Vicki Pettersson - The Given

The bullet that tore through Ray’s naked body was muted, too. All Kit heard was its sizzle as it left the gun, and the only thing that brought her back around was the recoil of the .22 in her palm.

Ray’s body jerked first left, then right—she must have shot him twice, she thought dreamily—and even after he toppled behind the sofa, his surprised expression was burned into the air where he’d stood.

Gunpowder fogged the room. It had tears springing up in her eyes and felt thick in her buzzing ears. It worked to clog her throat, and seeped into her pores as well. It weighed her down. Violence now lived inside of her. She breathed death.

A sound, half sigh, half moan, filled the air like keening as she wiped at her face. Was that her? Then she began to shake, the shudders so great that her breath sawed through the loaded silence. She felt like toppling to her side, curling into herself, and never getting up. She should move. She should run out the back door and never look back, but all she wanted to do was squeeze her eyes shut—like so—and . . .

“He was going to kill you, you know.”

Kit’s eyes flew wide as she gasped, and she froze, surprised into stillness. She knew she was going into shock . . . but she also knew that voice.

Gaining her knees, jerking up that damned skirt—now with two holes blasted through its pocket—she pulled herself up by the back of the sofa and peered over the edge. When she saw the half-transparent form there, blond and beaming, she felt herself sway. “Nic?”

“Hiya, girly-friend,” Nicole said, perching on the arm of the leather sofa, downy wings folded as she shot her a sweet smile. Kit wobbled and fell back to the floor.

And Nicole Rockwell, her best friend in the world, dead an entire year, called out to her from the other side of the room. “Go ahead and take a moment there. No one is coming in for a bit, and this guy certainly isn’t going anywhere.”

Kit’s mouth moved, but no sound emerged and she had to blink furiously to keep her eyes from rolling back in her head. It wasn’t enough. She slapped her own face, then did it again when she realized that made her feel more present, more solidly there.

Nic snorted from the other side of the sofa.

When she was finally able to take in a real breath, Kit managed to pull herself to her feet—though she still needed the sofa to steady her shaky weight.

Nic, whose grave Kit had sobbed over, was wearing gold-tipped wings that rose in beautiful ivory arches. Her hair was somewhat mussed, giving an indication of its state when she died, but she otherwise looked whole and perfect, and would have even appeared serene were it not for the psychedelic swirling of stardust winking in her otherworldly gaze. Kit took a shaky step in her direction, and Nic smiled encouragingly.

“How am I able to see you?” Kit managed to ask.

And when, she wondered, had she become so comfortable talking with angels?

Nicole frowned, as if the question disappointed her. She snapped her fingers like that would suddenly make Kit understand, yet the movement produced the sound of bells, which only had Kit jerking her head in disbelief. “C’mon, honey. After all you’ve seen and done this past year? After that ?” She pointed down at what Kit presumed was Ray’s body. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“Are you a—”

“If you’re going to say ghost, I’m leaving now.”

The sarcasm was pure Nicole, and that’s what really, finally calmed Kit. She hadn’t been about to say ghost. She didn’t believe in ghosts, she believed in angels . . . specifically in Centurions.

“How long have you been listening?”

“I got here when you did. It’s my punishment for disobeying heavenly orders.” Seeing Kit’s dropped jaw, she shrugged. “I take it Grif didn’t tell you about my new gig.”

Kit shook her head. It came out as more of an uncontrolled jerk.

“I’m not surprised. He probably didn’t want to upset you, and he really just learned of it himself. My Take is usually some sob story.” She cut her eyes back at Ray. “But I get the occasional riffraff as well.”

Which meant Nic’s soul was tortured. She’d be stuck with a Centurion’s responsibilities until her soul healed enough to forgive and let go of her earthly regrets. Kit’s heart sank, and she placed her hand over her chest as tears filled her eyes.

“Don’t.” Nicole held up a hand and softly added, “Don’t cry for me, Kit.”

The understanding in her gentle tone ripped a sob from Kit anyway.

Nicole sighed. “Okay, it was hard at first. I mean, letting go of your dreams about a life not lived is like a death all in itself. But I’ve seen some awesome things since then. I get to go to amazing places, and I don’t have to pay some crappy airline to do it.”

That surprised a laugh from Kit. She immediately covered her mouth. There was nothing funny about this situation.

“And before you can say it,” Nicole went on, “I know you’re sorry. I’m sorry, too, but the only way to move on is to let go, and . . . I think I’m almost there.” She nodded at Kit, an acknowledging bow. “You guys have helped, you know.”

“Us . . . ?” Kit asked, inching around the sofa. They were only feet apart now. Two more steps and she could reach out and touch her old friend . . . if she were still alive. She had an almost uncontrollable urge to try, but refrained, just to maintain the illusion.

“You and Grif,” Nicole clarified. “I’ve been watching you. Especially you, Kit. Every time I’m assigned a Take I pop back to the Surface a little early and find you. As a Centurion, I can always spot others like me, and your man Grif is like a beacon to me. So I find him”—she shrugged—“and I find you.”

“You’ve got it wrong. He’s not my man, Nic.” Kit shook her head, not bothering to hide the sadness in the movement. Nic would see it even if she weren’t a Centurion.

“We haven’t been together for months.”

“Honey, didn’t you hear me?” Leaning forward, Nicole quirked an eyebrow, causing the stardust in her gaze to shift and swirl in a different direction. “I’ve been watching . I saw you together. I saw you apart. I even saw you following him when he didn’t know you were there.”

“Grif has a terrible sense of direction,” Kit said defensively, and felt the heat rush back into her cheeks. “Someone had to look out for him.”

“But it cost you to do so,” Nicole said softly.

It’d cost her more to be away from him. Kit looked away. Unfortunately, her eyes landed on Ray, prone where she’d felled him, and she shuddered.

Nicole followed the direction of her gaze. “He would have done it, you know. Killed you just like he killed your father.”

Yes. Kit had seen that . . . and she told herself that’s why she’d fired. Not out of revenge for her dad, or for the havoc the deed had wreaked on the remainder of Kit’s mind and life, but in self-defense. Right?

Swallowing hard, she inched forward and then propped herself on the coffee table before Nicole. Dead or not, Take or not, Ray could damn well wait while she talked with her best friend.

“You’re still helping Shaw find his wife,” Nicole stated.

Kit frowned. Maybe it was time for them to go. “I want what’s best for him” was all she said.

“Is that all?”

Kit sniffed. “I forgot what a pain in the ass you could be.”

“I mean, have you asked him lately?” Nicole went on, ignoring her. “Because like I said, I’ve been watching.”

“He’s the one who’s still looking for her,” Kit pointed out.

“Yes, but he’s looking over you.” Nicole gave her a meaningful look, then feigned looking at a wristwatch before stepping behind the sofa and giving Ray a little kick. “Hey. Get up! We gotta go.”