Immortal

by J. R. Ward

  Strange, that he had one, as well. But considering everything else that was going on? Not something she was going to give much thought to.

  After she finished her midnight snack, she had a skim-milk chaser, and put her dishes in the sink. Then she was all about the upstairs, ready to cozy up to Jim and have him throw an arm over her--because God only knew what the morning was going to bring.

  Except she didn't make it to even the first landing of the staircase.

  She ended up in the trashed parlor.

  The plywood sheets over the busted-out windows did a fairly good job of keeping the rain out, but they weren't a tight lock, so the room felt colder and even more damp than the rest of the house. And even with the drafts, the piney smell of the fresh-cut plywood permeated the air, like someone had hung evergreen air fresheners off all the sconces.

  As her bare feet went silently over the chilly, bare floorboards, there were no lamps to turn on, because they'd all been sucked away along with the tables they'd been sitting on. There was, however, enough illumination to see by: Thanks to the exterior fixtures mounted on the corner of the house, artificial light bled through the loose seals around the window wells, looking as if maybe the plywood panels were doors you could pass through to other planes of existence.

  She found what she was looking for on the mantelpiece over the marble fireplace.

  Devina's book barely fit on the ledge, its ragged leather cover hanging off nearly to the point of falling. She figured Adrian must have put it there while he'd been working on the room. Or maybe the thing had climbed up the moldings and taken a seat by itself.

  She hated the weight of the tome in her hands, and the old-man-flesh feel of its cover. Hated being near it at all. Before, it had been nothing more than some book; now it felt like she was carrying a severed arm over to the light.

  It was two deep breaths before she could open the thing. Two more before she could actually look down and--

  "What the hell?"

  Frowning, she flipped through the pages, going back and forth and . . . nope, she recognized nothing. The writing now seemed like something utterly foreign, a hodgepodge of symbols and strange letters that was unreadable as far as she was concerned.

  Closing the volume up, she returned it to its place on the mantel.

  The relief was so great, she was dizzy.

  Hitting the stairs, she was halfway up before something Jim said came back to her. It had been when they'd sat outside and she'd asked him, What happens now?

  With you? Nothing.

  At the time, she'd been talking about the war, not her future, but his answer had been about her and her alone.

  Assuming he won the war--and she had to believe he would, because the alternative of her, and everyone else, going into Devina's possession was too horrifying to contemplate--what then? She had to think that if she'd been welcome in Heaven, she would have ended up there after the ritual in that tub at the loft. But no, she was still here.

  Guess eternity on a cloud wasn't in her future.

  So what did that leave her? Endless years roaming the earth as some disembodied soul? Because halo aside, that was what she was, for all intents and purposes.

  Resuming her ascent, she went to Jim's room, slipped through the doorway, and took off her sweats before getting in between the sheets. As strong arms scooped her up and pulled her into a tight embrace, she needed the warmth and the grounding.

  They'd figure it out, she told herself. If they could get Devina out of her, they'd be able to make something work.

  As long as they had each other, Heaven was wherever they were.

  Jim waited until Sissy's breathing was slow and even--and then he stayed in bed a good twenty minutes past that. When he finally did urge her over onto her back and remove his arms from her, she murmured something, but stayed asleep.

  Getting out of bed and dressed without making a sound wasn't a problem. Belting his dagger holster around his waist and tucking a crystal knife into the thing was easy in the dark. Snagging a conventional SIG Sauer and tucking it into the small of his back was a piece of cake.

  But leaving her was hard.

  As he paused with his hand on the doorknob, he stared at the bed. There wasn't a ton of light in the room, but he knew where she was, heard her sigh as she burrowed into the pillows, pictured her rubbing her face in her sleep.

  Instead of giving him pause to reconsider, it only sharpened his resolve.

  Before he left, however, he had an impulse that had to do with her safety, and he gave in to it quickly and efficiently. Then he was out into the night, passing through the glass of the circular window that overlooked the sitting area, Angel Airlines taking him through the air. It was not until he was well away from the house that he dropped out of the sky and sent the summons.

  For once, it was answered immediately. As if the demon had been waiting for him.

  Proceeding downtown, he didn't fuck around with the hotel lobby's judgmental busybody. He just landed on the terrace of the penthouse and walked over to the French doors. When he tried the brass handles, they were locked.

  Of course she was going to make him knock.

  As he curled up a fist and put his knuckles to the glass, he kept his cool. The only thing he cared about was getting into the demon's space. Whatever he had to say, to do, to make that happen? He was going to rock that shit.

  Now Devina took her own sweet time. With the cold wind blowing hard up this high, he might have gotten chilled to the bone, but he was too pissed off to care whether or not he was in the damned arctic--

  Devina finally turned a corner and came into the living room, posing by the bar like she was at a photo shoot for Vogue--or maybe Hustler was more like it. She was in a bra and panties that were more black lace than satin, a gossamer-thin "robe" falling from her shoulders to the floor. Her hair was loose and curled into big fat ringlets, and her makeup was film noir, all smoky eyes and blood-red lips. And to top it off? Her skin-colored heels were a mile high, and made out of something that shimmered like diamonds--plus, yeah, there was some kind of garter belt involved.

  To him, she was about as sexually attractive as a ninety-year-old woman with her teeth out.

  But clearly she didn't know that: Apparently deciding that he'd seen enough, she came forward, her hips swaying, that hair bouncing along with those double-Ds of hers, her tongue licking her lips. As she opened things up and he stepped through, she ran her hand over his chest and shoulders.

  And he let her do it.

  "To what do I owe this pleasure," she drawled as she shut them in.

  He kept his voice casual as he scanned around the living area, cataloging objects. "We need to talk."

  "Finally," she muttered as she went over and positioned herself on one of the leather armchairs. "I thought you'd never come back."

  Jim wandered around, putting his hands out and letting them float over the side table, the back of another chair, a lamp. "I've been doing some thinking."

  "Yes?"

  He could hear the hope in her voice. "And I've decided you're right."

  "Yes . . . ?"

  Okay, now she was downright breathless.

  He stopped. Pivoted to face her. "Yeah. I think we should quit."

  Chapter

  Forty-four

  Goddamn it, Devina thought.

  As she sat in her chair, with her Heidi Klum legs crossed, her hair glossy as varnish, and her breasts looking like a million bucks in La Perla, she'd been so ready to hear something else come out of him.

  Something like, I made a mistake and I need only you. Or, Sissy's so fucking boring, I want to slit my own throat when I have sex with her. Maybe even, Marry me.

  Instead, he wanted to quit.

  "You were the one who suggested it," he said as he continued to stroll around her living room. "You brought it up as an option. And I think you're right. I think that's what we need to do."

  Excuse me while I readjust the settings on my monit
or, she thought bitterly.

  He stepped over to the bar. "You want a drink?"

  No, I'd like you to be romantic. For once. You heartless motherfucker.

  "No, thank you."

  She narrowed her eyes on him as he leaned over and took . . . ugh, a beer out of the little refrigerator under the countertop.

  "Do you mind drinking that out of a glass?" she muttered.

  "Bottle's fine for me."

  "Of course it is."

  There was a pop and a hiss as he cracked the top and then a glug as he swallowed. Standing in the midst of the penthouse's luxury, he was like a groundskeeper in the main house, nothing but a T-shirt and jeans covering his body, those boots on his feet something you'd find at an Army/Navy surplus store instead of Saks Fifth Avenue.

  Even Macy's didn't carry shit that cheap.

  And yet here she was, sitting across from him, heart in her throat, ears pricked to hear some nuance, any nuance, that authenticated her romantic fantasies.

  Bringing her manicured hands up to her face, she rubbed her temples, being careful not to smudge any of her foundation.

  "I really need to end this," she heard herself say.

  "Yeah, and that's my point. We both have way too much to lose. We're even, going into this last round. Why should you give up your collections if I win? Why should I be the one who fucks Heaven in the ass if you win? This is all bullshit."

  As he threw his head back and sucked down a third of the beer in there, she watched his Adam's apple go up and down.

  Then she had to shift her eyes elsewhere, because he was just a total suck zone for her. In spite of all the reasons she should not just find him unattractive, but hate him . . . she was utterly enamored.

  Which made what he was suggesting all the more compelling.

  Especially because he was the soul.

  If he did win, she was going to lose him. She was also going to lose herself--as well as her children down below. But if they quit? Then it was back to status quo.

  Well . . . status quo provided the Creator decided not to blow up the world, after all. And somehow, she didn't think He was going to do that. While she'd been going back and forth with Him after she'd copped the blame for the whole portal-to-Purgatory thing, she'd had the sense that He had reconnected to His creation in a way He hadn't been when he'd set up this final endgame.

  Jim finished the beer on his fourth "sip" and left the empty on the bar. For her to clean up, naturally.

  Men, she thought.

  "I gotta go. But think about it and let me know before the next round gets started--"

  "Wait," she snapped. "This is it? You're leaving?"

  He went over to the door he'd come through. "Yeah."

  She hopped up from the armchair and marched over. "I put on my new Louboutins for you."

  His brows went up. "I'm sorry? You mean the"--he motioned around her chest--"this stuff?"

  "No!" She stamped her foot. "No! That's La Perla, you dumb-ass! My shoes, motherfucker--would it kill you to notice one goddamn thing about me for once!"

  Jim put his hands out like he was warding off a crazy woman. "Listen, I don't--"

  She jabbed a finger in his face. "You are the most egotistical man I have ever met. You never call me unless you want something, you are never there when I need you, and you're not even monogamous! I'm beautiful and I'm worth it!"

  Oh, my Christ, she thought, he had her so fucked in the head she was quoting a L'Oreal ad.

  Jim stared at her for the longest time.

  And then he shocked her for real: "I'm sorry."

  All she could do was blink. "What . . . what did you say?"

  "You heard me, I'm sorry. I . . . look, this war? It's not good for either one of us. It's coming between us, you know?" As Devina opened her mouth, he shook his head like he knew exactly what she was going to say. "No, no, leave Sissy out of it--forget about her. This is between you and me right now. Let's just end all this so we can put aside the fucking bickering, 'kay?"

  Devina put her hands up to her face and blinked some more. Every line in his face was open, his body relaxed, his eyes level and unmoving from hers.

  But he'd lied to her once already, hadn't he.

  Narrowing her stare, she bit out, "If you are playing me, I will never forgive you."

  "Fair enough."

  And that was it. He just stood there by the door, sincere, calm, and ready to stop fighting.

  "I can't get hold of the Creator," Jim said. "Only you can do that. So if you agree with me and you want to end this, you're going to have to get Him to come to both of us."

  OMG, that would be awesome, she thought. Kind of like introducing your new boyfriend to your parents, which, hello, was yet another human fantasy she'd never been able to live out.

  Until now, a part of her squee'd.

  "I'd better go." He opened the door, and a cold breeze shot into the warm interior. "I don't want to cloud your thinking--you need to decide this on your own. But if you're up for it, get the Creator and bring Him to me. The sooner, the better, okay?"

  He paused as a gust blew her hair back, as if maybe he were captivated by her. "Yeah," he murmured as he seemed to shake himself. "You think about it."

  As she followed him out onto the terrace, she watched as his wings, his incredible wings, formed over his shoulders. A moment later, he was off, soaring into the night sky.

  Like something out of Shakespeare, she clasped her hands to her heart, and ran to the railing, leaning against it so she could see the shimmering presence of him disappear into the face of the revealed moon.

  The only thing that could have made it better . . . was if they'd been in Paris.

  Sissy woke up with a start. Everything was dark in Jim's bedroom; there were no sounds disturbing the peace; nothing seemed missing--

  No, wait. There was no Jim.

  Sitting up, she clicked on a brass lamp and looked around, although, come on--a man as big as he was? You were going to hear that moving around. Maybe he'd gone to the bathroom? Forcing herself to lie back down against the pillows, she waited to hear footsteps. Flushing. Running water.

  Nothing.

  Maybe she should just go and check . . . ?

  Except, jeez, it seemed waaaaay too early in their relationship to become so possessive that the guy couldn't even take a leak on his own. Folding the sheets carefully up to her chest, she told herself to calm--

  Cranking her head to his side of the bed, she felt the blood drain out of her skull.

  Lying on the pillow where he had been sleeping . . . was her necklace, the one with the little gold dove on a chain.

  Grabbing the thing, she brought it right up to her face--like maybe she'd gotten it wrong or . . . no, it had not broken. The clasp had been reengaged.

  After he had taken the thing off.

  "Shit!" Scrambling out of the sheets, she threw some clothes on and shot out the door. "Jim!"

  She ran for the stairs and took them two at a time on the way down. Halting in the front hall, she froze and listened--prayed for the sound of him moving around in the kitchen, the smell of cigarette smoke, the creak of some floorboards somewhere, anywhere.

  "Jim!" she hollered.

  The front door was locked, although it wasn't like he was going to leave that open if he'd gone out that way--and when she shot back to the kitchen, she found the back exit was the same.

  "What's going on?"

  As Eddie appeared in nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms, she wheeled around and held out the necklace.

  Yeah, like that explained everything.

  "I'm sorry?" he said. "What is that?"

  "He's gone. Jim's gone."

  "What?"

  "I woke up and he was gone--and he left this behind."

  Eddie's red eyes narrowed. "And that is . . ."

  "My necklace." She waited for the OMG! Of course! When it didn't come, she said, "You don't understand--"

  Adrian came in, having been slower on th
e descent. "What's--"

  "--my mother gave it to him. He told me he never took it off--and now he's gone and he left it behind."

  "Shit," Adrian muttered, heading over to the table and falling into a chair.

  "And he's not anywhere in the house?" Eddie said. "You've--"

  "Come on," Ad cut in. "You know exactly where he is."

  "Damn it." Eddie shook his head. "He needs to work on the next soul. Now is not the time to go after Devina."

  The two angels started talking back and forth at each other, but Sissy suddenly couldn't hear a word they said.

  The newspaper.

  Drawn by something she couldn't explain, she went across and flipped the CCJ over so that the bottom half of the front page showed. That picture, of that man . . .

  "Hey," she cut in. "Hey! Who is this?"

  She flashed the paper to the pair of them and they looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. "Who is this?" she demanded, pointing to the man. "This is one of the souls, isn't it."

  As alarm bells rang in her head, she focused through her fear.

  "Yeah." Ad shrugged. "So what, we got bigger problems than where Vin diPietro is holding a garage sale of all his--"

  "Do you see this?" She jabbed her forefinger at the picture. "Do you see what's over his head?"

  The two of them leaned in as if they both knew damned well they either checked it out or she was going to shove the newspaper in their faces until they answered her.

  "No," Eddie said. "I don't see anything."

  "You?" she said to Ad.

  "Nope. Nada. No offense, but if you need your eyes checked--"

  "Jim's the last soul." As they stared over at her with all kinds of WTF, she jogged the newspaper and spoke with crystal clarity. "Jim is the final one in play."

  Chapter

  Forty-five

  As Adrian narrowed his eyes on Sissy, his heart skipped a beat and seemed to consider taking a lunch break altogether. Except then he thought, as smart as Sissy was, she had this wrong. Somehow she had to have this wrong.

  Eddie clearly felt the same way. "Listen, Sissy, I'm not sure--"

  "This man has a halo." She pointed at the grainy picture of Vin. "Was he one of the souls in the war?"

  When neither one of them replied, she nodded grimly. "He was. Wasn't he. And the man I saw in Home Depot, the one I pointed out to you, Ad. He was also a soul, right? And then there was a guy at my funeral who had a halo, a musician here in town--and I read that he had died in the paper . . . right after Jim told me we'd lost the round before mine." She pointed to her own head. "I have a halo."