“It’s unfair,” she said as she tried to rock me back to sleep.
“Worse things happen to people,” I said, wiping at my nose with my sleeve.
“Not what happened,” she said. “I mean it seems unfair that because you were strong enough to survive, you get punished for it. Your prize for surviving is the long, hard process of healing.”
I hadn’t understood what she meant and I think she knew it.
“Surviving is hard. Healing is harder,” she said. She tucked me back into the bed and crawled in beside me. “It seems unfair that after all you go through, you’re left to clean up the mess. You have to let go of the anger. Then the fear. Then cultivate happiness. And every step is the hardest thing you’ve ever done.”
We’d fallen asleep like that. And on the nights when I woke up screaming and thrashing, Rachel would be there. With a glass of water, to climb in the bed and soothe me back to sleep again.
Forgive her. Forgive me.
“About what you saw in the hallway,” Ally begins, pulling me from my thoughts.
“You’re still in love with her.”
She makes a surprised clucking sound in her throat. “I don’t think I was ever in love with Nikki.”
“You still like her. Whatever.”
Her brow furrows. “I was expressing my concern for you, for Rachel actually, and she was only trying to make me feel better.”
“I bet.” I flop back against the covers. “Good news. She’ll get to do that for the rest of your life.”
Ally’s mouth falls open. “Excuse me?”
“Come on,” I say, more than a little irritated that she is going to make me spell it out for her. Does she think I enjoy thinking about this? “When I’m dead, you know who you’ll end up with, and don’t pretend like it isn’t an agreeable consolation prize.”
“When you’re dead!” She jumps up from the bed, her jacket falling open. “You think I’m thinking about when you’re dead?”
“You’ve thought about it at least once or twice.” Now it’s my turn to stand up and get indignant. “I’m going to either be murdered or die saving the world, and where does that leave you? In a beach house with two kids!”
Ally’s face furrows in confusion.
I’m screaming. I become aware of the volume of my voice only when tears fill her eyes. Shit. Why is it that when she cries I immediately feel like the worst person in the world?
“If you think—” she pauses to draw a ragged breath. “—for even one second that I want, that I would rather—” She puts her hands on her hips and squeezes until the knuckles go white.
“Don’t cry!” I say, unable to lower my volume much. “At least you’re not the one who has to die!”
Ally storms out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her.
Gabriel appears in the corner of the room the second she’s gone. He isn’t perfectly clear, but he’s substantial enough.
“God, what now?” I ask.
“You hurt her feelings,” he says in a perfectly neutral tone.
My jaw falls open. “Since when do you give a damn about feelings?”
“You want to be with her.”
“What’s your point?”
“Upsetting her runs counter to your desires.”
“Okay, I want the cryptic nonsensical angel back,” I say. “I don’t like the therapist one.”
Gabriel flickers and fades as a soft knock comes at the door. Maisie pokes her head in and flinches. “Uh, is this a bad time?”
“I don’t think there will be a ‘good time’ for as long as I live,” I say. “What’s up?”
Maisie inspects her black nail polish. “Monroe wants to talk to us. He says it’s important.”
“That sounds nice and ominous.”
She snorts. “Wait until you see what he’s got set up in his room.”
“Is it too late to pretend I’m asleep?”
“Gloria will come up and haul you out of bed,” she says. “That’s what she did to me.”
I linger for a moment longer, staring at the corner where Gabriel last stood. Brinkley’s words, Rachel’s words, and Ally’s words—they all play on a loop in my head while the looming storm builds on the horizon.
Chapter 21
Rachel
I destroy the church, slowly, methodically, and I must admit, I enjoy every minute of it. I start by ripping the ancient tapestries off the wall. I use the remaining flames to set them on fire. I pull down the crosses, the false icons, with my mind and slam them against the floor or a column, often in turn, over and over and over again until the metal bends, the clay breaks. I throw the altar up against the wall and it splits clean in half with a very satisfying crack.
I expect Uriel to stop me. Somehow thwart me from desecrating a holy place. Instead, he makes helpful suggestions.
Send the candelabras through the windows.
Set fire to the pulpit.
Break the holy water basin in half and use it to destroy the pews until only firewood is left.
“Isn’t this sacrilegious?” I turn from one desecrated row of pews to the other in order to finish the job. I’m making tinder for a giant blaze. If Caldwell doesn’t come back for the largest Manhattan bonfire of this century, then I guess he won’t be coming back at all.
“No ground is holy where blood has been spilt,” Uriel says, but seems uninterested in elaborating. “And very little earth on this planet is clean of bloodshed.”
“So maybe you really are ancient aliens.” I leap giddily from pile to pile. I use my mind to jump higher and to slow my descent. When I close my eyes, it’s like I’m flying. “If you don’t give a damn about churches or religions, you must not be angels.”
He sneers. “You cannot begin to comprehend what I am.”
“Hey.” I tap my chest with my index finger. “You chose me. Not the other way around.”
He says nothing to this.
I find jugs of oil in an alcove behind the pulpit and splash the wood generously. The flame catches, then spreads. It races from one jagged piece of wood to the other. The fire doubles in size faster than I would have thought possible.
I search for Caldwell. I keep expecting him to leap from the flames like a demon come to exact revenge for killing his woman, revenge for burning one of his sacred temples to the ground. But he doesn’t come.
“He doesn’t want to fight me.” I put both hands on my hips. “I got all pretty and powered up and I came to his house and now he won’t fight me!”
A wave of disappointment washes over me.
I try screaming his name. I deliberately rip his portrait—a giant oil painting framed in heavy gilded wood—from the wall and toss it into the blaze.
Nothing.
Sweat collects on the back of my neck from the heat. I step back from the building blaze but Caldwell doesn’t come.
A sound catches my attention and I whirl, thrusting the intruder up into the air before he reaches me. He dangles about four yards off the ground. His arms are stretched out to either side in a mockery of Christ.
But it isn’t Caldwell. It’s Gideon.
I let him drop. Then at the last moment, I realize his legs will shatter if I don’t slow his fall. I stop him inches above the ground, placing him gently on his feet.
“Darling,” he says, breathless. His nostrils are flared as he takes one uncertain step toward me then another. His eyes run up and down my body without shame. “You look ravishing. Have you been shopping?”
“No,” I say with a flirtatious grin. “I borrowed this from a friend. Where the hell have you been?”
“In custody.”
“Caldwell said he let you go with an agreement.”
“I’m to lead him to Maisie and Jesse,” he says with a devilish smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, scowling at him. “You don’t like my dress.”
“I love your dress.” His grin widens. He’s showing too many teeth. “It�
��s that I’m not sure what you’re doing here. We had a plan.”
“I’ve stuck to the plan. Niv is dead and now I want Caldwell but he won’t play with me.”
“You’re adorable when you pout.” He wraps his arms around me. He stoops to kiss my cheek, then my neck.
I place my hands on his chest and feel the fretful rhythm of his panicked heart.
“Why is your heart pounding?” I ask.
He snorts. “I was thrown into the air, I’m standing in a burning building, there’s a gorgeous woman in a heart-stopping dress. Take your pick, darling.”
I start pulling at the top of his pants with both hands.
He laughs low in his throat. “I’m all for reckless danger, my love, but do you really think this is the best moment?”
I look around at the destroyed church, fixating on the lack of Caldwell. “I wish Caldwell were here.”
Gideon snorts. “I’ll try not to take that personally.”
I pull myself out of his arms. “How did you know I was here?”
“They found the boyfriend dead in his apartment.” He gives me a once-over. “So I assume you’ve acquired the girl’s power as you wanted?”
“We wanted,” I correct him, not oblivious to his implication.
“Yes,” he’s quick to amend. “And then a church, not five blocks away is burning from the inside out. Call it a hunch.”
Uriel appears over Gideon’s left shoulder, scowling. “He lies. Smite him.”
“No,” I say to the angel. “I like the boy.”
“You do not need him.”
“I do not need you either,” I say to the angel. “Yet here you are.”
Uriel’s feathers ruffle and his hair seems to darken to a brighter shade of orange-red. They’re as vibrant as the flames eating the church alive. I’ve begun to sweat on my pretty dress and I don’t like it.
I stoop and grab Niv’s—my—coat off the ground. “I want to leave.”
“Are you speaking to me now?” Gideon asks with an arched eyebrow.
“Who else would I be speaking to?” I snap, and march toward the great doors that will take me back to the streets of Manhattan.
Gideon says, “So about our plan—”
“I want to make a small modification.”
Gideon’s breath hitches. I wonder if he’s even noticed what a ridiculously easy read he’s become. Is it the new power coursing through my veins? I certainly feel different—more…more everything.
“Let’s hear the new plan then,” Gideon says, aiming for casualness.
“We go to Arizona now. We’ll arrive in two days.”
“3 or 4,” Gideon corrects, matching my stride easily given his height.
I pass through the great doors and descend the stone steps. A small crowd has gathered, a few people on their cell phones reporting the fire to the authorities. I turn back to see black smoke billowing up into the sky. I keep marching in the opposite direction.
“We’ll arrive in Arizona in three days, and then I’ll kill the girl right away.”
Gideon stops walking. I realize the distance is growing between us until I fear he won’t follow me. Frankly, I don’t want to drive all the way to Arizona by myself. So I turn to face him.
“What now?”
“Killing Maisie was not part of the plan,” Gideon takes a slow step toward me, one foot in front of the other. His hands are in his pockets. His brow is deeply creased behind his thick-rimmed eyeglasses. Frowning like this, he looks studious. Like a Columbia graduate student rather than the con man he is. Perhaps that is his way of disarming others. His accent. His sweet smile and intelligent face. He certainly couldn’t achieve the same in a gorgeous dress after all.
“Oh don’t look at me like that.” I place both hands on my hips. “It isn’t personal.”
He frowns. “What is it then?”
“Practicality. I need more juice. Niv’s power was pathetic, but once I absorbed it, I’m—I feel—well, for lack of a better word, unstoppable.”
“If you are unstoppable now, why should you need more power? Can’t you work with what you have? The plan was a coordinated attack.”
“Don’t be naïve, Gid—” The end of my words are cut off by a fire truck whipping around a corner into view. Pedestrians scurry as it drives up to the front of the church, mounting the curb and halting before the doors. The firefighters leap out with their equipment and rush inside. “The child is absolutely no use to us. I need her power.”
Gideon matches my stride again as we move west toward the sunset.
“And what about Jesse? Do you think she’ll let you kill the girl?”
My heart skips a beat and my throat tightens, but only for a minute. Then I’m calm again and my purpose is clear. “I’ll deal with Jessup.”
Chapter 22
Jesse
“Uh, I know we’re in the voodoo capital of America and everything, but is all this really necessary?”
I point at the melty votive candles arranged in a circle on the worn wood floor. Strange reddish symbols are scrawled into the bare planks beneath Monroe as he sits cross-legged, smoking one of his hand-rolled cigarettes. Twin streams of smoke rise from his nostrils and cloud the air around him, mixing with the candlelight, adding to the general creepiness of the room.
Maisie coughs and waves her hands in front of her face. “If I wasn’t sure that imminent death was in my future, I’d be upset about all this secondhand smoke, dude.”
“I’m a little more concerned about the blood.” I stare at his ruddy, slick palms. “That’s what’s all over your hands right?”
I give Gloria a nervous look. It’s only the four of us in this room: me, Maisie, Gloria, and Monroe. Ally and Nikki are nowhere to be found. Part of me really, really hates that. For all I know, Ally is crying on Nikki’s shoulder about what a bitch I am. Nothing I say or do will improve my case on that count. I can’t make her unlike Nikki. And I can’t unlove Ally.
There’s nothing left to do but to lap up all the suckage.
“Chicken blood,” Monroe admits, scrapping some of it out from under his fingernails with his teeth. “I want to show you two something real important.”
“And why does that involve chicken blood exactly?” I’m looking at Gloria who only nods to Monroe like pay attention.
“I’m sure that your angel be showing you things. Important things about what’s to come and what’s supposed to be happening here. But mine’s been showing me too.”
“O-kay.” I sigh and relinquish the idea that I’m going to get out of this room without playing along first. “So you’re going to tell us what these important things are, I take it?”
“No, ma’am,” Monroe says with a chuckle.
Maisie yanks her hair up into a messy bun on top of her head and scratches her nose. “But you just said—”
“I’m going to show you.” He grins his tobacco-stained grin.
“Are we going to look into a pool of blood and see our futures?” Maisie asks, with an unnerving level of joy in her voice.
“Uh, why are you so excited about buckets of blood?” I ask her.
“I saw it on Supernatural,” she says. “Dean is so hot. Sam too, but oh my god, Dean—”
“When the hell do you have time to watch television?” I don’t even have time to take a bath every day.
“It’s online.” She gives me one of her duh stares. “Look it up.”
“This is no television program,” Monroe says, fighting for our attention. “What I want to show you is real.”
I rub my forehead. “The buckets of blood are real?”
“I’m gonna share my dream with you both,” he says. “So that you will know what to do when the time comes.”
“Here we go with the ominous spooky shit again.” I roll my eyes at Maisie who smiles.
“Your life depends on this,” Gloria says from behind me. “Take this seriously.”
My face flushes and my heart skips a beat. Why is
she calling me out?
“So come here and sit in front of me.” Monroe waves me forward. “Yes, like that. But Maisie, baby, take off your shoes. We don’t want to be interfering with the connection. We got to make good contact the first time.”
I look down at my pug socks and worry about getting chicken blood on them. Ally gave me these as a belated Christmas present. Of course, why not destroy them along with everything else in my life. If I think I get to keep any part of this for me, I’m totally lying to myself.
“Why you frownin’ so hard?” Monroe asks me.
“She’s fighting with Ally,” Maisie says.
I scoff. “Mind your own business, twerp!”
“You’re the twerp! Don’t yell loud enough for the whole house to hear if it’s a secret fight!”
“Girls, I need y’all to focus now.” His voice rises ever so slightly at the end.
I stick my tongue out at Maisie and then turn my attention to Monroe. “Show me this dream.”
“Us,” Maisie corrects. “Show us the dream. I’m part of this too.”
“Yes, Miss Maisie, you sure are.” Monroe smiles and pats her knee. “You need two at least for this.”
Monroe reaches forward and takes my left hand. Then he takes Maisie’s right. He nods at us and I take Maisie’s free hand in mine.
“Good good,” he says. “Try and clear your head. Some distraction be inevitable, I suppose. But do your best.”
I take a deep breath and try to not think about anything. Of course, immediately I see Ally in my head, crying. My mind replays our conversation over and over on a loop. I break up the image with a breath here, an exaggerated sigh here.
At last Monroe squeezes my hand. “That’s a good start. Now, I’ve got to put a little bit of the potion on you.”
I open my eyes in time to see Monroe reach a bloody finger toward my eye.
“Whoa.” I lean back. “What the hell is that?”
“Chicken blood and herbs.” He smears a thumb across my forehead before I can get away.
“Why would you season it?” I whine, trying to relax my gag reflex. It’s been awhile since I’ve had to do that. “Who seasons chicken blood?”
Worth Dying for (A Dying for a Living Novel Book 5) Page 13
