by J. R. Ward
Lying beside Jim, clothed in the guise of his precious little girlfriend, Devina felt her heart skip a beat--again.
For a moment, all she could do was blink, reality receding as shock became the dominant emotion she felt--everything else left her, her aggression, her frustration, sexual and otherwise, her anger, her anxiety ... the normal mix bleeding out like a color photograph left in the sun.
Nigel, gone.
It was unfathomable. The pair of them had been battling for so long, that ridiculous archangel had become a permanent stone in her stiletto, endlessly irritating, forcing her to limp when she'd rather run, wearing a hole in her flesh.
The only way she was going to get rid of him was by winning the war. That was the sole scenario under which his absence was supposed to happen.
At least, that had been her assumption.
The idea that he had committed suicide?
Fuck, fuck fuck--she needed to ... go count lipsticks. Hangers in her closet. Shoes. Handbags. Maybe rifle through her drawers and make sure her lingerie was organized correctly by color.
She hated change, she really did.
"I shouldn't have said anything."
She shook herself back to attention. "Oh, no ... I'm glad you did."
Okay, Devina, you need to think this through.
Focus on the positive--she had to listen to her therapist's advice and focus on the positive. And there was some good news in all this: Just as there were four compass points, there had always been four guardians in Heaven, all with complementary virtues and abilities. You had to wonder, with one of them gone, did the table become three-legged, and therefore radically less stable?
Worth finding out ... and exploiting.
What if she could get into the Manse of Souls?
An intense vibration of need hit her even harder than the shock had. Talk about a collection to be mined ... for all her existence, that had always been her ultimate goal--to possess the souls of the "good" who were, by the Maker's very design, destined to be out of her reach. The idea that she might be able to get up there and take them all? It was the supernova of shopping expeditions, like going to Saks Fifth Avenue with a U-Haul and a Centurion AmEx.
Just back the fucking truck up and load the shit.
She'd assumed that the war was the sole way to get that prize. In fact, that possibility had been the only reason to risk what she already had and accept the Maker's challenge. Taking the chance of losing what had taken her millennia to obtain? Not going to happen ... except if the prize was the Powerball of possessions.
That had been worth it...
Goddamn it, she'd had wanted to be the one to kill Nigel.
But instead, he had flamed out--and in the process, created a loophole that could have given her what she'd been after without her having to put her own collection on the table for the taking.
Fucking hell.
In fact, she'd never have guessed that there were any weakness in that psyche of his, a set of loose panels that she could have unscrewed even further, or a series of cracks in his foundation that she could have put a crowbar in and forced ever wider. She would have exploited anything like that if she'd known it was there--but he'd always seemed such a worthy opponent, custom-tailored to counter her at every turn.
Like the Maker had planned it that way.
The only opponent better than Nigel?
Jim Heron--
Wait a minute.
As Devina's mind worked over the implications, a cold wash of dread ran all over her. Without Nigel in the picture? The implications of the war had just gotten even more dire.
Abruptly, a striking fear rang through her, the kind of thing she had never felt before. "I hope you don't ever leave me. I don't know what I would do without you."
"Shh. Come here, lie back down."
As Jim reached out and tried to draw her to him again, Devina could feel her disguise slipping, the image of Sissy Barten falling away, her features assuming their true cast of rotting flesh, all that beautiful blond hair shriveling back into her scalp.
"I have to go--"
"Sissy? What's wrong?"
"I--I'm sorry, I have to go--I'm sorry."
Devina leaped out of the bed and scrambled across the floor, the raw bones exposed on the bottoms of her feet making it impossible to find purchase on the hardwood.
"Sissy...?"
The fact that he was calling some other woman's name out as she ran struck her as cruel--especially as she slammed face-first into her ugly reality again.
Just as she got to the door, she realized that as soon as she let any light in, he was going to know who she really was. Fortunately, the house's electricity was iffy on a good night, as she had learned.
Work of a moment to blow the bulb out in the hallway.
He was still yelling that god-awful name as she raced down the stairs, a running corpse dressed in one of his button-downs, her lie and her vulnerability exposed. Too scattered to spirit away, she was forced to comply with the laws of physics and gravity and actually pull open the front door.
I'm a strategic thinker, but I did not see this one coming.
As the demon burst out into the night, she was in horrified agreement. She was a strategist, too ... and even still, it had never dawned on her that Nigel would do what he did--and in the process, doom Jim and her forever.
It was in the rules, those fucking rules the Maker had set out back in the beginning. Such a small little procedural notation ... one that neither she nor Nigel had paid any attention to.
But oh, God, Jim and she could never be together at the end of the war now.
There was a footnote in the rules that said if either she or Nigel were killed or "died" in the line of duty, Jim would take their place--and another savior chosen. It had seemed like such a strange provision to make, although she had supposed at the time it was there so that no one decided to target the opposition on a personal level. It also detailed a line of succession so that the war could continue to a natural conclusion, as well as sanctions if either side took such a drastic step.
But Nigel had taken his own life, so there was no way to punish him.
And she was willing to bet the archangel had done it specifically to come between Jim and her--an ultimate fuck-you.
Because that archangel had razzed her about her feelings for the savior during their meetings with the Maker. And Nigel had always been a stickler for the letter of the law, so to speak.
No happily ever after for her and Jim now--whether she lost or she won.
This wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to lose him--she was either going to win, and they were going to rule the Heavens and Earth together ... or she'd lose, and he would choose to immolate himself with her, going up into flames like something out of Shakespeare because he couldn't fathom an existence without her.
Driven by a horrible agony, Devina ran out into the road and crossed to the other side, not tracking where she was going, chased even though she was alone.
Goddamn therapist. Oh, sure, it was just great to form attachments to things other than things. Just fucking wonderful.
This was such a terrific help.
Chapter
Thirty-nine
As the sun came up, Adrian was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee that did not taste as good as the stuff Sissy had made the morning before. With any luck she'd come down again, take pity on his sorry ass, and hook him up. If not? He might have to go the Egg McMuffin route.
He really didn't like this waiting, though, and not just because he was hungry--and the coffee really did suck.
Shifting around and trying to get that bum leg quiet, he was stiffer than he usually was. Then again, he'd had to stay on his feet while he'd been down below with Devina yesterday, and the effects of all that vertical were still with him.
Man, that demon could follow through when she wanted something.
Tenacity like a parasite. Natch.
He'd really enjoyed humiliating her
--watching her work so hard and get nowhere? Short of killing her, which he couldn't do without her precious mirror, it had been utterly satisfying.
Better than a fuckload of orgasms he wouldn't have wanted anyway.
"What's up, man."
Ad looked over his shoulder and cursed. "I was hoping you were Sissy. We need breakfast and she's a hell of a cook."
As Jim wandered in, he was walking stiffly, too, which was a surprise. All the grim on his face was not, however.
For some reason, Ad thought of the guy staring at Sissy: It was the only time he'd ever seen the savior look alive. And not as in pissed off.
They were both dead men walking in a lot of ways.
"What happened to you last night?" Ad asked.
"We gotta talk."
Something in that voice made Ad straighten in his chair, even though his hip didn't appreciate the added stress. "What."
Jim took his own goddamn time getting some of that watery coffee. And he waited until he was seated across the table to drop his bomb: "Nigel's gone."
Ad frowned. No way he'd heard that right. "Gone as in 'taking a breather from the game'? As in, 'off to the tailors'? Or..."
"He's gone."
An icy-cold mantle settled across Ad's shoulders. "Disappeared, you mean."
"No." Jim shook out a cigarette from a pack of Reds and lit it with his Bic. "I found him dead in his tent last night."
Ad's jaw unhinged, and he let his mouth fall open. "You can't ... no, that's not..."
Jim answered without words, just staring right into his face.
"Give me one of those," Ad muttered, holding out his palm.
"You don't smoke."
"This morning I do."
Jim popped a brow, but shared, pushing over his cigs and his lighter. And Ad made like the guy, putting a cancer stick between his teeth, bringing flame to tip, breathing in.
The sense of suffocation was not remotely pleasurable. The buzz that came shortly after the inhale? Not bad.
"I was with that demon all day long," Ad said, shaking his head. "How did Devina--"
"Nigel's hand was on the hilt."
Ad felt his eyes bulge. "He did it?"
"Far as I can tell."
Adrian shook his head again. "Colin. Oh, shit, Colin--did you see him?"
"We traded some words, yeah." Jim rubbed his chest and grimaced. "He had some sharp points to make."
Adrian scrubbed his face. He'd never particularly cared one way or the other about those archangels. At their worst, they were obstacles to work around. At best, they were so busy with their tea and crumpets, they stayed out of his way.
Well, except for that one time. At band camp.
But after losing Eddie? He felt for Colin. Best unkept secret in the universe, those two archangels had been. So that must hurt.
"This fucking war."
"Amen to that," Jim said, leaning back and tapping his ash into the sink.
Being immortal, Ad had never thought much about dying in the conventional "game over" sense. Lately? It was on his mind constantly--no doubt thanks to bunking in with Eddie.
Hard to lose your other half.
On that note ... "Everything okay with Sissy?" As Jim glanced up in surprise, Adrian rolled his eyes. "Look, it's still none of my business what you do with her. But ... she's okay. She's a good girl, that one--what."
"Ahhh, that's just a big fat one-eighty for you. As recently as yesterday morning, you were ready to clock me about her."
Adrian took another inhale and then stared at his cigarette's tip, because it was easier than looking at the savior. "I don't know, I guess I don't really blame you for trying to find a safe haven in all this. Just be careful. No foundation is sturdy in this game."
Jim studiously avoided all that. "Thanks for buying those clothes for her. What do I owe you?"
"It came to two hundred and eighty-seven bucks. But Devina put it on her credit card, so I think we should consider them gifts."
"You went shopping with her?"
"You told me to keep her busy, and she likes clothes. Whatever. The sex shit doesn't work anymore for me--although I have to say, it was amusing as fuck to watch her try to get me up."
Jim winced. "I'm sorry."
"What for? I've had to do worse down there. Her masturbating for hours was a vacay compared to the other shit. Just think, if I'd had a video camera, I could have Kim Kardashian'd her."
As they fell into a silence, he knew they were both thinking about that worktable of hers. Eddie was the only one out of the three of them who hadn't been down there in that capacity. He'd also never been with Devina in the conventional sense, either.
Another reason he should have been the last of them to go.
"So Sissy's been doing a great job with this place," Ad murmured.
Jim looked over again. "What do you mean?"
"You know, cleaning it up? Shit's looking much better since she's moved in."
"Last time I saw, she was trying to burn it down."
"Excuse me?"
"Long story. The transition's just been rough."
Ad nodded. "Nothing's easy in this, is it."
"So, are you going to tell me where we are? I'm ready to get back to work."
Ad got up and went to the sink, dousing his cig, the habit still not doing it for him. Turning around, he wondered where to start. "Colin said he could only go part of the way with the intel."
"Whatever we got, we can run with."
"That's what I told him..."
Across town, as the angels commiserated and Jim got his update, Cait was sitting at her desk, brushing a tear from her cheek. Clearing her throat, she prayed she didn't completely crumble. "I'm sorry, what was that, Mrs. Barten? The connection is bad."
Untrue. She was having trouble keeping her cell phone against her ear.
"Yes, of course," she said into the thing. "Yes. Absolutely..."
Even though she never wrote on drawing paper, she slid a fresh sheet over. And even though she never wrote with drawing pencils, she made sure she had all the details down.
"I'm honored." She wiped away another tear. "Yes, I have some stands--I know exactly what we need. You can count on me. See you then. Yes ... God willing."
As she ended the call, she got up slowly and went into the kitchen. Everything was tidy as always, not even dishes drying in the rack--because she had to put them away before she left the kitchen or she couldn't sit still at her desk.
She'd had some kind of destination. But abruptly, she found herself walking around on her linoleum, making a tight little circle, eyes lighting on the hand towels that were neatly hanging off the handle of the oven, and the napkins on the table in their rack, and the two place mats she had out even though she always ate alone. If she opened any of the cupboards? Soup cans and boxes of low-fat crackers and jars of pickles were lined up by type. Same in her refrigerator, the skim milk never mixing with the yogurt or the butter or the veggies.
The first line against chaos. And to think she'd always assumed the anal retentiveness would help, a kind of talisman against the whirlpool of life, a way of taming the hard edges of fate.
Wasn't doing anything for her at the moment. Not about her heading to see G.B. at noontime to tell him she was kind of in a relationship with someone else. Not with the desperate anticipation she had for nightfall.
Certainly not at all with what she was about to do.
"Shit."
Bracing herself, she went over to the door that led down into the cellar. It took her a moment before she could turn the knob and pull the panels open and reach forward to flick the light switch. As the fixture came on, the rough wooden steps were illuminated, as was the dark gray concrete floor below. The scent that rose to her nose was both earthy from the fifties-era concrete walls, and sweet from her fabric softener sheets.
Long trip down. A kind of forever to reach the bottom.
She didn't head over to her washing machine and ironing board. She w
ent in the opposite direction, to the sealed plastic tubs that held her Christmas decorations and lights, and her Halloween things, and that sleeping bag she'd only used once or twice.
It was past all that that she kept her artwork on shelves, her tubes of drawings and flat boxes of paintings and so much more ordered chronologically by medium.
The things she had taken out of Sissy's locker at school were right where she'd put them. Cait had had to move some of her own pastels onto the floor to make room, something she had never felt comfortable doing before--especially not in the spring, when the rains came and leaks happened.
But as important as her things were, Sissy's were so much more so.
The hands that had made them were gone forever.
It took Cait a couple of trips to carry the folios and the box up to her kitchen table. And after a moment, she thought better about the placement and moved them away from the window. Maybe she should have left them downstairs? It wasn't like she was going to forget to bring them to the funeral at St. Patrick's.
Staring at it all, she stepped back in time, reversing the mental DVD of her life until she was once again twelve and living under the same roof with her parents. After her brother had died, she had been the one to pack up his things: Her mother and father had disappeared within days of the burial, going off on the first of all those mission trips, her grandmother moving in to take care of her.
She'd like her grandmother just fine, but it had felt like both she and Charlie had been deserted. And that sense had intensified when her parents had called a week later and said that they were bringing home a preacher who needed a place to stay for a month. In that small house, where else were they going to put the guy but Charlie's room?
It had seemed an insult to let some stranger sleep in her brother's bed or use his bureau and his closet, all while his clothes and car magazines and CDs were all over the place.
Using her own allowance money, she'd bought U-Haul boxes, and put everything in the attic ... and when she had moved out east, she had taken it with her.
For all their pontificating, her parents had never really talked to her about the loss. Plenty of generic praying advice, yes, and she had to admit, the cynic in her aside, she had done some of that on her own. Still did. But she could have used some more conventional support in the form of talking, hugs, understanding, compassion.
Then again, her brother had always been her family.
It was weird, weird, weird to be thinking of all of this right now. But another funeral of another young life lost too early was likely to bring up things that were unresolved--
