The Lost (Celestial Blues, Book 2) - By Vicki Pettersson Page 0,3

more in common with Jeap Yang than you think.”

Grif clenched his jaw so tight his teeth ached. “You calling me Lost?”

“I’m saying some guys spend their entire lives searching for a place to settle.”

“I’ll settle when I find out who killed me.”

“Will you?” Sarge blew out the last of his smoke with a hard breath, then he flicked the cigar into the street. “Because I may not know what it is to be human, but I do know one thing. A person isn’t defined by their death. They’re defined by their life.”

Grif wanted to pretend he didn’t know what that meant, but they both knew better. “We done here?”

“Just one more thing.” Sarge hopped back onto the bike, and with roiling eyes no human possessed, he shot Grif a final look over his shoulder. “Try not to fuck this one up.”

And though he turned away, and pumped his feet, he didn’t just leave Grif staring as one of God’s most powerful creations rode away on a Schwinn. As befitting a vision, he took off with a roar, ripping through the sound barrier, spewing stardust, and leaving the detritus of dead galaxies trailing behind him.

Chapter Two

He always woke from his dreams soundlessly but violently.

Because of this, Kit researched sleep patterns online and made sure to be at Grif’s side when he entered REM, when the nightmares were most common. If he went to bed before her, which was rare, she’d read or work at the sitting area in a low-lit corner of her bedroom. If he came to bed after her . . . well, that wasn’t a problem. Over the past four months Kit had become a very light sleeper.

So when Grif jolted into a sitting position next to her, Kit and he almost rose as one. Her arms were immediately about his shoulders, gripping his tensed biceps as she rose to her knees, even before his body managed to unclench for his first gasping breath. She looked over at the clock. Three on the dot, same as the last two nights . . . and the dreams were getting worse.

Pressing her body against his back, Kit ignored the two strange knobs between his shoulder blades, ones no other mortal she knew possessed. He called them his “celestial deformation” but she didn’t care about that. Her regret was that she didn’t have wings to wrap around him so she could shield him from the memories that stalked him in sleep.

“It’s okay, honey. It was just a dream. You’re here with me. You’re safe.”

She wasn’t quite sure that last part was true, but that wasn’t what he took issue with. “It wasn’t a dream,” he said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed like he was going to rise. Yet he paused to cradle his head in his palms, and Kit continued to stroke his back, then smoothed away the errant lock of ginger hair plastered to his forehead before kneading the muscles in his neck. Gradually, he relaxed, and she slid her hands over his sweat-dampened chest, down to his waist, and fell still.

“Anything this time?” Grif asked. His voice was rough, as if shadows lay in his throat.

Kit settled back on her haunches. She didn’t want to say, but his sharp glance at the ensuing silence meant he already knew. “You said her name.”

His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry.”

Kit leaned forward and kissed the back of his neck, and then, because she couldn’t help it—because there were other ways to help—nipped at it lightly. He shuddered, pleasantly this time, and she did it again, pleased that she could do it at all. It was a reminder that she was the one who gave him comfort in this life. It was a gift that he loved her well and accepted her love in return. His late wife’s passing might still haunt him in ways Kit would never understand, but it was also a miracle that Grif was with her now, and that was enough.

Right?

“It’s okay.” Kit pushed the question away and shifted so she could see his face. His eyes were underscored with bruises and his brow furrowed with an emotion she couldn’t pinpoint. Worry, guilt, regret . . . all of the above? Grif had a tendency to take every damned thing on himself. Angel complex, she thought, then gave him a closed-mouthed smile. “I understand.”

And, objectively, she did. In the raw light of day—the time that she got to live and breathe and walk around at twenty-nine,