Page 25 of Wicked Believer (Original Sinner #2)

Chapter Twenty-One

Charlotte

I come to on the floor of Grand Central Station, my body aching and bruised from all the ways Mark’s hurt me, but when I try to sit up, a pair of harsh hands gently hold me in place.

“ Don’t move. ”

The rough voice is familiar. One that seems to have haunted my dreams.

But this time when I glance toward him, it’s not Death’s skeletal face that stares back at me. It’s the face of an angel.

The Angel of Death.

“Where am I?” I rasp, gazing up into his handsome features.

He doesn’t answer me.

Instead, he strokes a gentle, reverent hand through my hair, his breath hitching as I relax into his touch. “Your soul looks just like his before ...”

Somehow, I know without asking that he means Lucifer.

“ He hurt me. ”

I don’t know whether I mean Mark or Lucifer—how he lied to me.

Maybe both?

My angel’s face softens. “Charlotte, we only have a few moments, and there’s things you need to know. Things he’s been keeping from you that would—”

Abruptly, my angel glances up, his expression hardening.

I scrunch my face in confusion, noting the hint of fury tightening his jaw. “How do you know my—?”

But Lucifer’s warning snarl rings out loud and clear. “Azrael.”

I wake to the sound of my alarm clock a moment later, quickly realizing, even through my half-awake haze, that I must have slept for nearly twenty-four hours and I’m going to be late to my coffee date with Imani.

I roll over, groaning and pulling my pillow over my head like somehow that might hide me.

I don’t want to see all the notifications on my phone. To face the outside world.

The media. The paparazzi. Lucifer.

The concerned texts I know I’ll have from Jax, Evie, and so many others.

Imani will have drafted a statement for me by now, to address both the tragedy at Mark’s church and Olivia’s murder. All I’ll have to do is read it—look convincing—but I ... can’t seem to bring myself to face it just yet.

I roll onto my side, peeking out from beneath my pillow and trying to push all thoughts of that strange dream from my mind, only to find a fresh bouquet of white tulips waiting for me. I smile. The card beside it, scrawled in a familiar flowing script, only says two words.

Forgive me?

Followed by a few scribbled music notes. The melody of the song Lucifer wrote for me.

Forgive him? He must mean for leaving again.

I sigh, deliberately cutting off the desperation I feel whenever he’s away. My limbs grow heavy, and I chew on my chapped lower lip until it starts to bleed. How are we supposed to find our way back to one another when the chaos of our lives keeps getting in the way?

My heart thumps painfully.

Finally, when I can no longer avoid it, I throw on the nearest set of clothes I can find.

A pair of leggings and an oversized T-shirt that, thanks to the designer labels, cost several thousand dollars, though to be honest, my old ones that were off the rack are just as comfy.

I couldn’t care less about what I look like right now.

Not when Olivia will never take another breath.

Not when so many others have lost a part of their family.

I trudge down the stairs, my legs feeling wooden and like I’m barely managing to put one foot in front of the other, until I find Imani waiting on the bottom level for me.

“I thought it best I bring the coffee to you, all things considered.” She nods to the floor-to-ceiling window.

My gaze darts toward it, to Madison Avenue below, as all the wind rushes from my lungs like I’ve taken a punch to the gut. There’s a huge crowd outside, large enough they’re blocking the road, their protest signs extending for several blocks.

Daughter of Babylon. Satan’s whore. The usual. Followed by an even more horrible one that reads: God hates fags. I cringe. Another far-right hate campaign.

And the largest by far.

Hell hath no fury like Lucifer’s wretched queen.

The Righteous. Among others like them.

As if this situation couldn’t get any worse.

“They’re not wrong,” I whisper, stepping closer toward the glass. “About me, I mean.”

I press my hand to the chilled window, trying not to notice how it feels less solid beneath my newfound strength.

Imani doesn’t say anything. She joins me at my side and pushes the coffee she brought into my trembling hand.

I stare down at it blankly. Normally I’d suggest drinking on the balcony, or maybe in the sitting room considering how cold it’s been getting outside, but all I manage is a weak “I ... think we might be safer inside this morning.”

She nods. “Good call.”

We end up sitting alone together inside the empty kitchen. Lucifer’s private chef, Farouq, and the other waitstaff have been paid to stay home for their own safety.

The stainless steel industrial-size refrigerators gleam.

“How are you holding up?” Imani says, shutting one of the kitchen doors behind us so that the distant sounds of the crowd are sealed away. Her wig is rumpled, and she looks even more concerned for me than usual. Like she’s afraid I might break at the slightest sign of trouble.

I shake my head, my eyes darting toward the closed door that blocks out the city.

Where the Righteous wait for me.

They blame me for Olivia’s death. Mark’s congregants’ deaths, too, apparently.

They’re right in any case.

I stare down at the disposable coffee cup in my hands, trying to let some of its warmth soak into me. The more I focus on it, the more the numbness inside me starts to dissipate.

When I was little, my mother and I used to drink tea together like this each morning. As soon as I was big enough to hold a mug, she’d made me my own tiny cup before she woke me—decaf, of course—so I wouldn’t sip nearly all of hers with a repeated, “Mama, peease?”

Her tea monster. That’s what she called me.

The tightness in my chest constricts.

Sometimes I wonder if she ever suspected what kind of monster I’d truly be.

A feeling of heaviness washes over me.

“It’s my fault,” I whisper, glancing down as I try and hide my tears.

Imani grabs my hand, squeezing it. “Don’t you dare believe that nonsense for a second,” she says fiercely. “You didn’t do this. You hear me?” Righteous fury fills her eyes.

Like to believe anything less of myself would be an insult to both her and me.

She’s lifted me up and helped me build my confidence at every turn, giving me chances to succeed when no one else would. Not even Lucifer.

I curl in on myself.

“Olivia’s family?” I ask weakly.

She swallows. “They’ve been notified. We’re paying for the funeral, and they’ll be compensated with—”

“Double it,” I say, without hesitating. “Whatever it is. Double it. Triple it, if you want. I never want them to have to worry about anything ever again. It’s ... it’s the least we can do.”

Imani’s eyes soften. “She knew the risks when she took the job, Charlotte.”

But did she really?

I definitely didn’t when I agreed to all this.

I look upward, shaking my head, a hard edge suddenly in my voice.

“Yeah, but at what point does it become extortion when we offered her more money than she could ever reasonably expect to earn in her lifetime?” I stare directly at Imani, no warmth in my eyes as my mouth pinches into a sour expression.

Imani looks away, sighing dejectedly, though she doesn’t offer any excuses.

For either of us. We both know who we chose to work for.

“The media coverage is less than favorable right now. This doesn’t look good.

For you or for Lucifer. There’ll be a lot more attention on the CFDA Awards, on both of you, after all this.

The NYPD is involved now. There’ll be an official investigation, but we both know that the legal team will make sure that they don’t .

..” Her voice trails off, the unspoken words hanging in the air between us.

That they don’t find anything.

Whoever did this is likely the same person or celestial who left that envelope full of anthrax for me.

That much is obvious. They got past the penthouse and building security without a trace, but if they’ve been watching us that closely and they know I’m immortal now, then surely they would have known about Olivia, which means . ..

This was meant as a warning to me.

My heart stops.

Somehow that makes it all so much worse.

My thoughts take a dark turn, to the ashy, terrified look on Xzander’s face as he pushed me out of his studio. Oh no.

Xzander. The studio. The police.

Oh God.

I hadn’t even been in the right frame of mind to stop and consider that I should have never left him alone to—

“What about Xzander?” I ask, panic rising as I grab hold of Imani’s wrist. “The police. They didn’t—?”

“No, he’s fine,” Imani says, knowing exactly what I mean. “They took him in for questioning, and he’s shaken, but he’ll be all right. Our lawyers took good care of him.”

“He shouldn’t have had to risk himself like that. Not for me.”

Police brutality didn’t end when the Originals came topside. If anything, all the division lately has made everything so much worse.

“None of this is your fault, Charlotte.”

I nod. Logically, I know she’s right, but ...

I can’t stop the pain it brings me.

All those people. All those people.

My heart constricts.

Imani seems to recognize where my thoughts are heading. “He said to tell you he’ll be back shortly.”

My “fiancé” she means. I sigh, my heart aching.

A real proposal feels like it’s a long time coming. Even though it’s only been a few days since we last spoke about it. Does wanting it make me ... complicit in all this? Like the Righteous say?

“Where is he off to this time?” I don’t try to hide my disappointment.

These days it feels like Lucifer’s gone more than he’s here.

“To Hell. Handling things. The other Originals are there, too, I think.”

I lift an unconvinced brow.

“Look, I don’t ask, and he doesn’t tell. It keeps things easy.” Her gaze flits over me.

But shouldn’t he be here? With me?

I don’t say it out loud, but still, I think it. He promised he’d do whatever it takes to be worthy of me, and yet ...

All those people.

I nod, staring down at my coffee.

It’s times like these, when I’m at my loneliest, that I miss my mother the most, and the grief sneaks up on me. I suppose grief is cyclical like that. Fate can never allow you to grieve only once. It has to circle around. Make you ache twice as hard.

Though maybe Lucifer’s feeling just as many doubts as I am lately.

My lip trembles.

“Oh, girl, don’t start the waterworks on me now.

My mascara can’t handle it, baby.” Imani pulls me into her then, giving me a fierce, tight hug before she quickly smooths the sides of my hair for me.

If I had a crooked crown, Imani would be the kind of woman who would straighten it.

She’s a girl’s girl through and through.

When she pulls back, she smiles at me. “Have I ever told you about how I met that monstrous man of yours?”

Monstrous? I nearly snort.

The word seems too light, too mythical to hold the full truth.

Lucifer is both devil and angel.

To me especially.

My shoulders sink, my posture slumping. If only Imani knew how some of Lucifer’s power lives inside me now. But even after what he did to the Righteous, he ...

He’s not monstrous. Not truly. At least, not like they claim.

My mind turns to when I first fell in love with him, the night he cast the aurora borealis over the city.

I have to hold on to that feeling. Believe in him, in the goodness I know he’s capable of, in us now more than ever.

Because if I don’t . . .

Well, then the immortal abilities I’ve been hiding—the way Lilith or fate or God or whoever the hell oversees the universe when He’s gone has made me complicit—is ... terrifying.

Monstrous.

Without question.

I shake my head, my thoughts turning back to Imani’s question. We both know she hasn’t told me anything about when our boss —I frown—first started Apollyon Incorporated, but the way she says it gives me the chance to opt out, if I want to ...

To avoid thinking about what all this means for Lucifer and me.

But the fact it’s taken her this long to tell me, coupled with her you-sure-you-wanna-know look makes me think that it’s more than a little juicy, and honestly, I could use a gossip-fueled distraction right about now.

I can’t believe I’ve spent all this time with her as my mentor without actually asking.

“Spill the tea,” I whisper, leaning in.

She launches into a tale that’s nearly two decades old. One that starts with a young aspiring model and ends with her plucked from obscurity into a life of total glitz and glamour ...

Never to worry about anything ever again.

A modern-day fairy tale.

Until the devil comes calling for his due, of course ...

“Is that true?” I scrunch my nose in a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me face, though she can’t see my expression from where my head is perched on her shoulder.

“Girl, don’t be naive.” She laughs. “I ain’t you, though I could be.” She shrugs. “But it made you stop crying, didn’t it?”

Together we both chuckle as I lift my head, swiping at my swollen eyes.

“Promise to tell me the real story eventually?”

She snorts. “Maybe if you get enough drinks in me.” With that, she whips out her portfolio.

Today the fabulous purse she’s carrying is an Yves Saint Laurent, the gold YSL emblem gleaming at me.

“You still wanna go through with this whole proposal thing? I wouldn’t blame you if you’d changed your mind after all this.

” She waves toward the closed door to indicate the protesters down on the street.

I nod, settling onto the stool beside her and pulling some of the papers toward me, thinking of my revelation with Azmodeus yesterday. “Actually, I have a new idea, a change in direction, and I’d love to know what you think.”

She nods, prepared to listen, as I settle in for a long explanation.

This will take some convincing.

But even as it feels as if my whole world is spinning out of control, I can’t help but think this is the right move, the one thing I know without a doubt belongs to me.

The choice to pave my own path forward.

Fate can suck it.