Crave fa-2

by J. R. Ward

  “Except it did.”

  “Yeah. Fuck—I mean, hell, yeah, it did.” Although only that once. After that, he was good to go. Stone-cold. Ate like a king. Slept like a baby.

  Grier cleared her throat. “How did they recruit you?”

  “You won’t believe it.”

  “Give it a shot.”

  “sKillerz.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a video game where you assassinate people. About seven or eight years ago, the first online gaming communities were getting big and integrated play had really caught on. sKillerz was created by some sick bastard—no one’s ever met the guy, apparently—but he’s a genius at graphics and realism. As for me? I had a head for computers and I liked”—to kill people—“I liked playing the game. Pretty soon there were hundreds of people in this virtual world—with all these weapons and identities in all these cities and countries. I was at the top of all of them. I had this, like . . . knack for knowing how to get to people and what to use and where to put the bodies. It was just a game, though. Something I did when I wasn’t working on the farm. Then, about . . . about two years into it . . . I started to feel as though I was being watched. That went on for, like, a week, until one night this guy named Jeremiah showed up at the farm. I was working the back rails, mending fences, and he drove up in an unmarked.”

  “And what happened?” she asked when he paused.

  “I’ve never told anyone this before.”

  “Don’t stop.” She came over and sat beside him. “It helps me. Well . . . it’s disturbing, too. But . . . please?”

  Right, okay. With her looking up at him with those big, beautiful eyes, he was prepared to give her anything: words, stories . . . the beating heart out of his chest.

  Isaac rubbed his face and wondered when he’d become a sap—oh, wait, he knew that one: the moment he’d been escorted into that little room back at the jail and she’d been sitting there all prim, and proper, and smart as hell.

  Sap.

  Wuss.

  Nancy.

  “Isaac?”

  “Yeah?” Well, what do you know—he could still answer to his own name and not just a bunch of ball-less nouns.

  “Please . . . keep talking to me.”

  Now he was the one clearing his throat. “The Jeremiah guy invited me to come work for the government. He said he was with the military and they were looking for guys like me. I was all, ‘Farm boys? Y’all looking for redneck farm boys?’ And I’ll never forget it . . . He stared right at me and said . . . ‘You’re not a farmer, Isaac.’ That was it. But it was the way he said it—like he knew a secret about me. Whatever, though . . . I thought he was a moron and I told him so—I was wearing mud-soaked overalls and a John Deere hat and work boots. Didn’t know what the hell else he thought I was.” Isaac glanced over at Grier. “He was right, though. I was something else. Turned out the government had been monitoring sKillerz online and that’s how they found me.”

  “What made you decide to start . . . working . . . for them?”

  Nice euphemism.

  “I wanted out of Mississippi. Always had. I left home two days later and I still have no interest in going back. And that body was of a kid who’d run his motorcycle off the road. At least, that’s what they told me. They switched my ID and my Honda for his and there you go.”

  “What about your family?”

  “My mother . . .” Okay, he had to really clear his throat here. “Mother had moved on from us before she died. Pop had five sons, but only two with her. I never got along with any of my brothers or him, so leaving was not a problem—and I wouldn’t approach them now. Past is past and I’m okay with it.”

  At that moment the front door opened and from down the hall, her father called out, “Hello?”

  “We’re back here,” Isaac answered, because he didn’t think Grier was going to: As she checked the security system, she suddenly looked too self-composed to speak.

  As her father came into the room, the man was the opposite of his daughter: Childe was unraveled, his hair messed up like he’d been tearing at it with his hands, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy, his coat off-kilter.

  “You’re here,” he said to Isaac in a tone full of dread. Which seemed to sugget whatever mind game Jim’s buddy had played out front hadn’t just been for show.

  Nice trick, Isaac thought.

  “I didn’t tell him why I wanted him to come,” Grier announced. “The cordless phone isn’t secure.”

  Smart. So damned smart.

  And as she remained quiet, Isaac decided he’d better drive the bus. Focusing on the other man, he said, “Do you still want a way out?”

  Childe looked over at his daughter. “Yes, but—”

  “What if there was a way to do it where . . . people”—read: Grier—“were safe.”

  “There isn’t one. I’ve spent a decade trying to find it.”

  “You ever think of blowing the doors off Matthias?”

  Grier’s dad went stone still and he stared into Isaac’s eyes like he was trying to see into the future. “As in . . .”

  “Helping someone come forward to spill every single thing he knows about that fucker.” Isaac glanced at Grier. “ ’Scuse my mouth.”

  Childe’s eyes narrowed, but the McSquinty routine wasn’t in offense or mistrust. “You mean testifying?”

  “If that’s what it takes. Or shutting them down through back channels. If Matthias isn’t in power anymore, everyone”—read: Grier—“is safe. I’ve turned myself in to him, but I want to take it one step farther. And I think it’s about time the world got a clearer picture of what he’s been up to.”

  Childe looked back and forth at him and Grier. “Anything. I’ll do anything to get that bastard.”

  “Right answer, Childe. Right answer.”

  “And I can come forward, too—”

  “No, you can’t. That’s my one stipulation. Set up the meetings, tell me who to go to, and then disappear from the mess. Unless you agree, I’m not going to do it.”

  He let dear old Dad put up a fight about that and spent the time looking at Grier in his peripheral vision. She was staring at her father, and though she stayed quiet, Isaac was willing to guess that the great chill was defrosting a little: Hard not to respect her old man, because he was dead serious about blabbing—if given the chance, he was prepared to spill everything he knew as well.

  Unfortunately for him, however, the choice wasn’t his. If this plan went tits up, Grier didn’t need to lose the only family she had left.

  “Sorry,” Isaac said, cutting off the chatter. “That’s the way it’s going to be—because we don’t know how this is going to go and I need you . . . to still be standing at the end. I want you to leave as few fingerprints as possible on the rollout. You’re already more involved than I feel comfortable with. Both of you.”

  Childe shook his head and held up a hand. “Now, hear me out—”

  “I know you’re a lawyer, but it’s time to stop arguing. Now.”

  That gave the man pause, as if he wasn’t used to being addressed in that kind of tone. But then he said, “All right, if that’s what you insist.”

  “It is. And it’s my only nonnegotiable.”

  “Okay.”

  The guy paced around. And paced around. And . . . then he stopped right in front of Isaac.

  Holding up a hand to his chest, he formed a circle with his forefinger and thumb. Then he spoke, his words crystal clear and tinged with appropriate anxiety. “Oh, God, what am I thinking . . . I can’t do this. This is not right. I’m sorry, Isaac . . . I can’t do it. I can’t help you.”

  Just as Grier opened her mouth, Isaac caught her and squeezed her wrist to shut her up: Her father was now surreptitiously pointing in the direction of what had to be the basement stairs.

  “Are you sure,” Isaac asked him in a warning tone. “I need you and I think you’re making a huge mistake.”

  “You’re the one making a mistake,
son. And I’d be calling Matthias right this second if you hadn’t already done it yourself. I will not be a part of any conspiracy against him—and I refuse to help you.” Childe let out a curse. “I need a drink.”

  With that, he turned away and headed across the room.

  At which point, Grier grabbed the front of Isaac’s windbreaker and yanked him head-to-head with her. In a nearly silent hiss, she said, “Before either of you even thinks of hitting me with another round of classified-info crap, you can shut it.”

  Isaac popped his brows clear to his hairline as her father opened the door to the cellar.

  Shit, he thought. But she obviously was not going to budge on this one. Besides, maybe being involved would help her and her father patch things up.

  “Ladies first,” Isaac whispered, indicating the way with a gallant hand.

  CHAPTER 30

  Heaven, South Lawn

  Nigel granted an audience to his two favorite warrior angels not out of the goodness of his heart and not with anticipation—and in spite of the fact that he and Colin, Bertie, and Byron were in the midst of a repast. There would be no turning these visitors away, however: He knew why Edward and Adrian were coming and they were not going to like what he had to say.

  Thus he felt as though he should handle them in person.

  And indeed, when the two angels took form far across the lawn, they strode o’er to the grove like the avengers they were.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Nigel murmured to his advisors, “but will you please excuse me for a moment.”

  He folded his damask napkin and rose, thinking there was no reason to ruin the meal for the others—and what was about to transpire verbally was going to be a gastronomic murder of the very bloodiest sort.

  Colin got up as well. Nigel would have much preferred to do this alone, but there would be no dissuading the angel. No one and nothing could change Colin’s mind about what to have for his pudding, much less on matters of import.

  He and Colin met their visitors halfway between where the pair had entered and where the fine table was set amongst the elm trees.

  “She has him,” Edward said as the four of them came together. “We don’t know how it happened—”

  Nigel cut the angel off. “He gave himself so that another could have a chance at life.”

  “He shouldn’t have done that. He’s too valuable.”

  Nigel glanced in Adrian’s direction and found that the angel was silent for once. Which was a surer sign of trouble than any other.

  Nigel tugged at his cuff links, smoothing the sleeves of his silk shirt inside his linen suit. “She shan’t kill him. She cannot.”

  “Are you positive about that?”

  “There are few things you can trust her on, but the rules were not laid upon us by her. If she kills Jim, she forfeits not just the match, but the game in its entirety. That will keep her in check.”

  Adrian’s voice drifted over, thin and hard. “There are some things worse than death.”

  “Verily, you are correct.”

  “So fucking do something.” The angel was all but vibrating, his body like a Christmas popper on the verge of being pulled asunder.

  “We could get him out, though,” Edward said. “That’s not against the rules.”

  “Of course you may.”

  Long silence.

  Edward cleared his throat and appeared to gird his tongue for polite restraint. “The picture she sent us suggests that he is held within her world.”

  “He is not upon the earth, ’tis true.”

  “So how can we get to him.”

  “You cannot.”

  As Adrian cursed, Edward clapped a hold on the other angel’s arm, but that didn’t shut the male up. “You said we could get him out.”

  “Adrian, I said you ‘may.’ As in, you are permitted under the rules to do so. I did not, however, make a comment upon your ability. In this case, you are unable to reach him without sacrificing yourselves, thus leaving him with no support and no guidance during this crucial, early time—”

  “You little prick.”

  Before Adrian could do something daft, Edward transferred his hold to the male’s heavy chest and kept him back.

  Nigel cocked a brow at the two of them. “I did not make the rules, and I have no more wish to be disqualified than my opponent.”

  “Do you have . . .” Adrian choked on his own words and had to breathe deep to finish. “Do you have any idea what she’s doing to him. Right now. As we’re standing on your fucking lawn and dinner is waiting for you?”

  Nigel chose his words with care. The last thing he needed was the pair going vigilante. Anew. They’d already been through that mistake once, hadn’t they.

  “I know precisely what she is bringing to the table, so to speak. And I also know that Jim is very strong—which is the worst tragedy of all. Because she shall resort to tortures that . . .” There was no reason to go on: Adrian’s eyes carried the glassy look of someone reliving his own nightmare. “I would say unto you, however, that Devina cannot keep him for long or she risks a forfeit. Things are coming to a head, and if she prevents Jim from participating fully in the outcome, then there is no fair contest.”

  “What about Jim?” Adrian demanded, shoving himself free of his best mate. “What about his suffering. What about him!”

  Nigel glanced over at Colin, who was utterly silent. Then again, the expression on his gorgeous, familiar face said enough: His fury was so deep and wide, oceans would pale in comparison. He’d always hated Devina and this was not going to be of aid on that front.

  There were enough hotheads herein, however.

  Nigel shook his head with honest disappointment. “There is naught I may do. I am sorry. My hands are tied.”

  “You’re sorry. You’re fucking sorry.” Adrian spit on the ground. “Yeah, you look it, you cold bastard. You look really fucking torn up. Asshole.”

  With that, the angel dematerialized.

  “Shit,” Edward muttered.

  “A coarse but accurate word for it.” Nigel stared at the space Adrian had just filled. “ ’Tis early for him to be so battle-fatigued and fragile. This does not bode well.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  He glanced over at the angel. “Surely you must see the madness in him—”

  “FYI, big shot, not less than four days ago, Devina worked the guy over but good. And you think he’s going to be head-tight now that Jim’s being put through the same wringer? Are you serious?”

  “May I remind you that you swore to me he could handle this.” Nigel found himself leaning forward in confrontation. After all, he might have been the captain of this side, but that didn’t mean he was above fisticuffs. “You told me he could withstand the stress. You promised me and I believed you. And if you think it shall get easier as we proceed, then you are as crazy as he appears to be.”

  Edward raised his arm and drew back like he was going to throw a punch. “Fuck you, Nigel—”

  Colin was all over the angel in the blink of an eye, attacking from the right, tackling the male, restraining him facedown on the bright green grass.

  “You don’t hit him, mate,” Colin growled. “I know you’re pissed off, and you want to get Jim sorted, but I can’t let you pop Nigel. Not going to happen.”

  Nigel glanced back at the dining table. As Bertie and Byron looked over, he saw they were both sitting like worried birds, their bodies stretching up long, their arms down at their sides, their eyes wide. Tarquin had lain down on the ground and put his long-muzzled face under the tablecloth so he couldn’t see anything.

  The meal was beyond ruined. And not just because the show o’er here was a dramatic disaster to watch: indeed, Nigel wasn’t going to be able to stomach a thing. This match with Devina was heading in bad directions on so many levels . . . and he was paralyzed by the rules.

  “Let me up,” Edward grunted.

  Colin might have been a stone or two lighter in the fra
me than the other angel, but he had tensile strength beyond measure. “You’re going to be nice, mate. No more fists or you’ll get another bullocking.”

  “Fine.”

  The one word was not a capitulation of any sort, but Colin jumped free anyway—likely because he knew he could just subdue the male again if that was necessary.

  Edward brushed off the blades of green that stuck to his leather coat like tinsel. “Just because Jim can live through it, doesn’t mean it’s fair.”

  With that, he disappeared into thin air.

  Upon a vicious curse, Nigel regarded the disappearing imprint of Edward’s heavy body, the grass springing up, righting itself.

  “They have a point,” Colin said gruffly. “And that bitch is not playing fair.”

  “Jim volunteered himself to her.”

  “In a situation she engineered. It’s not right and you know it.”

  “Do you want us to run the risk of forfeiture?” He glanced over. “Do you want to lose because of that?”

  Colin clapped the grass off his palms. “Bloody hell. Fucking bloody hell.”

  Nigel looked back down at the fading body mark on his lawn. “My sentiments precisely.”

  CHAPTER 31

  The wine cellar was not a place Grier went very often. First of all, the twenty-dollar bottles of chard she poured in her glasses at night were hardly worth the trip up and down the stairs. Second, with its bank-vault door, low ceiling, and shelving that ran all around the walls, she’d always felt like it was a prison.

  And what do you know . . . as her father shut the three of them into the tight confines, Isaac’s heft dwarfed the place down to the size of a Kleenex box, and she felt like she couldn’t breathe.