The following is an original work of fiction. All characters belong to the author and any likenesses to real people or places is purely coincidental. Please do not copy or repost any part or portion of this work to any other website.
Eris Jade
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He can smell her over the acrid scent of cigarette smoke. Over the copper bite of blood and the bitter tang of sweat. Over the many and varied perfumes and colognes which have been assaulting his senses for the past two hours. Her scent cuts through it all. Clean and fresh, almost sweet, with a hint of ozone for good measure. Reminds him of what used to be. Of possibilities. Makes him angry, then has him drowning in a sea of down-feather memories.
Vincent goes after it, after that scent and the keeper of its memories, leaving the blond he'd been chatting up blinking and bewildered as he strides away from the table without so much as a word.
He cuts quickly, surely, through the late night crowd. Feels the heavy beat of the music knocking about inside his chest and thrumming through his veins. Feels his fingers curling into fists as he chases after her scent.
*Her.*
Outside, on the street, beneath wavering lamplight and the garish flash and pop of neon, he scans the night. Follows her scent, steps long and quick, shoes tapping out a steady rhythm against the pavement.
He stops at a park nearly a quarter mile away where her scent is heaviest, though there's no sign of her. Doesn't mean she isn't near. She's always been good at staying in the shadows. Watching him from afar.
Frustration furrows his brow. Pulls his mouth into a deep frown.
She always does this to him. Teases him, then slips away. Gives him another few years to stew and ponder.
"Lose somethin'?"
Her voice drifts like a breeze over his shoulder. Fills him with equal parts fury and longing, and he's almost half afraid to turn, in case she isn't really there. In case he's actually finally cracked and has only been imagining her.
"Yeah," he replies. Shoves his hands into the pockets of his slacks. "About 237 years ago."
There's silence. Long and heavy enough to have him second guessing, but then she's stepping around him, suddenly standing right in front of him, staring up at him with those bottomless eyes.
"You've kept count."
Her full, blood-red lips, stunning against the backdrop of her chestnut-hued skin, quirk up in a soft smile and he'd be lying if he said he didn't want to kiss them. 237 years without them, without the touch of her hands or the feel of her wings wrapped tightly around him. 237 years with the ghost of her, of memories that never fully fade.
And she's smiling at him as if they'd never parted ways. As if she'd never left him.
She itches to touch him. To reach out and feel the beat of his heart beneath her palm, but his ice-blue eyes are hooded. Guarded. Watchful.
"Have you missed me, Vincent?"
He doesn't speak. Stares down the long line of his nose at her. A small breeze wafts around them, tousling the hair brushing over his broad shoulders.
"Still angry, huh?"
This time he does speak, voice low and full of gravel.
"You tried to kill me, Illaine."
She blinks. "Just the one time."
He arches a thick brow, and she feels his power rising, coiling around her like a serpent.
She tries another approach. "I wasn't in my right mind. I'm sorry. There was a lot going on back then. I was under a great deal of stress."
"You chose."
His shoulders are tense beneath the midnight black of his suit jacket.
There's more shifting below the anger. So much more. Heartbreak. Resentment. Even as his power circles her, tightens and constricts, she can hear the pain of loss, of what might have been if she'd only stayed.
She watches his pupils swell and overtake the beautiful blue and the surrounding white. Spilled ink glittering in the lamplight. He looks fierce and frightening. Otherworldly.
"The *Angel* chose," he hisses and there's sulfur in the air now. Fire blazing in the dark pits of his eyes.
She should be afraid - his kind has taken out countless of hers over the years. But the blame is not hers alone to bear.
"The *Demon* chose, as well," she manages, though the air is leaving her lungs and every part of her is screaming for her to fight back.
She's done fighting. She's had enough.
He blinks, the invisible bands of his power releasing her, causing her to stumble for a moment before righting herself.
"We both made our choices, Vincent, and they were the right choices. Back then."
He inhales sharply. Takes a small step away. Realizes she would have allowed him to kill her just then if he'd continued. His fingers flex and release.
He doesn't want that. Has never wanted that, in spite of who and what they are. What they've become. He stares at her a long moment, the anger still present, throbbing hollowly in the pit of his stomach, but wavering now. Slowly ebbing away and leaving a weary resignation in its place.
Illaine moves, large dark eyes sad and full of regret. She steps in close, so close that her breasts graze the front of his suit jacket, and he imagines he can feel the heat of her through the layers of their clothing.
"We would have burned the world to ashes, Vincent," she murmurs.
He looks away. Keeps his fists in his pockets lest he reach out to her, pull her in close, and forget. "Now?"
Illaine laughs shortly, low and lilting, lifting her hand and splaying her lean fingers over his heart. Feels the quickening beat of it.
She shrugs. "Doesn't really matter much to me anymore. It's all ashes anyway."
Vincent closes his eyes, just for a second, and the sharp rustle of her wings cuts through the night.
She's gone. He pulls his hands from his pockets. Places one over his heart where Illaine's had been.
Later, when he finds the feather in his breast pocket, he allows himself to feel something he hasn't felt in centuries.
Hope.
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She leaves him gifts. Little things which are seemingly random and disconnected, but she knows he will understand.
Pomegranates. Fresh and ripe and glistening. He hasn't had the fruit in years, yet his mind immediately forms the connection. Recalls the stain of it on her dark skin. The taste of it on her tongue.
Feathers. Long and short, tawny-colored feathers. These he finds in pockets. Or placed artfully on his pillows when he returns at dawn. In the fridge one time, which he didn't understand until he noticed the missing carton of milk.
Once, while at a nightclub, a lower level demon presented him with a sealed gray envelope. Inside was a card with a sad-eyed puppy on the front, and the words "Sorry I tried to kill you that one time," written in her dainty, looping script inside.
In spite of himself, he'd laughed out loud at that one. The years haven't taken her sense of humor, and he finds that to be something of a relief.
She doesn't let him see her. There's simply the gifts. And her scent, which he sometimes finds on his sheets. Heavy. Almost embedded in the fabric, as if she'd only just risen from her rest. He won't sleep in his bed those times. Had learned his lesson that first time when his dreams had been haunted by her, and he'd woken screaming her name in fear and anguish.
Then a month goes by and there's nothing. No pomegranates. No smell of her in the air. No feathers. No cards. And he feels her loss as deeply as before, winding through the center of his chest. Pulling at him. Tugging at him. Making him ache. And worry. And regret.
At dawn, two months after their meeting in the park, he returns to his lavish penthouse apartment, dizzy and a bit out of sorts from having gorged himself all night on blood and sin.
He doesn't see her there, in the shadows. She nearly laughs out loud when he stumbles into the wide living area, glassy-eyed and shuffling. He never could hold it, and the centuries of practice haven't seemed to change that.
He collapses on the couch. Lets his head fall back and his eyes drift closed.
She stares. Thinks of him as he was before all this. Ageless. Beautiful. Happy.
His skin is rosy from the blood. She can smell it on him. Can almost taste it on the air. He's a disheveled mess. His clothing is slightly askew. The top button of his dress shirt is missing and there's what looks to be lipstick smudged on his collar.
"Who gave the order?"
His voice is low. Slightly hoarse. Very much slurred.
She steps out of the shadows cast by the bookcase. Moves slowly toward the couch.
"Deidre," she says, giving the name of her best friend and Commander.
