Page 43 of All Saints Day (Lucifer and the Saints #2)

Louise

A s soon as the mating bond bite begins to take hold, I begin slipping into something between a dream and a fugue state.

Fast forward to young Francis in the hospital—his father calling in all sorts of favors; disappearing from the hospital for hours on end while Francis drops in and out of consciousness.

After only god knows how long, a crazed-looking Patrick Castle arrives at the hospital; reappearing with a mysterious syringe that seems to help Frank recover.

In the hospital, the two of them play chess on the plastic table that extends over Francis’ motorized mattress, Patrick easily beating his son in every round they play.

Almost as quickly, I see the horrible sight of Patrick—bleeding out in Francis’ arms, an almost identical scene transposes over the tragic tableau; Frank clutching the lifeless Mike as he keens and wails—Susan Lowry standing over his shoulder like an angel of death in both memories.

When I awake, I’m in the back of a kitchily-outfitted Airstream trailer.

I blink my eyes into focus–everything outfitted in red and white gingham with green ticky tacky and hand-rendered fabric painted strawberries; my surroundings gently vibrating as we trundle down some anonymous highway.

My hand lifts to my mouth, Frank’s bite still hot and tender through the left side of my bottom lip.

There’s a dull warmth at the other end of the bond as I feel my bite mirrored on my fated mate—the response to my call is weak, but still unquestionably there.

I drift into sleep again, plagued by dreams that may or may not belong to me.

A woman’s hand turns a card, a knight on a white horse in black armor brandishing a sword.

Upon closer inspection, the knight bears the likeness of Frank, face clean shaven—a more discerning look revealing that the sword is not adorned with a black rose, but with the turret of a castle rendered in glossy black stone.

I can feel his loneliness—Francis Castle; the depth of his pain, a bottomless pit.

The woman’s hand turns another card. A man and a woman standing in high grass—nude, holding hands; a quintet of angels hovering above as the clouds part to beam sunlight down on the happy pair.

An eerie chill falls as I realize that the woman in the grass, with her long scarlet waves, wears my face.

I don’t feel a great deal more comfort when I realize that the man standing beside me is none other than Michael Duboze; the angels above us lending a sliver of hope as I regard them from left to right: A pale blond angelic rendering of Caz, Sébastien looking more like a powerful bronzed demi-god with his impressive wingspan and cascade of dark curls, Dennis and Quentin hovering just beside him with Frank hovering just above them all.

Before I can reach out and touch the tall, skinny rectangle of printed paper, the scent of balsam, rich plum brandy, and deep, spicy black pepper fills my nose.

Michael.

We’re standing in the Alerion Hotel, just like the night he and Frank bonded.

He’s taller than Frank, almost as massive as Q and so much more handsome than his photos—which made him look like an old timey movie star to begin with—gave him credit for.

Mike stalks toward me in the cool blue light of night—the city skyline twinkling behind him through the massive windows.

We gravitate toward one another, taking step after step forward until we’re so close that I can feel his body heat in the narrow space between us.

There’s so many things I want to ask him. So many things that I want to say.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stay.” He smiles weakly and reaches down to cup my face.

I hadn’t realized until this very moment that both of us are completely naked, just like the illustrations of us on the tarot card.

“I wanted so badly to meet all of you, to be with you.” Michael blinks away a few tears, and I feel my heart breaking for the fated mate I never met.

“Me too. I’m so—so sorry,” I weep, wiping my tears from my eyes with the backs of my hands like a child.

When I open my eyes, we are no longer at the Alerion. We are in a meadow of tall sweet grass; the sun shining overhead—a host of angels descending from the clouds.

“I’m the one who’s sorry, Louise.” Michael smiles sadly, his face dipping down to mine.

“Promise me you’ll take care of him,” he whispers—our lips ghosting against one another. “Promise me you’ll take care of all of them—love them in my place.”

“I vow to always uphold this oath—to forever be the morning star for my pack, my fated mates, including you,” I sob.

“Thank you, Lucifer,” he sighs, sealing our covenant with a kiss.

Our lips meet, our arms tangle around one another; the two of us suddenly swallowed up by impassioned flame.

But when I pull my face back from Michael’s—I am standing alone at the edge of a black stone parapet, watching him plummet to his death below with a smile on his face.

Just as I’m about to throw myself over the edge to try to save him, a bolt of lightning strikes—the woman’s hand turns a card; the black tower stares back at me, the veil of the dream falling away.

“It’s okay, you’re okay!” Caz croons, holding me, naked and soaked with sweat, bundled in a soggy cotton sheet.

My head whips around as I take stock of my surroundings, no longer in the shabby-meemaw-chic airstream, but a low, dimly lit bedroom; the whole room moving with a gentle steadiness, even if just imperceptibly.

Another layer of the dream?

“Hey, Louie—look at me, focus on me, okay?” Caz reaches up and cups my face—the rest of him curled around me like a koala on a tree as we sit upright in the massive bed.

“We’re safe for now, we’ve moved you a few times since you passed out, but we’re on a houseboat somewhere in fuck nowhere Kentucky—don’t ask me where Q comes up with these places, but we can lie low here for at least a day or two—so just relax.

” He speaks quickly but softly, making sure to explain with patience.

He can undoubtedly feel all of my panic washing down the bond.

“The others have been keeping busy—but now that you’re up, I bet all of them are going to drop whatever it is and come check in on you. ”

I nod, the big fat tears rolling down my cheeks without end as I crumple forward and bury my face in his neck.

“We need to get him back, whatever it takes—we’re not losing another one of our fated mates. Losing Michael is already too much,” I sob, throwing my arms around Caz’s neck, the words just spilling out.

“I know, I know—we’re going to find a way,” he reassures me, his scent slowing my racing heartbeat, softening the muscles in my jaw.

And suddenly, despite the pain, despite the fear in the face of hopelessness and unbeatable odds—the fire that Michael lit, the flames that he stoked in the dream, begin to tear through me as if I were soaked in gasoline.

I wriggle out of Caz’s hold, forcing him to sit upright with me on the bed.

“Louise?” He looks at me quizzically as I lift from the mattress and take a seat on his lap facing him—the two of us in an air of mirrored half lotus positions—his arms clutching awkwardly around my cocoon of sheets as I reach up to hold his face in my hands, my thumbs resting on his cheekbones as my fingers reach back into his fuzzy hairline toward his ears.

“Will you follow me into hell, Cazimer?” I ask him, looking directly into those incredible blue diamond eyes.

He actually takes a little breath, holding it for a second before he answers.

“And back on broken legs.” He grins.

“Tomorrow, we pay the boatman.” I smirk back at him.

“But right now…” I undulate against Caz—my pelvis grinding against him through my cotton wrapping as I kiss him on the mouth. “I need to connect to something beyond pain and sadness. I need to reconnect with my Saints.”