Crave fa-2

by J. R. Ward

  “If I kill him now,” Devina tilted her pretty head, “you’ll have to live with the fact that you could have saved him but chose not to. You’ll have to add another notch to that tattoo on your back, won’t you. I thought you’d given that kind of thing up, Jim.”

  Rage boiled through his body, frothing his blood until his vision started to get wavy. “Goddamn you.”

  “What’s it going to be, Jim.”

  Jim glanced down at his old boss’s ruined face. The skin across the bone structure had turned an alarming gray color, and his mouth had cranked open even though his breath was shallow.

  Fucking A . . .

  Fucking hell.

  On a curse, Jim turned away, started walking . . . and was entirely unsurprised when Devina materialized in his path.

  “Where are you going, Jim?”

  Christ, he wished she’d stop saying his frickin’ name.

  “I’m taking him to his car. And then you and I are leaving together.”

  The smile she gave him was radiant and made him sick to his stomach. But a trade was a trade and at least Matthias would live to see the next dawn—yeah, sure, there was undoubtedly some kind of death waiting in the wings for him, whether it was a physical collapse or his dirty deeds coming back to haunt him. Jim, however, wasn’t going to make the call as to the “when” if he could avoid it. That was up to Nigel and his ilk—or whoever the hell was in charge of destinies.

  Tonight, he was going to keep the man alive, and that was all he knew. Because even a sociopath deserved something better than falling prey to the likes of Devina.

  And hopefully, Jim would make it through whatever she had planned for him with a little more information about what made her tick—and how to take her down.

  Intel remained everything.

  Back in Boston, Isaac put the hood of his windbreaker up to hide his face, and then frog-marched Grier’s dad through her front door. Once they were outside, he was very aware of how exposed he was—hood or no hood, his identity was pretty damn obvious. But it was a cost/benefit situation: he didn’t trust Childe and Grier wanted the guy gone.

  So do the math.

  As he hustled father dearest around to the driver’s side of the Mercedes, the cold air seemed to tighten the man up, the remnants of the hard-core confron with his daughter getting replaced with a determination Isaac had to respect.

  “You know what he’s like,” Childe said as he took out his key fob. “You know what he’ll do to her.”

  The image of Grier’s smart, kind eyes was inescapable. And yeah, he could just imagine the sort of shit Matthias would hurt her with. Kill her with.

  Might even make the father watch again.

  Might make Isaac play witness, too.

  And didn’t that make him want to throw up.

  “The solution is within you,” Childe said. “You know what the solution is.”

  Yes, he did. And it was a bitch.

  “I beg you . . . save my daughter—”

  From out of the shadows, Jim Heron’s buddy with the piercings stepped forward. “Evenin’, gents.”

  As Childe recoiled, Isaac grabbed the man’s arm and held him in place. “Don’t worry, he’s with us.” More loudly, he said, “What’s up.”

  Shit, he needed to get back in the house here, boys.

  “Thought you might like some help.”

  With that, the man stared at Childe like his eyes were a phone jack and he was plugging into a wall. Abruptly, Grier’s father started to blink, his lids working Morse code, flip-flip, fliiiiiip, flip, flip. . . .

  And then Childe said goodnight, calmly got in his car . . . and drove away.

  Isaac watched the taillights turn the corner. “You want to tell me what you just did to that man?”

  “Nope. But I’ve bought you some time.”

  “To do what?”

  “Up to you. At least her father no longer believes he just saw you in that house—which means right now daddy-o isn’t hopping on his cell phone and calling your old boss with where you are.”

  Isaac glanced around and wondered how many eyes were on him. “They already know I’m here. I’m about as undercover as the Vegas Strip at this point.”

  A large palm landed on his shoulder, heavy and strong, and Isaac froze as a flush went through him. The sense that the guy was powerful was not a surprise—like Jim would hang with anybody else? But there was something freaky about him, and it was not the dark gray metal hoops in his lower lip and his eyebrow and his ears.

  His smile was positively ancient, and his voice suggested there were secrets all over his syllables as he spoke: “Why don’t you go inside?”

  “Why don’t you tell me what the hell’s going on?”

  The guy didn’t look thrilled with the hit back, but Isaac was so NMP’ing that one. He didn’t give a shit if Jim’s buddy gave birth to kittens from the upset—he needed some intel so things made sense.

  Some sense.

  Any sense.

  Christ, this must be how Grier felt.

  “I’ve bought you a night—that’s all I can say. I strongly suggest you get in there and stay put until Jim comes back, but obviously I can’t make you grow a brain.”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Pierced leaned in. “We’re the good guys.”

  With that, he jogged his hooped brow and Cary Granted it with a grin—

  Then just like that, he was gone. Sure as if he was a light turned out. Except, come on, he must have walked off?

  Isaac wasted a split second looking around, because, hello, most bastards—even the high-level spooks and assassins he’d been in the service with—couldn’t disappear into thin air.

  Whatever. He was a sitting duck out on this front stoop.

  Isaac flashed back into the house, locked the door, and went into the kitchen. When he didn’t find Grier, he leaned up the rear stairwell.

  “Grier?”

  He heard a distant reply and took the rear stairs two at a time. When he got to her room, he stopped in the doorway. Or skidded to a halt was more like it.

  “No.” He shook his head at her rich girl’s flavor of Samsonite: That monogrammed luggage was so not going anywhere. “Absolutely not.”

  She glanced over from the nearly filled suitcase. “I’m not staying here.”

  “Yeah, you are.”

  She pointed her forefinger at him like the thing was a gun. “I don’t do well with people trying to order me around.”

  “I’m trying to save your life. And staying here where you’re known and visible to a lot of people, where you have a job that you’ll be missed at and appointments to keep and a security system like the one in this house is the way to stay alive. Going off to anywhere else just makes it easier for them.”

  Turning away, she pushed at the clothes she’d packed, her slender body bowing as she leaned into the shoving and made more room. Then she picked up a sweater and folded it in half and then in quarters.

  As he watched how her hands shook, he knew he would do anything to save her. Even if it meant condemning himself.

  “What did you say to my father?” she demanded.

  “Not much. I don’t trust him. No offense.”

  “I don’t trust him, either.”

  “You should.”

  “How can you say that? God . . . the things he’s kept from me—the things he’s done . . . I can’t . . .”

  She began to tear up, but it was clear she didn’t want the old haven-in-strong-arms routine from him: She cursed and marched into the bathroom.

  Dimly, he heard her blow her nose and run some water. While she was in there, his hand went into his windbreaker’s pocket and he palmed up the Life Alert. Death Alert was more like it: Help, I haven’t fallen and I’m standing up—can you come and rectify this problem?

  Grier remerged. “I’m leaving here with or without you. It’s your choice.”

  “It’s going to be without me, I’m afraid.” He took his hand
out.

  She froze when she saw the device. “What are you doing with that?”

  “I’m ending this. For you. Right now.”

  “No!”

  He pressed the summons as she lunged for him, sealing his fate—and saving her—with a one-touch.

  A little red light on the device started blinking.

  “Oh, God . . . what have you done?” she whispered. “What have you done?”

  “You’re going to be fine.” His eyes traced her face, memorizing yet again what was already etched into his mind forever. “That’s all that matters to me.”

  As her eyes welled up, he stepped forward and captured a single, crystal tear on the pad of his thumb. “Don’t cry. I’ve been a dead man walking since I bolted. This is nothing more than what would come to me eventually. And at least I can know you’re safe.”

  “Take it back . . . undo it . . . you can—”

  He just shook his head.There was no undoing anything—and he was realizing that fully now.

  Destiny was a machine built over time, each choice that you made in life adding another gear, another conveyor belt, another assemblyman. Where you ended up was the product that was spit out at the end—and there was no going back for a redo. You couldn’t take a peek at what you’d manufactured and decide, Oh, wait, I wanted to make sewing machines instead of machine guns; let me go back to the beginning and start again.

  One shot. That was all you got.

  Grier stumbled back and hit the edge of her bed, sinking down like her knees had gone out. “What happens now?”

  Her voice was so quiet, he had to strain to catch the words. In contrast, he spoke loud and clear. “They’ll be in touch with me. The device is a transmitter that sends a signal and it will receive their call. When they hit me back, I arrange for a place to turn myself in.”

  “So you could fake them out. Leave now—”

  “It has a GPS in it so they know where I am every second.”

  So they knew he was here now.

  But he didn’t think they would kill him in her house—too much exposure. And Grier didn’t know it, but as long as he turned himself in, she was going to be okay because her brother’s death was going to keep her alive. Matthias was the ultimate chessman and he was going to want control over her father, given what the guy knew. Having already offed the son, it went without saying that XOps could do the same to the daughter—and as long as that threat was out there, the elder Childe was neutralized.

  The man would do anything to keep from burying a second kid.

  Grier’s life was her own.

  “My advice to you,” he said, “is stay here. Work things out with your father—”

  “How could you do that? How could you turn yourself over to—”

  “I wasn’t one of the team who murdered your brother—but I’ve done things like that.” As she recoiled, he nodded. “I’ve gone into homes and killed people and left them where they landed. I’ve stalked men through forests and deserts and cities and oceans and I’ve taken them out. I’m not . . . I’m not an innocent, Grier. I’ve done the worst things one human can do to another—and I got paid for it. I’m tired of carrying all those deeds around with me in my head. I’m exhausted from the memories and the night-mares and the on-edge twitch. I thought running was the answer, but it’s really not, and I just can’t live with myself any longer. Not one more night. Besides, you’re a lawyer. You know the statutes for murder. This”—he dangled the Life Alert by its chain—“is the death sentence I deserve . . . and want.”

  Her eyes stayed locked on his. “No . . . no, I know the way you’ve protected me. I don’t believe you’re capable of—”

  Isaac whipped off the windbreaker and sweatshirt and turned around, flashing her the massive tattoo of the Grim Reaper that covered every inch of skin on his back.

  At her gasp, he hung his head. “Look at the bottom. You see those marks? Those are my kills, Grier. Those are . . . how many brothers and fathers and sons I’ve put into graves. I am . . . not an innocent to be protected. I’m a murderer . . . who’s simply getting what’s coming to him.”

  CHAPTER 28

  As Adrian reappeared in the back forty of the lawyer’s house, he once again took up res next to Eddie—who was doing an excellent imitation of an oak tree.

  “You send the father off?” the other angel murmured.

  “Yeah. I gave us enough time for Jim to get back here. He call yet?” Like, in the five minutes he’d been out front with Isaac.

  “No.”

  “Damn it.”

  Frustrated at everything, Ad brushed at his arms, which were still steaming a little. Man, he hated smelling like vinegar—and gee, what do you know, the skirmish with Devina’s Disposable Posse had ruined yet another fucking leather jacket. Which pissed him off.

  He’d really liked this one.

  Giving up, he refocused on the back of the house. Jim’s superstrength spell was all ashimmer, the red glow sparkling in the night.

  “Where the hell is Jim,” Eddie growled as he checked his watch.

  “Maybe a fight will come find us again.” Ad forced himself to crack a smile. “Or I could go get us another girlie.”

  As Eddie cleared his throat and made like he was all Mr. I-So-Don’t-Do-That, Ad knew better. The angel was a ferocious motherfucker once he dropped the buttoned-up routine—Rachel of the perfect teeth and no last name had been floating on air as they’d sent her off at dawn. And as much as it pained Ad to admit it, he had a feeling a lot of that postcoital blissed-out shit had been from Eddie’s ministrations.

  Bastard had a hell of a tongue, evidently—and good job he did. Ad had tried to get into the sex, but he’d ended up just going through the motions.

  Eddie rechecked his watch. Looked at his phone. Glanced around. “What did you do to the father?”

  “He thinks he came here and Isaac was gone already.”

  Eddie rubbed his face like he was exhausted. “I hope like hell Jim gets back soon—that Isaac character is going to bolt. I can feel it.”

  “Which is why I hit him with my magic palm.” Adrian flexed the thing. “Jim likes GPS. I don’t.”

  “At least TomToms don’t sing like you do.”

  “Why is everyone else in the world tone-deaf?”

  “I think it’s the other way around.”

  “Feh.”

  A breeze whistled through the bare limbs of the budding fruit trees and both of them stiffened . . . but it wasn’t round two of Devina’s disposables rolling in. Just the wind.

  The long wait grew longer.

  And even longer-er.

  To the point where Adrian’s natural tendency to be in movement itched up his spine and had him cracking his neck. Over and over again.

  “How you doing?” Eddie said softly.

  Oh, great. Like the caring-sharing shit would help him relax? Even on a good night, that routine gave him the urge to run around the block a couple hundred times.

  “Ad?”

  “I’m fine. Dandy. Yourself?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “And we’re not going there.”

  Little pause . . . liiiiiittle happy pause that was drenched and dripping in Eau de Disapproval. “You can talk about it,” Eddie countered. “I’m just saying.”

  Oh, for chrissakes. He knew the guy was just being all about the buddy-I-got-your-backs, and it wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the effort. But after Devina had had at him this last time, his insides were loose and sloppy, and if he didn’t weather-strip his door, dead-bolt it and toss out his welcome mat, things were going to get messy. In ways that couldn’t be cleaned up.

  “And I’m telling you, I’m good. But thanks.”

  To cut off the convo, he focused on the house. God, that “low-level” spell of Jim’s was so strong . . . as strong as anything Adrian and Eddie could pull off under the full leverage of their powers. Which might well mean that that angel had tricks which could seriously fuck with D
evina—

  The soft chiming of Eddie’s phone was good news: There was only one person who could be calling and that was Jim.

  Adrian glanced over when Eddie didn’t accept the call. “You’re not answering?”

  Eddie shook his head. “He sent us a picture. Network’s slow tonight—it’s still coming up.”

  You’d think with all the shit they could do, they’d be able to communicate telepathically—and to some degree, they were able to. But long distances were kind of like shouting across to the other side of a football stadium. Also, if someone was injured or dying, the ability to pull off stuff like spells and incantations and mind thoughts—

  “Oh . . . God . . .”

  As Eddie’s voice broke, Adrian felt a premonition pour over his head like cold blood. “What.”

  Eddie started to scramble with the phone’s buttons.

  Ad grabbed for the cell. “Don’t you erase it—don’t you fucking—”

  A couple of quick lunges and they were in a full-out fight for the phone—and Adrian won only because desperation made him lightning fast.

  “Don’t look at it,” Eddie barked. “Don’t look—”

  Too. Late.

  The little image on the glossy screen was of Jim naked and splayed out on a huge wooden table, arms wide, legs wide. Metal wire was wound around his wrists and ankles to pin him down, and his skin was lit by candlelight. His erect cock had a leather strap wrapped around the base to keep it hard—but although he was technically aroused, he wasn’t juiced for the sex; that was for sure. . . . and Adrian knew exactly what Devina did to get the initial blood flow where she wanted it.

  That tourniquet was going to give her something to play with for hours and hours.

  Adrian swallowed, his throat tightening up sure as if he were on those hard, oily boards himself. He knew all too well what was coming next.

  And he knew what those shadowy figures lurking in the background were.

  The texted caption under the photo: My New Toy.

  “We’ve got to get him out of there.” Adrian nearly crushed the phone from the way his hand tightened around it. “That fucking bitch.”

  Lying on Devina’s “worktable,” as she called it, Jim didn’t bother looking at her—not even when she got his phone out and a flash went off. What he was primarily concerned with were the dark figures that circled the periphery like they were dogs about to get set loose: He had a feeling they were the same things he and the boys had fought outside of that lawyer’s house, because they moved with that shifty, snakelike undulation.