off her guard.
“Where are we?” At her feet, skylight windows pierced the gently sloping roof, moonbeams slanting onto a distant wooden floor. The iron rooftop banked sharply away at the edges.
“Told you. My place.” Luniel danced across on light wings and levered the skylight up on its hinges, unhooking a battered wooden ladder that creaked down inside. “After you, Doctor.”
“You live in a loft in Harlem?”
“So? It’s convenient.”
“Who pays your rent, anyway? Don’t tell me you’ve got a regular job.”
His eyes twinkled. “We have ways of getting stuff for free.”
“I’m sure. So why not Central Park West, or something? You slumming it?”
“It’s less noticeable here. You think the people in this building care about one more weird neighbor? They’re just happy I don’t set the place on fire too often.” He gestured downwards with a glossy wingtip. “You coming in, or do I have to carry you?”
She shivered suddenly. Going to some strange guy’s apartment. This was insane.
She
was insane.
All the same, seeing an angel’s…what? House? Nest? Aerie? It’d be kinda cool. How did he live? What did he eat? Did he have…stuff, like normal people?
Yes, her scientific curiosity was definitely showing. She hid a smile, and stepped forward.
CHAPTER 8
Luniel took her hand and eased her down the ladder. It was a tall attic room, the white ceilings high and airy, and she had to hop the last few feet to reach the hardwood floor.
He lighted beside her, feathers fluffing. He coughed, and wiped his mouth. “Welcome to Casa de Lune. Make yourself at home.”
She dusted off her hands. Moonlight slanted through the skylights, dust motes dancing in warm toffee scent. Kitchenette in one corner, white tiles and stainless steel. It looked spotless. Did he cook? Did he even eat? Bathroom in another corner, behind a frosted glass screen. A low flat sofa, a pile of fat black cushions to sit on, a TV, a cabinet overflowing with magazines and paperbacks. Above hung a mezzanine loft, too high to reach and with no ladder. Presumably where he slept.
Did he have a regular bed, she wondered? A nest? A perch, even? Did he sleep in human form, or angel? Presuming, of course, that a creature of heaven had to sleep at all. He seemed to have other human male traits. A one-track mind, for instance.
What she didn’t see were any trappings of religion. No altars, icons, crucifixes, Bibles or Korans or Torahs.
Didn’t mean he wasn’t a nutter.
Still, in her experience, the really crazy ones plastered it all over the place. Immersed themselves in it. Her mother had paperedthe walls with Bible verses and drawings of Christ. It sickened Morgan just to think about how the evil sons of bitches who seduced her mother used symbols of love and goodness to do it. By all accounts, after all, the real Jesus was a pretty decent guy. It was the twisted ones among his believers who were the problem.
Still, the whole thing didn’t sit right with her scientific mind. To accept a single, sole truth without proof or debate was insane.
“Not so scary, is it?”
“Huh?” She jerked back to the present, and swayed, dizzy. Maybe it was the sensation of flight, but her head ached anew from the blows she’d taken, and she felt light-headed. She’d lost some blood. There could be infection. Maybe delayed-onset shock…
Luniel twirled one finger, indicating his apartment. “No unbelievers chained to the walls?”
“And here I was thinking there’d be harps and choirs of cherubs.”
He wrinkled his nose. “You ever hear a cherub sing? It’s not pretty.”
She scraped her hair back, and blood smeared. Shit. She touched her forehead gingerly. A cut had reopened. Not the demon slash, just a bang she’d gotten as they’d escaped. It bled fresh and uncorrupted, but there was a lot of it. She probably needed stitches. Not to mention a rabies shot.
Luniel’s gaze clouded, and he reached for her. “You’re bleeding.
“Where are we?” At her feet, skylight windows pierced the gently sloping roof, moonbeams slanting onto a distant wooden floor. The iron rooftop banked sharply away at the edges.
“Told you. My place.” Luniel danced across on light wings and levered the skylight up on its hinges, unhooking a battered wooden ladder that creaked down inside. “After you, Doctor.”
“You live in a loft in Harlem?”
“So? It’s convenient.”
“Who pays your rent, anyway? Don’t tell me you’ve got a regular job.”
His eyes twinkled. “We have ways of getting stuff for free.”
“I’m sure. So why not Central Park West, or something? You slumming it?”
“It’s less noticeable here. You think the people in this building care about one more weird neighbor? They’re just happy I don’t set the place on fire too often.” He gestured downwards with a glossy wingtip. “You coming in, or do I have to carry you?”
She shivered suddenly. Going to some strange guy’s apartment. This was insane.
She
was insane.
All the same, seeing an angel’s…what? House? Nest? Aerie? It’d be kinda cool. How did he live? What did he eat? Did he have…stuff, like normal people?
Yes, her scientific curiosity was definitely showing. She hid a smile, and stepped forward.
CHAPTER 8
Luniel took her hand and eased her down the ladder. It was a tall attic room, the white ceilings high and airy, and she had to hop the last few feet to reach the hardwood floor.
He lighted beside her, feathers fluffing. He coughed, and wiped his mouth. “Welcome to Casa de Lune. Make yourself at home.”
She dusted off her hands. Moonlight slanted through the skylights, dust motes dancing in warm toffee scent. Kitchenette in one corner, white tiles and stainless steel. It looked spotless. Did he cook? Did he even eat? Bathroom in another corner, behind a frosted glass screen. A low flat sofa, a pile of fat black cushions to sit on, a TV, a cabinet overflowing with magazines and paperbacks. Above hung a mezzanine loft, too high to reach and with no ladder. Presumably where he slept.
Did he have a regular bed, she wondered? A nest? A perch, even? Did he sleep in human form, or angel? Presuming, of course, that a creature of heaven had to sleep at all. He seemed to have other human male traits. A one-track mind, for instance.
What she didn’t see were any trappings of religion. No altars, icons, crucifixes, Bibles or Korans or Torahs.
Didn’t mean he wasn’t a nutter.
Still, in her experience, the really crazy ones plastered it all over the place. Immersed themselves in it. Her mother had paperedthe walls with Bible verses and drawings of Christ. It sickened Morgan just to think about how the evil sons of bitches who seduced her mother used symbols of love and goodness to do it. By all accounts, after all, the real Jesus was a pretty decent guy. It was the twisted ones among his believers who were the problem.
Still, the whole thing didn’t sit right with her scientific mind. To accept a single, sole truth without proof or debate was insane.
“Not so scary, is it?”
“Huh?” She jerked back to the present, and swayed, dizzy. Maybe it was the sensation of flight, but her head ached anew from the blows she’d taken, and she felt light-headed. She’d lost some blood. There could be infection. Maybe delayed-onset shock…
Luniel twirled one finger, indicating his apartment. “No unbelievers chained to the walls?”
“And here I was thinking there’d be harps and choirs of cherubs.”
He wrinkled his nose. “You ever hear a cherub sing? It’s not pretty.”
She scraped her hair back, and blood smeared. Shit. She touched her forehead gingerly. A cut had reopened. Not the demon slash, just a bang she’d gotten as they’d escaped. It bled fresh and uncorrupted, but there was a lot of it. She probably needed stitches. Not to mention a rabies shot.
Luniel’s gaze clouded, and he reached for her. “You’re bleeding.
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