Page 1 of Crossed
Prologue
CADE
FESTIVALÉ, VERMONT, LOOKS DIFFERENT IN THE dead of night.
It’s a dirty town.
Filthy. Teeming with darkness.
My superior sent me to revive the historic area. To bring it back to the path of righteousness where it’s been missing for far too long.
When I first arrived earlier today, it sent a shot of nostalgia through me. I sat in the passenger seat of the SUV as it rolled slowly down the roads, the French Colonial architecture reminding me of my childhood—of growing up in the back alleys of Paris, begging for scraps and stealing just to keep myself alive and fed.
This town, much like Paris, drips of sin, although it lacks the finesse.
Instead of holding on to whatshouldbe a rich history, preserved from when Vermont was part of New France in the 1700s, Festivalé seems like a caricature. A farcical ode to somewhere it doesn’t belong. The name of the town itself isn’t even real French.
Still, if I were a man of hope, I’d look through the dusty windows and see potential. But there’s evil polluting the air, making it thick and muggy, a dark cloud that blankets the valley and creates disease in everything it touches. I can smell it with every inhale. Taste it with every breath. A part of me worries it will infect me too, but I cast the thought aside quickly, feeling my defenses fortify until they’re as strong as steel.
I’m not sure what time it is now, just that it’s hours after my arrival, and when I left my new home, it was nearing midnight. I hadn’t meant to venture outside so soon after arriving, but there was aneedsurging inside me, a familiar one that I try to ignore.
And I’m only human.
When my own sickness comes to fruition, I’m helpless against its pull.
Il est miséricordieux.
He is merciful.
Tonight, the air is cold, and I rush down the cracked sidewalks and back alleys, a hint of frost nipping at my nose and the tips of my ears until a stinging numbness skates across my skin. I dip my head, the collar of my black peacoat chafing against the sides of my neck as I make my way through what I’m guessing is the roughest part of the city.
The full moon casts an eerie glow on the quiet streets, my footsteps echoing through the otherwise still air.
Suddenly, a door to my left opens, yellow light bleeding from the entrance, highlighting the silhouette of a woman. Her voice bounces off the crumbling brick buildings that have rotting boards and broken glass for windows.
I hesitate, frowning from beneath the wide brim of my hat as she saunters off her stoop and moves toward me. I scan the area. There’s nobody outside except for us.
She stops directly in front of me, her hazy gaze peering up into mine, pupils dilated, making her eyes as black as coal.
My stomach drops.
Une démone.
A demon.
“You’re new,” she croons. Her voice is raspy in a practiced sort of way that I’m sure has been honed to make a man’s cock twitch and his baser instincts surge forward. But I haven’t had a single sexual urge toward a woman in years.
Disgust burns the back of my throat, and a voice whispers in my mind, but I try to ignore the wicked thoughts. I didn’t come outside toacton my impulses, only to clear them from my psyche.
I stare down my nose at her, towering over her wiry frame, though she isn’t short by any means. A burst of icy wind whips across my face, my teeth clamping to keep from chattering.
Goose bumps sprout along the woman’s creamy exposed chest, and she shifts, leaves crunching beneath her feet.
Her palm reaches out and ghosts down the lapel of my black coat, and it spurs me into movement, snapping out my gloved hands to grab her fingers tightly. A surprised gasp leaves her sloppy red lips.
“What’s your name, démone?” I rasp.
The shock melts from her features, a gleam of curiosity taking its place.
