Immortal

by J. R. Ward

  Hell, for all she knew, he'd already left to have coffee with his--

  "Stop it. Just . . . stop it."

  As her rage level went up another decibel, it felt like an eternity since she'd been a college student taking her mom's car out to the local Hannaford for some ice cream . . . aeons since she'd been approached there by . . .

  She couldn't remember that part. Couldn't re-create exactly what series of events had brought her to her mortal end, but she recalled everything that came after that: the viscous walls of Hell, the tortured damned twisting around her, her own pain turning her ancient.

  Jim Heron had ended up down there, too--for a time. And Sissy had seen what the demon did to him. Had watched those shadowy minions do . . . horrible things to his body.

  "Shit."

  All things considered, she should cut him some slack, right? He was a victim in all this, too, wasn't he? So if, in the midst of this war, the man wanted to get a little grind, lose himself in someone, have a break from the horror and the pressure . . . what business was it of hers?

  The guy had gotten her out of Hell, and for that solid, she owed him. But that didn't give her the right to get all hot and bothered about him having gotten all hot and bothered with someone else.

  Although granted, there was a lot at stake--if he lost, her own parents, her sister, her friends . . . herself and Jim and Adrian, all would go where she had just been. Now that was too horrific to think about. She had been down there for only a few weeks and it had felt like centuries; she had aged centuries. If it was going to be an eternity? She couldn't even fathom the experience.

  Refocusing, she decided to have another go at the cracking routine. And what do you know, egg number two split in the wrong place, half of the shell ended up in the bowl, and she had to go back to the sink and wash her hands again.

  Turning off the water, she stared out the window. The backyard was downright ugly, the landscaping version of a man who hadn't shaved for a week and didn't have a good beard pattern working for him: Even though spring was gaining a firm toehold in Caldwell, New York, with buds forming on the tips of tree branches and the snow gone even from where it had been piled up high by the plows, a coat of green leaves wasn't going to help back there.

  In her previous life, she'd be getting excited for summer--even though all that entailed was her sharing an apartment in Lake George Village and serving ice cream at Martha's for two months. But hello, summer was awesome. You got to wear shorts and hang out with your friends from high school, and maybe, just maybe . . . meet someone.

  Instead, here, she was. An immortal with no life--

  "You making scrambled--"

  Sissy spun around so fast, her hip slammed into the counter--and her only thought was, Where was the nearest knife?

  Except she wasn't going to need a weapon.

  Adrian, Jim's wingman, was standing in the doorway from the hall, and the instant she saw him, she calmed down. The guy, fallen angel, whatever, was well over six feet tall, and in spite of that bad leg of his, he was built big and hard. He was also handsome in the way of a military man, with that strong jaw and the stare that followed everything, although the piercings gave him an anti-authority edge.

  As did the fact that he was blind in one eye, the pupil having gone milky white from some kind of injury.

  He frowned. "You all right?"

  Nope. She was rip-shit pissed and absolutely terrified--both for no good reason. "Yup--I was just going to make breakfast."

  Like he hadn't already figured that out?

  Adrian limped over to the square table in the center of the kitchen, and when he sat down, his body was like a sack of loose bones, landing in the chair with the grace of Twiddlywinks falling. But that didn't mean he was a lightweight.

  "What's going on," he demanded.

  Yup. For what she'd learned about him, this was pretty typical: straight shooter, no bullshit.

  "You want four eggs?" She turned away from him. "Or three."

  "Talk to me." There was another groan and she imagined he'd leaned his heavy arms on the table. Or tried to cross his legs. "You might as well. We're the only ones up."

  "I guess Jim had a hard night."

  "He told you about the loss?"

  "Yes." Way to go, Jim. Fantastic. Hope those orgasms were worth it. "So how many eggs you want."

  "Seven."

  She glanced at what was left in the carton. "I can offer you four. I broke two and I want two myself."

  "Deal."

  And Jim could fend for himself. Or go ask his girlfriend to make some breakfast for him--

  "Girlfriend?" Adrian asked.

  "I didn't say that."

  "Yeah, you did."

  She threw up her hands and pivoted back to face him. "Look, no wonder Jim is losing. He's too busy with some woman to pay attention to what he's doing."

  Adrian just stared at her. "You mind if I ask where this is coming from?"

  "Let's just say I caught him coming home at four in the morning."

  Adrian cursed under his breath--and didn't go any further than that.

  Sissy shook her head. "So you know about his girlfriend, or fuck buddy, or whatever she is. You know what he was doing last night."

  "Look, it's complicated."

  "That is a Facebook status. Not an excuse for screwing around on your job. Especially given the biblical stakes he's playing for."

  On that note, she got cracking, so to speak. And made it through the rest of the carton fine. Poured a splash of milk in. Whisked her little heart out as she got the pan warmed up and the butter melted.

  "My mom always told me to wait," she muttered.

  "For what?"

  Okay, either her mouth needed to stop working or he needed to lose some hearing. Like she was going to talk about sex with the guy?

  Then again, it'd just be a short convo, at least on her side.

  Sissy shot his big, hard body a glance--and decided the topic would probably not be a quickie on his part. "Till the butter was right. Before you put the eggs in, you know."

  Ironically, the whole virginity thing was the reason the demon had taken her, the very thing that had set the wheels in motion and landed her here: just a couple of miles away from her family but separated by a divide so great she might as well have been on another planet.

  "Something's burning."

  "Shoot!" Sissy lunged for the smoking pan and picked the thing up without a pot holder, burning her palm-- "Goddamn it!"

  From out of nowhere, that murderous rage made her want to destroy something: The stove. The kitchen. The whole house. Blinded by anger, she wanted to splash gasoline around the base of the wooden mansion and light everything on fire. She wanted to stand so close to the blaze her pores got tight and her eyelashes curled.

  And maybe, just maybe, she wanted Jim to have to claw his way out to safety.

  Big hands came to rest on her shoulders. "Sissy."

  She was so not up for some kind of parental pep talk. "I don't need--"

  "Jim is not your problem. Do you hear me?"

  With a yank and a shove, she stepped away. "It doesn't bother you that he's distracted?"

  Adrian stared down at her, that eye on the right positively opaque. "Oh, it does. Trust me."

  "So why don't you do something about it! Talk to him or something--you're close, right? Tell him to stop . . . doing what he's doing. Maybe if he refocused, he'd start winning." When there was no reaction, she cursed. "Don't you care about what happens? Your best friend is up in that attic, dead because of--"

  Adrian shoved his face into hers. "Stop right there."

  The tone in his voice shut her up.

  "You and I?" he said. "We get along. We're cool. But that doesn't mean you get to talk about shit you don't know about. You have problems with Jim? I get that more than you realize. You don't appreciate him getting wound in the head about some chick? Join the fucking club. You're worried about what happens next? Head to the end of a ver
y, very long line. But watch your mouth about Eddie, 'cause that was before your time and it's none of your damn business."

  For some reason, the fact that he was partially agreeing with her just pissed her off even more. "I gotta get out of here. I just . . . I gotta get some air. Make your own eggs--you can eat my share."

  Back in her real life, Sissy had never been much of a stomp-and-slammer. She'd been a good girl, the kind who had besties instead of boyfriends, was always the designated driver, and never, ever made a fuss about anything.

  But death had cured her of all that.

  She marched over to the door, ripped that thing open like she wanted to tear it off its hinges, and pounded her way outside. As she kick-shut those wood panels behind her, it occurred to her that she didn't have anywhere to go. But that problem was solved as a glint of metal caught her eye.

  The Harleys were parked inside the detached ancient garage, and she went for the one she'd used before. The keys were in the ignition--which would have been stupid except for the fact that this was an otherwise good neighborhood, and say what you wanted about Jim and Adrian, they were the kind of men who could get a bike back if it was stolen.

  And not by calling the police.

  Throwing a leg over the seat, she pumped the engine, tilted the weight so she could free the kickstand . . . and a second later she hit the gas and roared off, screaming down the drive past the old mansion's flank, screeching out into the street and powering off.

  With no helmet on her head, the wind roared past her ears and mixed with the engine's din. Her sweatshirt offered little buffer between her skin and the cool morning, and would offer even less protection if she wiped out and hit the pavement.

  But she was already dead.

  So it wasn't like she had to worry about pneumonia or dermabrasion.

  Besides, who the hell cared?

  Jim Heron came awake like he was shot out of a cannon, palming his forty, jacking upright, ready to pull the trig.

  No targets. Just faded flowered wallpaper, the bed he was lying in, and two piles of laundry on the floor in the corner, one clean, one dirty.

  For a split second, time spaghetti'd on him, no longer a function that was linear, but a fucked-up mess where the past twisted around the present. Was he looking for a rogue operative? A soldier who was in the wrong place at the wrong time? An assassin who'd come for him?

  Or was this a morning from the second chapter in his life? Where a demon's minions were after him? Maybe Devina, herself?

  Or was that bitch assuming another mask where she looked like--

  The roar of a Harley engine igniting outside his window snapped his head around. Up on his feet, he went over to the window and parted the thin curtains.

  Down below, Sissy Barten was on Eddie's bike, cranking gas into the engine, making that Harley talk. With quick efficiency, she freed up the kickstand and took off, blond hair streaming behind her in the spring sunlight.

  His immediate instinct was to go after her, either on one of the other Harleys or by ghosting out and traveling on the wind. And he gave in to the impulse, yanking some jeans on, dragging a Hanes T-shirt over his head. He was shoving his socked feet into his combat boots when he stopped.

  And pictured his enemy.

  Devina was six feet of brunette sexpot--at least when she slipcovered herself in all that appealing flesh. Underneath the lie? She was a pinup only by Walking Dead standards. But in either garb, she had the focus of a laser sight, the smile of a cobra, and the sexual appetite of a frat boy on Molly.

  In the last round of this war, he'd spent so much time worrying about Sissy that he'd made the wrong call about which soul was on deck. And lost a crucial win as a result.

  He couldn't afford to do that again.

  The Creator had set up the conflict with very clear parameters: seven souls, seven shots for Jim to influence someone at a crossroads. If the person in play picked the righteous path? Angels won. If not, score one for Devina. Winner got all the souls of the quick and dead, and dominion over Heaven and Hell. The loser was game-over'd.

  Pretty clear, right? Bullshit. In reality, the war wasn't playing out along any neat and tidy rules, and the biggest deviation that screwed him where it hurt was that Devina wasn't supposed to be down on the field. Technically, only he was allowed to interact with the souls--but when your enemy was a liar down to her black and evil core? All bets were off. Throughout the entire game, the demon had totally refused to color within the lines--easy to do when you had no sense of morality, and "fair play" was not in your vocabulary.

  Shit . . . Sissy.

  Jim scrubbed his face, and felt like a rope being pulled in two different directions.

  As a former black ops soldier for the U.S. government, he was hardly the nurturing type. And yet, from the second he'd found that girl hanging upside down in the demon's tub, her life ended so she could function as ADT for Devina's precious mirror? He'd been strung up on her.

  The truth was, she was the reason that he was on the verge of losing this whole goddamn war. He'd traded one of his wins to the demon to get her out of Hell. And then he'd been so distracted trying to make sure Sissy didn't lose her mind in the transition, he'd tanked the last round.

  If not for Sissy Barten, he'd be up by two and on the verge of shutting things down in a good way.

  Instead, all it was going to take was one more fuck-up and Devina was the HBIC--and the aftermath was going to make any concept of doomsday look like an infomercial for luxury time-shares.

  He thought of his dead mother, up in the Manse of Souls, spending the eternity she deserved with the rest of the righteous. He cocked this up? Poof! Sorry, Mom, pack your bags, you're retiring down south. Waaaaay down south.

  All because I got my head scrambled by long blond hair and a pair of blue eyes.

  And yet he still wanted to go after Sissy. Just to make sure . . .

  From out of nowhere, he pictured her sitting up in his bed, nothing but a white T-shirt on, her eyes wide as she stared at him.

  Her voice had been soft, but strong. Just kiss me and I'll go. It's the only thing I'll ever ask of you. . . .

  He'd fought the seduction and then lied to himself as he'd given in, his brain insisting it was only going to be a kiss when his erection had known otherwise. Clear as day, he saw himself leaning into her, her lips parting for him. . . .

  And then everything coming to a screeching halt as Sissy's voice had said his name--from outside in the hall. Instantly, Devina had emerged from the lie he'd fallen for, the demon replacing the illusion that was in front of him, her black eyes sparkling, her smile pure evil.

  The bitch had been out of there a second later: Well, you can't blame a girl for trying.

  Talk about your crossroads. He was at one now. Either he went after Sissy again . . . or he got with the program and did his job.

  Jim finished tying up his boots and headed for the door. Indecisiveness had never been a problem with him before--any more than plastic explosives would take a moment to introspect before going off. And yet, when he walked into the kitchen and saw his remaining wingman cracking eggs over a bowl at the counter, he had no fucking clue what he was going to do.

  Adrian put his palm out to cut any questioning. "No, I don't know where she went."

  "It's all right."

  Ad's eyes narrowed. "Lemme guess--you're going after her."

  Jim felt a pull toward that damn door that was nearly irresistible. The idea that Sissy was out in the world by herself, hurting and confused--it was enough to make his heart go snare drum on him.

  Curling his hands into a pair of fists, he turned to the table. Went over. Sat his ass down. "We need to talk."

  Adrian looked up to the ceiling as if searching for strength. "You mind if I have breakfast first? I hate hearing bad news on an empty stomach."

  Chapter

  Three

  Rage was the octane in her veins as Sissy shot through the streets of suburban Caldwell, jerkin
g the Harley into lefts and rights, blowing through stoplights and intersections, flying past a hospital, some strip malls, a school. . . .

  Nothing really registered. Not the SUV she cut off or the delivery truck she nearly crashed into. Not the pedestrians that jumped back or the stray black cat that skipped across her lane.

  All she could think about were flames . . . the ones she had started days ago in the mansion's parlor. Red, orange, yellow, licking out of the fireplace, fueled by the dusty sheets she had ripped off the furniture and shoved into the oven she'd created. Heat on her face, singeing her eyebrows and lashes, making her pores sting, echoes of the flickering light spotting up her vision. Hunger in her gut for more, more, more. . . .

  Jim had been the one to stop her before things had gotten completely out of control--

  In the corner of her eye, a pattern registered, one that was part of the real world, not the stuff in her mind.

  It was a fence. A ten-foot-high, glossy black wrought-iron fence.

  Beyond which were graves.

  The Pine Grove Cemetery.

  How had she ended up in this part of town? Then again, if you didn't have a destination, a tank of gas and a machine could take you somewhere. Didn't mean you had to go inside, however.

  And she really meant to continue on by the place--it just was not the way the Harley happened to go. The gates were open because it was after eight, and as she zoomed through them, her stomach went on the grind.

  The landscape of blocky gray markers, and tombs that looked like banks, and white marble statues of angels and crosses made her think of that tattoo on Jim's back, the one of the Grim Reaper.

  And this, naturally, took her right back to the fingernail scratches on his chest.

  She was still cursing as she rounded a fat turn, ascended a brief hill . . . and found herself at her own grave site. Hitting the brakes, she was surprised that she'd managed to make it to the right place. The cemetery was a maze of all-the-same and she had been here only once before.

  When her remains had been sunk beneath the surface.

  Funny, she'd always had a fear of being buried alive, those Edgar Allan Poe-era stories of people scratching at the insides of their coffins scaring the crap out of her. Now? Turned out that hadn't been worth worrying about. She'd have done herself more of a favor not to have made that ice cream run to Hannaford's.

  Killing the engine, she dismounted and walked across the asphalt strip. The scratchy spring grass was a bright fresh green, and crocuses and tulips were pushing up to the sun, their pale shoots searching and finding warmth, their flowers about to come out and see the world.