Worth Dying for (A Dying for a Living Novel Book 5)

by Kory M. Shrum

  Chapter 17

  Rachel

  I wake on the floor of Nivedha’s apartment. It’s dark now, the lights of the city dancing in my eyes. I sit up and touch the side of my head. I feel sick, shaky with adrenaline. I pull myself up to standing by clutching onto the nearby coffee table. It creaks under my weight.

  My legs shake, threatening to buckle beneath me.

  Uriel appears in all his Lion-O glory.

  “What’s happening to me?” I fall forward into his arms and he pulls me up.

  “You’re acclimating to the power. Look,” he says with a malicious grin. His eyes slide over the shadowed furniture in the unlit room.

  I follow his gaze but see nothing. A slow realization blossoms. Everything in the room is vibrating. The coffee table, a handful of loose coins in a dish beside two remotes. It’s subtle, certainly not an earthquake, if those are possible in New York, but a tremor nonetheless. I note the growing darkness of the room, and the lamps come on simply because I want them to. I don’t even move my fingers this time. Not the slightest twitch.

  “I’m going to bring this building down,” I say.

  Uriel laughs, a robust exhalation. “If you so desire.”

  I look down at myself. I’m trembling. Worse, I’m covered in Nivedha’s blood and ashy soot. It’s under my nails, and all over my arms and body. By the gritty feeling of my cheeks, I’d say it was on my face too.

  A key turns in the lock. My head snaps up.

  Uriel doesn’t move from his place in the middle of the room, halfway between the coffee table and the ridiculously large television.

  “Nivvy,” a man with a deep voice calls. “I’m home.”

  He sets his briefcase down and looks up. His face goes from hopeful to terrified in seconds.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  No sooner does he ask this question then he decides he doesn’t care. His slender fingers slip into the smooth pocket of his suit and grab his cell phone. He’s about to dial 911 when the phone is ripped from his hand and sails across the room. It hits the big windows and shatters into a million pieces. The window, remarkably, remains unmarred, being the stronger of the two objects.

  The man’s mouth hangs open, his eyes darting around the room as if to anticipate what might happen next. I must admit that at first, I don’t know what will happen either. What to do with this man? In his nice suit jacket and winter scarf. One gloved hand, one bare. The other removed to make the call. His slick hair parted to one side.

  He will alert the authorities. You need more time. Uriel’s voice has a new quality to it. A giddy excitement.

  And then I know exactly what to do with him.

  Yes, Uriel purrs. His red hair flaming as if on fire. Smite him.

  The man collapses to his knees, a choked sound clucking in the back of his throat. By the time his elbows connect with the carpet, he makes no sound at all. I cross the room and kneel down to look into his lifeless eyes. He wears—wore—contacts, the irises the color of dog shit.

  “Did I—?” I ask Uriel.

  “Crushed his heart,” Uriel says aloud, beaming like a proud papa. “Well done.”

  I reach up and scratch a nail along the side of his jaw. It’s oily. Nivedha’s ashes leave a trail along the bone.

  “I need a shower.” I step away from the body propped against the back of the front door, still wearing his coat and one leather glove.

  The bathroom is like a spa. Huge skylights give the creamy tiles a soft glow. The backlighting of the mirrors makes my face foreign.

  I open the shower door and step into a large stall, white marble tiles surrounding me. I turn the water all the way to the right, letting steam fill up the space before adjusting the knob back to a temperature my skin can tolerate.

  Under the waterfall shower head, I come alive. It seemed like a dream before, standing in Nivedha’s apartment, killing a strange man, a potential threat. But with the potato sack clothes off and most of her blood and ashes washed down the drain, I feel more like myself.

  I think of Gideon.

  I see his beautiful face for the first time.

  “Hello, gorgeous,” he’d said, rolling down the window of the Ferrari. It was two in the morning, and I was a mile from the asylum I’d just escaped.

  “If you’re some kind of rich axe murderer, you’re not very subtle,” I said. The trees lining the road connecting the asylum and the interstate swayed menacingly. I kept expecting Caldwell to step out at any time. I kept waiting for him to wrap his hands around my neck and choke me to death without further ado.

  “Get in the car, Rachel,” he’d said, the British accent sexier than any sound I’d heard in years. Of course, insane asylums are notoriously devoid of sexy.

  “I don’t get into strange cars with strange men who happen to know my name.” I told him this through the open window. Uriel had appeared then, and Gideon’s brow had furrowed as I turned to look the angel up and down.

  “This isn’t a strange car, it’s a Ferrari,” Gideon said and leaned over to open the door for me.

  “He isn’t Caldwell’s,” Uriel had said, vouching for the handsome foreigner.

  Gideon had a thin beard, neat and trimmed close to his face. He was even darker than I was, probably because sunshine isn’t exactly abundant in insane asylums. But the car, watch, clothes, and even his eyeglasses were expensive.

  “Brinkley sent me to help you escape, darling. You and I are on the same mission to save the world and a damsel. Jesse Sullivan.”

  “He speaks the truth,” Uriel vouched at about the same time I decided that my feet hurt and I was cold.

  I slipped into the leather seat and pulled the door closed.

  “So you do get into Ferraris with strange men,” Gideon smiled, easing back onto the road, kicking it up to 60, then 80, then 100 in a matter of seconds.

  I frowned at the speedometer. “You’re going to kill us before we save anyone.”

  “What have you to worry about? How many times have you died?”

  “216,” I said.

  He snorted. “What’s one more—?”

  It was his easy smile. The mischief in his eyes. I relaxed against my seat and let him drive me far away from the asylum and my life for the last few years.

  I reach out and turn off the hot water. I grab a plush towel off the rack and began to dry myself. With one hand, I wipe the mirror to reveal my face in the foggy glass. I search for any trace of blood or ash. How many times had Nivedha stood here looking at herself, thinking of Henry Chaplain? Of the lights and camera and a man stepping into a room?

  I use Nivedha’s deodorant, toothbrush, even her makeup, though she was a little fairer than me. Then I raid her closet. Her closet is bigger than the room I had back at the asylum, and I had had to share that with someone.

  “I could spend days in here,” I tell Uriel as he leans against the door frame. “Smell that?”

  I give an exaggerated sniff.

  “Shoes.”

  Not only does—did—Nivedha have—had—whole racks of unworn clothes, the price tags dangling from silky sleeves, but shelves and shelves of shoe boxes line the top of the closet.

  I pull them down one at a time, letting the boxes hit the floor without ceremony. Heels, boots, flats, of all colors, pile on top of each other. Some fall completely from the box; others remain partially swaddled in their tissue wrappings.

  Leopard print heels. I run a finger down the side of the shoe, feeling the soft fur bristle at my touch. They are identical to the beauties I saw earlier, down to the square tip at the heel.

  I slip them on and stand, naked except for the heels, and turn in the full-length mirror to admire my body. They pinch a little in the toes but I don’t care. They make my calves flex and lengthen my legs in the mirror.

  Gideon loves my body. I can tell by the way he looks at me. His gaze isn’t quite as carnivorous as most of the men I’ve encountered, but hunger is recognizable on any face. The fact that he de
lights in my body isn’t what I enjoy most. Sure, it feels good to be attractive, to know someone wants you desperately. But that isn’t what I crave.

  I want his respect. His admiration. I died but was reborn from the ashes. Not only in body but also in mind and spirit. I want someone who can appreciate that. Gideon can. And he does. In my mind as well as his, I’m not the victim anymore. I’m the predator, not the prey. You don’t take your eyes off me, not because I’m beautiful, but because it would be a very foolish thing to do.

  I find black panties and bras also with the tags still on. The bras don’t fit, Nivedha’s chest being smaller than mine, so I go for a supportive camisole instead. Then I slip on the panties and stockings. I run garters from the top of the stockings to my hips. Add a short, tight black dress, and because I’m being practical, a full length mink coat.

  I look amazing.

  You’re more than a gorgeous face. Gideon said once.

  “Is he alive?” I ask Uriel. Uriel still leans in the doorframe, his expression drunken with satisfaction. Not for my body of course. I don’t think he has that kind of inclination. Only one thing seems to excite the angel, smiting people.

  “Yes,” Uriel says. “He is not in danger. You are. You are wasting too much time.”

  I give myself one more look in the full mirror and wink. The gorgeous vixen with coal-lined eyes winks back.

  “Fine,” I say with a huff. “Off we go.”

  I march out of the closet, reveling in the feel of the sleek clothes on my body. There’s nothing like expensive clothes to make you feel like a million dollars.

  I stoop down and search the man’s pockets for money. He’s got a money clip in the front breast pocket and another one in the briefcase.

  “Do you intend to cover your face?” Uriel asks.

  “I pity the fool stupid enough to challenge me.”

  And I do. The power coursing through me is hurricane-force. Tsunamis. Unstoppable and unparalleled. Why would I fear anything as pathetic as humans with their silly guns?

  With cash and a nice coat, I slip from the room and take the elevator to the lobby.

  The doorman smiles at me and asks about Nivedha. I smile, wink and drop my tone. “She’s busy.”

  Being dead.

  The man grins and lets me go on my way. Good for him, disappointing for me. I’d love to discover how many hearts I can stop in one day.

  “Will you kill her now?” Uriel asks, his tone hopeful.

  I step up to the curb and throw up my hand for a taxi. One weaves out of traffic, cutting toward me sharply across three lanes.

  “Not yet,” I tell him. “We have one more stop.”

  Chapter 18

  Jesse

  Gloria assures us that Caldwell will not be back tonight.

  Lounging in Maisie’s temporary bedroom, we poke and prod Gloria for answers, but all we get is he will have his hands too full this evening.

  But Maisie is pretty shaken up by the encounter, despite Gloria’s attempts to console her.

  “He told me to kill Jesse.” She runs one hand down Winston’s back. Winston snoozes on the coverlet of the twin-sized bed, his head on Maisie’s knee. “I could never kill you. I don’t think I can kill anyone. Not even him.”

  “I know.” I’m at the end of her bed with the soles of her feet pressed against my thigh. I pat her unicorn-socked feet in sympathy.

  “But I felt him in my head you know. I felt him trying to confuse me.”

  “You’re too smart,” I say again, but a horrible feeling settles in my chest. I’ve been mindfucked by Caldwell myself. I know what he can do to a person. He’s not as effective with us as he is with people who don’t have NRD, but he’s still pretty good. The magnetite in our brain, what gives us the condition, also runs interference.

  “Try not to think about it,” I insist. “We’ve got an awesome plan. Tomorrow or the day after we’ll go to Arizona and then it’ll all be over. Hang in there.”

  Gloria gives me a hard look. I shrug. Okay, so the next 48 hours of our lives might be the worst thing ever, but she didn’t expect me to say that, did she?

  Maisie looks anything but convinced. “I’m going to take a nap with Winnie.”

  “Good idea.” I leap up, perhaps too enthusiastic to get off of big sister duty. I give Gloria a half-pleading, half-hesitant look which could be translated to you’ve got this right?

  Gloria nods.

  I slip from the room as Gloria stands to tuck Maisie and the pug in. A sound stops me at the top of the stairs. They’re a faded old wood, mostly covered by a dusty carpet runner. Overlooking the banister, I can see Nikki and Ally talking, keeping their voices low. I can’t see Ally’s face, only half of Nikki’s. Her features are full of sweet concern.

  God, she’s good. Damn it.

  She reaches out to touch Ally’s arm and then pulls her into a hug. I scoff.

  They both turn and look up at me.

  “Oh please, don’t stop. It’s starting to get good,” I say, my face hot and chest tight. I can feel the power rising, warmth flooding my limbs. Breathe, Jesse. Gabriel’s voice comes from somewhere deep in my mind. Breathe.

  “Jess—” Ally begins, one foot on the bottom of the step.

  I wave my hand. “Save it.”

  I storm off to the bedroom I’m supposed to share with her and shut myself in the room. I lock the door so that everyone will leave me alone.

  Jesse, Gabriel says as I fall onto the stiff bed. The brass frame slaps against the bare wall. Jesse, speak to me.

  I sit up on my elbows and see Gabriel. At the end of the bed, he flickers in and out of focus, forcing me to blink several times. It’s because Maisie is at the end of the hallway. Too close.

  Why are you crying? His words are clear enough in my mind, but his mouth doesn’t move. Is it too hard to make a voice, a human voice, when he can’t even form the rest of himself? Maybe.

  “I’m not crying,” I say, wiping at my face.

  He doesn’t humor me with a rebuttal. He watches me wipe at my face, coming closer to the bed.

  I wish you were real, I think suddenly. I could really use a hug.

  I’m more than a little horrified by how pathetic I sound, even to myself. But it’s true. The image of Nikki holding Ally. Nikki saying who do you think will pick up the pieces? It’s—it’s all just—

  I’m so confused, I tell him, in my mind. I don’t want Ally to die. I don’t. Please don’t think anything else no matter what I might think or feel out of anger, got it?

  Gabriel kneels by the bed, his face at my level. I know what you want.

  But I hate the idea of her being with someone else. I don’t want to think about me dead and her alive, popping out babies with Sasquatch.

  The soft caress of feathers grazes my cheek, tucking under my chin. The scent of a summer rain overtakes the room.

  “Why did you show me the beach house?” I recall the beach house perfectly in my mind.

  Because I’m not talking about the first vision—me and Ally cozied up with Winston. The pale sand-smoothed wood, the lighthouse décor, the breathtaking view of blue-grey waters lapping at the sable shore. I’m talking about the second vision. The one with Nikki and Ally in the same house, with two daughters.

  “Why show me that?” I ask. “If you want to give me my so-called heart’s desire, why show me that?”

  The smell of rain intensifies. And for the first time I feel Gabriel’s hands on me. He lifts me from the bed—or at least, he lifts some part of me from the bed. Feathers brush my cheeks as he unfurls them wide, far too wide for the little bedroom we are in, except I understand somehow that Gabriel was never in the bedroom. Not really.

  The world shifts and the black wings envelop me. Then they open, revealing sunshine and the beach. The blue-gray waves lap at the shore as gulls quietly glide overhead. In the middle sits an A-frame beach house, complete with rickety, sand-smoothed steps and giant windows.

  “Oh no, no, no,”
I say, looking at the beach house. “I’m not going in there. This time they’ll have four kids. Or a sex sling in the living room beside a clown playing Beyoncé on a violin. No, thank you.”

  Gabriel blinks his cat-eyes at me. “Someone is waiting for you on the back porch.”

  A strange fear crawls over my flesh and the very last thing I want to do is to go around the house and see who is sitting on the porch.

  Yet my feet start moving one after the other. My sneakers sink into the sand with each step I take toward the shoreline. I give the house a wide berth, coming around the corner with the expectation that maybe someone—or something—is about to jump out at me.

  But as soon as I get around the corner I stop.

  There is someone waiting. He’s sitting on a beach chair on the porch, overlooking the water. He’s got a slight grin on his face that can easily be mistaken for peace. It’s as if he likes what he sees and he’s got all day to enjoy it. The can of beer in his hand certainly suggests so.

  “Brinkley?” I choke on the name.

  He turns and the lazy grin widens. “Hey kid.”

  He stands, his leather jacket falling open to reveal an AC/DC shirt. He’s a 40-year-old James Dean with a touch more rock ‘n roll.

  “Brinkley?” I say it again. I whirl on Gabriel to see if he’s still there. He is, watching me with those unreadable eyes.

  “We don’t have a lot of time, kid.” Brinkley puts his beer down and jumps off the porch, coming toward me. “Or I should say you don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m going to blow up apparently. Did you know that when you recruited me? That I’d either save the world or destroy it?”

  “No,” Brinkley says with a grin. “Can’t say I saw that one coming. But I don’t think you’ll blow up the world. I don’t think he would have picked you if he thought you’d destroy it. He seems to be in the business of keeping the rock spinning.”

  Brinkley looks over my shoulder at Gabriel. They lock eyes but neither speaks.

  “Do you know what they are?” I ask. “Are they really angels? Rachel has this theory—”

  Brinkley holds up a hand to stop my rant. “We’ll talk metaphysics later.”