fall of his breaths—another confirmation of his existence attempting to put me at ease.
On the other side of me, Rook had my feet in his lap while he painted my toenails scarlet, the only color worthy of gracing my nails.
With a critical eye, as he meticulously stroked the brush over another toenail, my attentive trickster demon spoke up. “The meeting with Admir went well. He was receptive to having his eyes and ears work around the community. It shouldn’t take him too long to get us a lead.”
Bless him; it was his way of attempting to coax my mood out of the negative rut it was in.
With a snippy edge to my voice, I responded, “I need answers now, Rook.”
Atlas leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “He’s working on it, Kinley. I’m sure we’ll hear back sooner than you think.”
“Hold still, love,” Rook tightened his hand on my foot, his thumb pressing into the sole. He applied pressure to a spot just below the ball in an attempt to relieve some stress while his other hand delicately painted more color onto my toenails.
I huffed out an impatient sigh laced with my irritation.
“If Nicodemus is back, we’re fucked,” I bluntly declared.
Atlas tensed underneath me at the mention of Nico, my own body harboring the same sentiment.
The three of us sat there with the gravity of the situation hanging in the air, and the announcers provided play-by-play commentary on the game none of us were really paying attention to at this point.
“Kin.” Sylas’s voice firmly commanded my attention as he entered the living room.
I couldn’t hide the attitude in my voice to match his demanding tone. “What?”
“A word,” Sylas grunted out at me as he stepped closer to the couch. It was like a militaristic demand from a superior to some plebe responsible for grunt work.
“In private,” he clarified.
Sighing heavy enough to rival a room full of moody teenage girls, I sat upright. I withdrew my feet from Rook’s lap and pried myself away from Atlas’s comforting embrace.
So much for my housewarming gift keeping Sylas in a good mood.
Atlas sat forward and looked at the both of us and spoke up, conveying his concern, “Everything alright?”
Sy’s stoic expression gave away nothing as he glanced over at my guardian angel, not uttering a single word in response.
“If you’re going to be pissy, you may as well get it off your chest here and now, Sy.” I stood from the sofa, careful of my toes still wet with polish.
Clearing his throat, Rook made an effort to referee. “Let’s all untwist our bottoms, yeah?” He then gave Sy a look as if to tell him to tread carefully.
Sy predictably ignored it.
“Spoke with Camiel today, figuring he might have some insight on how to get your sword back. It was a rather enlightening conversation.”
Camiel was the archangel responsible for assisting in finding lost things. Personally, I didn’t think he was all that great at hisjob, given the number of lost socks in the world, but the man possessed a skilled set of hands and a chiseled body that anyone could lose themselves in.
“Oh? What did Cam have to say?” I asked as though I didn’t already have a feeling where this was headed.
A brusque scoff came out of Sy as he folded his arms in front of his broad chest, the muscles in his biceps flexing against the thin material of his dark grey tee.
He pointed a finger accusingly at me. “You prayed to him.”
