Rahvyn stopped, the sense that she was being watched calling her to look over her shoulder.
Past all of the food offerings, there was an open area fitted with tables and chairs, the well-lit consumption gallery capable of accommodating a hundred diners or more.
It was empty. Except for one person.
There, far, far in the back, facing the wall, but turned to look at her…
…was Nate.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
As Balz tracked the footfalls overhead, he did a quick dive into the firepower duffle and took out two clips and another autoloader. Up on the first floor, someone was definitely moving around and it was not Erika. She wasn’t due back yet, for one thing, and more to the point, he knew what she sounded like as she went around her home.
Going over to the base of the stairs, he willed off the lights and plunged the cellar into darkness. Then, being careful to stay out of the area where the illumination from the kitchen would stream down the stairwell, he trained both guns up at the closed door.
And waited. Sooner or later, they would come down to the basement.
The footfalls were heavy, and sure enough, they got closer to the cellar door. Balz remained as rock solid as the carpet-covered concrete he was standing on, certain that whoever it was, whatever it was… wasn’t a shadow. They didn’t weigh anything to make that kind of sound—
“I’m not the target you’re looking for,” came a dry voice on the far side of that closed door.
“Lassiter?” He lowered the guns. “What are you—”
The angel opened things up. “Well, you texted me—”
“—doing here?”
“—to come over, like I’m going to ignore that?”
“I didn’t actually hit send.”
“Oh, I smell spaghetti. Do you have any left?”
As the Scribe Virgin’s replacement came down the wooden steps, Balz had a moment of what-if-it’s-not-really-him, but then the subtle glimmer of the male’s halo registered—and that demon had a lot of things floating around her, but not anything that was like sunshine.
“You know, Balz, you didn’t have to choose your wording so carefully.” The angel marched right over to the chair next to the couch and sat down. “I mean, come on, my English skills top sitcom level at best. I’m not even on one-hour dramas when it comes to vocabulary.”
Balz blinked. Then he willed the lights back on and went over to the couch. “Okay. And ah, no, I ate all the pasta.”
“Bummer. But that’s cool, I’ll hit a Domino’s on the way home. Pizza Hut is too rough on the stomach.”
As Balz sat down, too, he tucked the guns behind one of the cushions. Then he eased forward and plugged his elbows into his knees.
“What do you have on your mind,” Lassiter asked gently.
“If you knew I was texting you without me hitting send, you know what I’m thinking about.”
“Humor me anyway. Besides, it’s nice to hear ourselves talk, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve always found that to be true, especially if the ‘ourselves’ in a question happens to be me.” The angel pointed to himself. “But I’ll give you the stage and mic right now.”
As Lassiter settled back and got comfortable, crossing his legs knee to knee, as opposed to assuming the more classic air-your-junk lap triangle that most males did, the guy looked like he couldn’t decide whether to be a member of a hair band or a gentleman’s club. The blond-and-black locks on his head and the Steven Tyler–ribboned layers of black and red on his body voted the former. His elegant hands and composure suggested the latter.
“I need to know…” Balz cleared his throat and glanced around Erika’s cellar. Then he laughed in a short, hard burst as he thought about that phone call he’d tried to have with V. “I’m not sure you’re going to even hear what I’m saying.”
“We’re four feet away from each other. But if you want to go the charades route, that’s fine with me. It’ll slow us down, but the element of guesswork could be fun. Plus exercise. Word.”
“What are you…” Balz tried to stay on track. “I’m sorry, but I’m not following you.”
There was a brief pause. Then Lassiter lost the jokey-jokey. “You want to know if the demon’s still in you.”
“Is she? I-I’ve been keeping myself awake for the last week, but I fell asleep today. Twice. And she didn’t come for me in my dreams.”
Lassiter focused on his fingernails, inspecting the cuticles as if he were a manicurist who didn’t approve of the job someone else had done on them, his brows all tight, his mouth a line.