by J. R. Ward
Jim got right up in the guy's grille, a strange fury driving him. "This is bullshit--if you get to pick, why doesn't everyone just stay with the ones they love?"
Like his mother.
Like his Sissy, for godsakes?
Man, he was too fucking tired of being jerked around by this game.
"People do come back from the dead," Matthias said. "Happens all the time."
"Not everyone." Not his dead. This was such bullshit.
"I got lucky. Look, if you have a problem with it, go talk to Him."
Jim stalked around, smoking, cursing--to the point where he nearly gave the dead operative's body a kick just because he could.
"Jim?" Matthias said slowly. "What's going on in that head of yours, my man."
At that moment, the solution presented itself, something that Nigel had said in the beginning of the round returning to him, taking root, and sprouting into a plan that was so heretical, it gave him pause even in his anger. But then he remembered things that Matthias had told him about the down below--and looked into the other man's face, his living, breathing, like-he'd-never-been-shot face.
The violent heat in Jim's gut was utterly familiar, the same force that had led him to fuck Devina, the same burn that sometimes took over and made him cruel, the same shit that had brought him to his first killings--of the men who had taken his mother's life.
This was the devil in him, he thought, this fury that had flared...and would soon settle into a cold determination that was going to change the shape of the game.
But goddamn it, as Matthias had said, some things you have to do yourself.
"Listen, Jim, how about we get rid of this body, and then go looking for the car he came in? I could really use a set of wheels that's not a rental, and with some work, I could locate the GPS on it and get rid of the thing."
"Yeah," Jim said offhandedly. "Sure."
"Are you okay?"
Nope. "Yeah." He stamped his cigarette butt out on the heel of his boot. "Sure."
The dawn's peachy rays were filtering through the forest and creating long shadows by the time Jim and Matthias accomplished their night's work.
Which had involved so much more than just getting rid of the stiff.
As Jim lit up the last of his cigarettes, he double-checked that two of the Harleys were secure in the bed of the F-150. It was a tight squeeze, but they weren't leaving Eddie's ride behind.
He was going to drive them out. Matthias was on Ad's bike. Adrian was taking the Explorer.
Because that was where Eddie had been packed.
"We ready?" Matthias asked.
When Jim gave the nod, the man put a pair of Ray-Bans on, jump-started the Harley, and pumped some extra gas into the motor, the growl rising and falling in the quiet early morning.
The flotilla left with Jim in front, and oh, what a shame, he split the police tape as he pulled out of the garage, the grille of the truck ripping it apart.
Sorry, CPD.
But at least they were leaving Matthias's rental behind so the unis had something tangible to get excited about.
Hitting the main road, he went north at an easy speed. They were going to travel around the city for quite a while, just making sure their tail was clean. Then at ten a.m., they were pulling into their new HQ.
Long night--and it felt good to sit on his ass for a while. Packing up the garage's studio hadn't been the issue; he didn't have a lot of personal shit. It had been dealing with the operative. The good news was that Ad had known right where to take the guy--a sinkhole in the mountains in which his buddy had been previously dropped like an anchor.
It was better that way. XOps was probably not going to care in the not-too-distant future, but in the interim, they could busy themselves finding the pair of bodies and feel good about themselves.
On the way out to the sinkhole site, they'd discovered the requisite sedan at the side of the road close to where number one had parked his ride--but Jim had talked Matthias out of using that vehicle. They were going to give the truck to his old boss as soon as they got to the new safe house and unpacked. Safer than trying to find the GPS on the unmarked, and license plates could be bought cheap if you knew where to go--
Jim's stomach let out a howl so loud even Dog, who was curled up in the passenger seat, lifted his head.
"Yeah, sorry--bet you need some food, too," he said gruffly. "Like maybe a turkey sub--right, Dog?"
As he glanced across the seat, the "animal" met his stare evenly, those almond-shaped brown eyes unblinking. Then one of those shaggy little paws lifted and grabbed at the air between them--like he was putting in an order for two--no, three hoagies.
So the Maker was with him, Jim thought. And had been all along.
Wonder what the big guy was going to think of his next move.
Going by Dog's grave face, Jim wondered if He knew already.
"Sorry," he muttered. "But some things you have to take care of yourself...."
By the time the digital clock read nine fifty-four, Jim was pulling into the driveway of their new Casa d'Angel, and as the Explorer and the Harley came in behind him, someone whistled in appreciation.
Which was clearly a statement of irony.
"This place looks haunted," Matthias said as he cut the bike's engine.
"It's cheap and out of the way," Jim groused through his open window.
And however ugly it was, he didn't sense Devina anywhere around the place.
Picking up Dog, he got out from behind the wheel to find even Adrian looking a little surprised--which, considering what was on the angel's plate, was really saying something.
"I thought Rent-A-Wreck only did cars," the guy muttered.
Okay, fine, the bastard had a point. But who the hell else was going to rent to a shady character like Jim? Without asking for references?
And wreck was right: The mansion was cast in a palette of gray, everything from the cupolas on the third floor, to the stone porches at ground level, to the cockeyed shutters in between, painted with grisaille technique. Hell, even the vines that snaked up its flanks and crowded its huge front door were without leaves, the skeletal roots like an infection that had sprung from the black earth and was spreading.
The land that the thing was on covered some twenty-five acres, a ragged meadow running out in all directions to a thin tree line.
Off in the distance, other mammoth houses could be dimly seen--none of which was in a decrepit condition.
Bet the neighbors loved this place.
"Does it have running water?" Ad asked.
"Yeah. And electricity."
"Will miracles never cease."
Jim walked over to the mailbox. When he went to open the flap door, the thing fell off the hinges into his hand. "Here's the key."
"You mean they bother to lock this POS up?"
When he'd made the call on the property during the police raid, the owner had seemed stunned, as if she'd never expected to rent the house out. While they'd talked, he'd been concerned that she'd ask for references and he might not be able to hypnotize her over the phone, but she hadn't gone there. All she cared about was the security deposit, first and last month's rent, and an electronic debit--and he'd been more than happy to fall in line with all that: An exchange of account details later, and she was going to leave the key in the mailbox. Which she had.
Boom. Done.
Jim walked up the flagstone path to the front entrance, his boots making no sound, as if the slate were eating up his footfalls. Dog didn't follow him. Neither did the two men.
Scaredy-cats, all of them.
The key was not your humdrum Schlage variety--the thing was made of old brass and had a shaft thick as a finger. He expected to have to force it into the lock and then fight with the mechanism...but it went in like butter and opened smoothly.
Almost as if the house wanted him inside.
He expected the interior to be covered with cobwebs and dusty sheets, like an old-fashioned Abbott &
Costello movie. Instead, the grand foyer was wilted, but clean, the scuffed floors and faded wallpaper and musty antiques testifying to a wealth that had been long lost.
Over to the left, there was a drawing room, and behind that, what looked like a living room. Dining room was to the right. Massive staircase straight ahead. And underneath the twin sets of steps, a solarium that opened out to the terraces behind the house.
Glancing upward, he thought, Yeah, this footprint could generate the eight bedrooms that had been advertised.
He twisted around, and looked through the open door. "Are you boys coming in? Or have you not finished pissing in your pants yet?"
Bitching. Whining. His name taken in vain.
Whatever.
"Bring some shit with you, wouldja," he called out.
Clomping through to the back of the house, he found a kitchen that was out of the forties, and a backyard that went on forever.
Must have been some kind of mansion in its heyday--
As the slow, rhythmic gonging of a grandfather clock started to ring out, he wondered where the damn thing was.
One, two, three, four...
Idly, he counted the measure of hours as he went back out to the front and looked around for the big daddy in charge of keeping time.
Eight...nine...
Frowning, Jim headed over to the base of the stairs and ascended, thinking the clock had to be on the big flat landing, halfway between the floors.
It wasn't.
Ten.
Just as his freak meter went off, Adrian and Matthias brought a load in, their voices echoing around the house.
Instead of going to help them, Jim went up farther on the steps, heading for the second story foyer.
Eleven.
He put his combat boot on the final step.
Twelve.
Not up there, either--at least, not that he could find. All he saw were open doors that framed the boxy space, the bedrooms clustered around an Oriental rug and sitting area the size of the garage's entire studio apartment--
Thirteen.
Or had that one just been in his imagination?
Rubbing the back of his neck, he contemplated calling the whole thing off. But that was a bullshit, pussy move--and the clock had not struck one hour too much.
Period.
Shaking his head, he jogged back to the first floor. "I gotta go," he told the guys.
Adrian didn't reply, and didn't look happy. Which suggested the angel might have guessed the destination. And what do you know, the guy muttered a quick, "Be careful."
Matthias put down a laundry hamper full of dirty--no, wait, clean?--clothes. "I'm not going to be here for long."
Jim felt a pull in the center of his chest, like someone had fisted his heart for a split second. "Yeah. Okay."
"I'm not going to see you again, am I?"
"No, you're not. That's the way it works."
"Just like an XOps operation, huh. You go in, do the job, get out."
"Something like that." Even now, after the round, Jim hadn't told Matthias exactly how things worked--and the guy hadn't asked, either. But his old boss wasn't stupid.
The two of them stared at each other for the longest time, until Jim felt like he couldn't stand the tension.
"Good luck with your girl," Jim said.
"Back at you with..." The guy looked around. "Whatever the hell you're doing here."
"Thanks, man."
Matthias cleared his throat. "I still owe you."
"Nah. After last night, we're even."
Matthias stuck out his hand, and Jim clasped it tight. Funny, they had met on a handshake, back when they'd started XOps training together, neither of them having a clue what they were in for. Same thing now, except this was a goodbye, not a hello.
"If you need me--" Matthias started.
"Just take care of yourself."
They embraced at that point, one of those hard-muscled, manly-man, chest-to-chest numbers that lasted only long enough for them to pound the crap out of each other's shoulder. And then they separated.
Jim didn't say goodbye. He just turned away...and disappeared himself.
Down below, in the depths of Hell, Devina sat upon her worktable, her rotting legs dangling off the end, her head down, her clawed hands gripping the edge of the wood so tightly, they sank in past the stained surface to the meat.
She had violated the rules--and lost.
She had tried to play by the rules--and lost.
One more win and Jim had wrapped up the game.
The embarrassment was nearly worse than the specter of not prevailing in the war: She had always prided herself on her ability to get under the skin of the Maker's flawed creations--and Jim should have been no different. In fact, after they'd fucked at the boathouse, she'd been overjoyed, feeling like she was making progress with her man, and certain that she'd was going to win with Matthias.
Instead, that fucker had chosen badly. And for crissakes, who could have guessed that? The sorry bastard had been a good boy for so long, his penchant for calculated violence such an example to others. Then at the last minute, he pussied out? Because of a chick?
What. The. Fuck.
And the worst thing? Devina hadn't been able to do a thing about it: She had gone to the final scene, concerned by his gesture to that reporter, ready to interject herself at the most critical juncture--only to find Nigel standing guard like some kind of morally justified mastiff.
There had been no way to get at the situation with that archangel in the cocksucking bushes. And Jim, damn him to hell, was continuing to betray her with the way he was influencing these souls.
At this rate, she was going to lose--
Devina lifted her head, a shot of energy ringing her internal bell.
Jim, she thought.
Uh-huh, yeah, right, she was letting him down here. The last thing she was in the mood for was him parading his win around.
Ignoring the signaling, she stayed where she was, even her OCD symptoms held at bay by a crushing sense of defeat.
What was she going to do--
"Oh, for fuck's sake." She glared up at the distant circle of gloom at the very top of her well. "Will you give it a rest, Heron? I don't want to see you."
The signal only got louder, more insistent.
Maybe something was wrong?
How fun would that be.
Abruptly, she changed into her suit of flesh, the one that he had so enjoyed ejaculating into the other evening. Her hair was perfect, as always, but she checked it with her hands anyway.
Staying right where she was, she allowed him entrance, his presence electrifying her the moment he got in range and appeared in his physical form.
Interesting...there was no triumph in his face, no ha-ha!, no macho swagger thanks to his victory.
He stood before her, unbowed, but not shitting on her parade, either.
Devina narrowed her eyes. "You haven't come to gloat?"
"I wouldn't waste my time on that."
No, he probably wouldn't. She would have, though--guess that part of him took after Nigel's side.
"So why are you here?" She hopped off the table and walked in a slow circle around him. "I'm not in the mood to fuck."
"Neither am I."
"So...?"
"I'm here to strike a deal."
She laughed in his face--considered spitting in it, too, for that matter. "We've done that once already, and in case you haven't forgotten, you didn't keep your side of the bargain."
"I will now."
"How do I know that--and who says I'm interested."
"You're interested."
She stopped in front of the table and put her hand on it in an effort to remind him of how she'd had him there. "I doubt it."
The angel brought his arm out from behind his back, and in his hand, on a short pole...was a victory flag.
Devina's brows lifted. "Taken up sewing, have you."
He waved the thing idly. "I
have something you need. You have something I want."
The demon stopped breathing--even though she didn't require the inhale/exhale thing to survive. Was he actually suggesting...he would give her one of his wins?
Well, it was in the rules, she thought. At least technically. That victory was his property...and she supposed that he could assign it to her, if he so chose.
"Does Nigel know what you're doing?" she said softly.
"I'm not talking about him. This is between you and me."
Ah, so the archangel had thrown a fit--or didn't know yet.
And if this worked, it would make the score two to two, instead of one to three. Whole different ball game.
The demon started to smile. "Tell me, my love...just what is it you want?"
Even though she knew.
Well, well, well, wasn't the game really going to get interesting now. And it looked as if her therapist had been right: It was possible, with enough exposure, to rewire one's brain--or somebody else's--to produce a given reaction.
All that hair color might have been worth it.
Just like the L'Oreal ad said.
Devina slinked her way over to her lover, her sex blooming in the tense quiet. "Tell me, Jim, and I'll think about it. But I would like to hear you say the words."
It was a while before he answered her.
And then he spoke, loud and clear. "I want Sissy."
Three weeks later...
"Are you ready?"
As Mels nodded, she squinted into the noonday sun. Putting her hand up to shield her eyes, she said, "I can't wait."
Redd's Garage & Service was the kind of place her father would have gone to, an auto-body repair and mechanics shop that was full of old-school types who had tattoos they'd gotten in the Army, grease on their faces, and wrenches instead of computers to do the work.
And unlike Caldwell Auto, they had seen Fi-Fi worth saving.
Mels's old Civic was backed out to the kind of fanfare that West Coast Choppers revealed their masterpieces with.
Then again, Mels's ancient set of wheels, back in working order, was a miracle: Somehow the team here had gotten her into shape again.
"Oh, look at her!" Mels walked over as the mechanic got out from behind the wheel. "It's...well, it truly is a miracle."
That was the only word that kept coming to her: Her steady and sure car had been resurrected out of its catastrophic injuries and was once more on the road.
Frankly, she felt a kinship with the Civic. She had been through a crash, had pulled herself back together, and was about to hit the road. With Fi-Fi's help, of course.
