Crave fa-2

by J. R. Ward

  Glancing over her shoulder, she stared at her father, tracing the handsome lines of his face. In the awkward silence of the armored house, it dawned on her how alone they both were. For their sake, they really needed to get back to being family from this place of being foreigners.

  “Why don’t I make us both some dinner.”

  Her father’s eyes watered a little and he cleared his throat. “That would be lovely. I’ll just take this up to your room.”

  “Thank you.”

  As he passed by, her father reached out and touched her arm, squeezing it ever so slightly—which was his version of a hug. And she accepted the gesture by placing her palm over his hand. Just as they had always done.

  After he went up the front stairs, she headed to the kitchen feeling shaky and off her game . . . but she was up on her feet and moving forward.

  Which, at the end of the day, was all you got, wasn’t it.

  There was just one thing missing . . . and she paused to look over her shoulder again. Then she strode into the kitchen and checked the table in the alcove . . . and the long stretch of counter where the cooktop was . . . and the foot of the back stairs . . .

  “Daniel?” she hissed. “Where are you?”

  Maybe he didn’t want to be in their father’s house. But if he could show up at the Four Seasons for a charity benefit and then at an underground fighting ring, he could damn well drag his ass here.

  “I need you,” she said. “I need to see you. . . .”

  She waited. Called his name quietly a couple more times. But it appeared as if only the double ovens and the refrigerator were listening to her.

  Oh, for God’s sake, she knew her brother had always despised conflict—and that their father had made him jumpy. But no one had ever seen him except her, so clearly he could pick who he showed himself to.

  “Daniel.”

  In a moment of panic, she wondered if he was never coming back. Had there been a good-bye on his part that she hadn’t caught?

  Again, no response from the appliances.

  Figuring she’d have more luck putting them to work, she went over to the icebox and cracked the door, wondering what the hell she could whip up for her and her father.

  One thing was for sure: dinner wasn’t going to include omelets.

  It was going to be a while before she made an omelet again.

  As darkness settled in, the headlights of Matthias’s unmarked swept over the road ahead. There were other cars traveling along the same asphalt as his, other people behind those wheels, other plans in other heads.

  All of it was irrelevant to him, with no more significance than a movie playing on a screen.

  No more depth, either.

  He had issues. Bad issues. The kind that tied his brain in knots and made that pain he’d been having on his left side fire up to the point that he struggled to keep conscious.

  Shit . . . Jim Heron knew way too much about what should have been private thoughts and private knowledge. It was as if the man had tuned in to Matthias’s inner radio station and heard all his songs and jingles and traffic reports.

  And the fucker was right. Matthias’s second in command had only truly distinguished himself after Matthias’s little “accident” in the desert: In the last two years, that operative had made himself indispensible and, looking over the assignments and situations Matthias had dealt with, the guy had gradually influenced Matthias’s decisions until he was all but making them himself.

  It had been so subtle. Like someone slowly turning the flame up under a pot of water. His second in command had been the one to change his mind about letting Jim Heron go. And the man had been driving Matthias to kill Isaac. And there had been a hundred more examples—many of which he’d acted on.

  He hadn’t even noticed it happening.

  God, it had started with killing Alistair Childe’s son. That had been the first of the bright ideas.

  Of course, the logic had been unassailable and Matthias hadn’t hesitated to pull the trigger. But when he’d watched the footage of the death, the captain’s weeping had touched him. Opened up a door he hadn’t even known had been in his hallway.

  Matthias had turned the video off and gone to bed. And the next morning he’d woken up and decided enough was enough. Time to leave the party he had started all those years ago—let the guests take over his house and burn it down, fine. But he was done.

  Straw. Camel’s back.

  Focusing on his hands on the car wheel, he realized someone else had been driving him, steering him, dictating his exit ramps and his directional signals. How had it happened?

  And why the fuck did Jim Heron know?

  As his mind went laundry machine on him and started another spin cycle on the past, he decided all that mental wash and rinse wasn’t material. Not tonight. Not on this road. What mattered was not how he’d gotten behind this wheel and found himself on the way to Boston. What mattered was what he did when he got there.

  Crossroads was right. He felt it in his bones—the same way he had when he’d prepared that bomb years ago.

  The question was, What now? Believe what Jim Heron had said. Or follow through on the anger impulse that was driving him east.

  Which destination did he go to.

  As he ruminated, it sure as fuck felt like he was choosing between Heaven and Hell.

  CHAPTER 46

  As Adrian watched over a gray clapboard gentleman’s estate from a stand of oaks, he was beginning to feel like a fucking tree himself. Except for that skirmish back in town the night before, he’d spent waaaaaay too much time waiting in the wings over the last two days.

  He’d never been a big bencher to begin with, but on a night like tonight, when the action was in town and he and Eddie were stuck out in the sticks babysitting for a couple of grown-ups, he got really damn twitchy. Especially given that the pair he and his buddy were in charge of were locked into a house that made Fort Knox look like a Porta-Potti in the sturdiness department.

  Fucking hell. He couldn’t believe they had been going after the wrong soul.

  All their conclusions had seemed sound, but in fact, the shit was like an algebra equation that had gone awry: looked great on paper, but the answer was incorrect.

  And what a squeaker this one had been. It gave him a case of the cold sweats to think they had been so close but so far away at the end of a match.

  But the near-miss wasn’t the only thing making his balls tight in a bad way. The other half of it was where Jim was at in his aftermath routine: in spite of what Devina had done to him, the guy was making like he was all tight in the membrane . . . and yeah, fine, maybe that was the case right now. Hell, the fact that everything with Isaac and Matthias was coming to a head tonight was probably a good thing, because it gave Jim something to focus on. The only trouble was, as Adrian knew firsthand, this crisis was going to pass and then the guy would be facing a lot of long, quiet hours by himself with nothing but those ugly memories pinging around his skull like stray bullets.

  The hardest thing, at least in Ad’s opinion, was knowing that it was going to happen again. When the situation called for it, Adrian would go back down there to Devina’s Playgirl Mausoleum . . . and so would Jim. Because that was the kind of men they were. And that was the kind of bitch she was.

  Next to him, Eddie smothered another sneeze.

  “God bless you.”

  “Fucking lilacs. I’m the only immortal with allergies. I swear.”

  As the guy glared at the blooming whatever next to his head, Adrian took a deep breath thinking at least his best friend didn’t have to go through hell down on that table. Then again, he’d been marked by that demon, which was hardly a lifetime pass to Disneyland.

  Ten minutes, three more sneezes, and a whole lot of nothing else later, Adrian took out his cell phone and dialed up Jim. The guy answered on the second ring.

  “Tell me,” he barked.

  “Nada. We’ve been out here in the lilacs—I guess they�
��re called—staring at Grier eating with her dad. Looks like a pair of pork chops.” The exhale that came across the connection was pure frustration. “Nothing on your end, either, I take it.”

  Man, sometimes bad action was better than this stalled-out, thumb-twiddling shit.

  Jim cursed. “I spoke with Matthias about an hour ago, but I have no idea where he was. Definitely in transit, however.”

  “I think we should come back in.” Adrian frowned and leaned forward in his boots. Inside the rustic kitchen, Grier got up, snagged some dishes out of a cupboard and lifted the glass cover off a cake plate. Looked like a whole lot of chocolate. With white icing.

  Fuck it. Maybe they should stay a little longer. Invite themselves in for dessert.

  “You hang tight,” Jim said. “But maybe I do need to come out there. I’d prefer to keep the showdown well away from the Childes, except I’m not sure Grier won’t be the target. At this point, I don’t know what Matthias is thinking—I could only get so far with him on the phone before he cut me off.”

  “Look, all I know is that we want to be where the party is.” As Eddie sneezed again, Ad amended that in his head to include where the antihistamines were. “And listen, I’ve walked around this house. It’s secure as a motherfucker. Matthias is the soul in play so wherever he is will be where the action goes down—and he’s coming for Isaac.”

  There was a beat of silence. And then Jim said, “Grier’s an innocent soul, though, and an excellent way for Matthias to get revenge—maybe she’s the one he’s supposed to take out. We just don’t fucking know. Which is why I want to give it some more time . . . and then maybe we’ll trade places.”

  “Fine. Wherever you want us, we’ll go,” Ad heard himself say before hanging up.

  Check him out, being all good-little-soldier and shit. And didn’t that just suck ass.

  “We’re staying put,” he groused. “For now.”

  “Hard to know where to position.”

  “We need more fighters.”

  “If Isaac lives . . . we could turn him. He’s got the stuff.”

  Adrian glanced over. “Nigel would never give his permission for that.” Pause. “Would he?”

  “I think he’d dislike losing more, I’ll tell you that.”

  Adrian resumed watching Grier cut two slices and plate them up. He got the impression by the way her lips were moving that she and her father were talking pretty steadily, and he was glad. He didn’t know what having a dad was like, but he’d been on the Earth long enough to know that a good one was a great thing.

  He cursed as Grier headed for the freezer. “Oh, man. Ice cream, too?”

  “How you can have an appetite at a time like this astounds me.”

  Adrian took a little bow. “I am amazing.”

  “‘Freak’ is also a word.”

  On that note, Ad pulled some “Super Freak” out of his vocal cords, doing a fantastic Rick James impression. In the lilac bushes. In . . . where the hell were they? Roosevelt, Massachusetts? Or was it Adams?

  Washington?

  “By all that is holy,” Eddie muttered as he covered his ears, “stop—”

  “—in the name of loooooove.” Putting his hand out, Ad switched it up and Diana Ross-ed it, shaking his ass. “Be . . . fore. . . . you . . . breaaaaak . . . my—”

  Eddie’s soft chuckle was what he’d been gunning for, and as soon as he got one, he shut up.

  As things grew quiet again, he thought about good old Isaac Rothe. That hardheaded, strong-backed motherfucker might be an excellent addition to the team.

  Of course, he’d have to die first.

  Or be killed.

  Either of which, given how shit was going, could be arranged tonight.

  In the farmhouse’s kitchen, Grier sat across from her father at a table made of boards taken from an old barn. Between them, there were two small white plates marked up with smudges of chocolate and dessert forks down for a rest at steep angles.

  Over the course of the meal, they had spoken of nothing important, just everyday things about work and his garden and her ongoing cases in the penal system. The conversation was so normal . . . perhaps deceptively so, but she’d take what they had under the fake-it-till-you-make-it rule.

  “Another piece?” she asked, nodding over at the cake stand on the counter.

  “No, thank you.” Her father dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “I shouldn’t have had the first.”

  “You look as if you’ve lost weight. I think you should—”

  “I lied about Daniel to keep you safe,” he blurted, as if the pressure of holding back had built to an unsustainable level.

  She blinked a couple of times. Then reached out and played with her fork, drawing little Xs and Os through the frosting she hadn’t eaten, her stomach flip-flopping around the dinner she’d just had.

  “I believe you,” she said eventually. “It hurts like hell, though. It’s like he’s just died again.”

  “I’m so sorry. I can’t say that enough.”

  Her eyes lifted up to his. “It’s going to be okay, though. I just need some time. You and I . . . we’re all we’ve got left, you know?”

  “I know. And that’s my fault—”

  From out of nowhere light blazed in through the windows, illuminating the alcove and the two of them in a burst of brightness.

  Chairs screeched as she and her father burst up and dove for cover behind the solid wall of the den.

  Outside on the front lawn, the motion-activated security lights had come on and a man was walking over the cropped grass toward the house. Behind him, in the shadows, a car that she didn’t recognize was parked on the gravel drive.

  Whoever it was must have come in without headlights on. And if it were Jim or Isaac or those two men, someone would have called.

  “Take this,” her father hissed, pressing something heavy and metal into her hand.

  A gun.

  She accepted the weapon without hesitation and followed him to the front door—which was where their unnounced “guest” appeared to be heading. Where was the sense in that, though? You snuck down the drive without your lights on, but then marched right up to the—

  “Oh, thank God,” her father muttered.

  Grier relaxed as well as she recognized who it was. In the security lights, Jim Heron’s big body and hard face were as clear as day, and the fact that he’d ghosted down the lane made sense.

  Her first thought was for Isaac, and she searched the pool of illumination for him as her father disarmed the system and opened the door. He wasn’t with Jim, though.

  Oh, dear Lord . . .

  “Everyone’s okay,” Jim called out across the lawn, as if he’d read her mind. “It’s all done.”

  The relief was so great she excused herself briefly, ducking into the kitchen, putting the gun down, and bracing her arms on the table. From the other room, she heard the deep voices of her father and Heron, but she doubted she would have tracked the conversation if she’d been standing next to them. Isaac was all right. He was okay. He was all right. . . .

  It was over. Done with. And now, just as Isaac would be taking off in relative freedom, she could try to move on as well.

  Man, she needed a vacation.

  Somewhere frivolous and warm, she decided as she went over and picked up the dessert plates. Somewhere with palm trees. Mai tais and umbrellas. Beach. Pool—

  Tick . . . tick . . . whir . . .

  Grier frowned and slowly looked across her shoulder.

  Over by the refrigerator, the back door’s dead bolt was shifting from right to left at the same time the old-fashioned latch lifted up.

  The voices out in the living room went suddenly silent.

  Too silent.

  This was wrong. All wrong—

  She dropped the plates and lunged for the gun she’d left on the counter—

  Grier didn’t make it. Something bit into her shoulder blade, and then an electrical charge slammed th
rough her body, throwing her into a backward arch that knocked her off her feet and took her down hard onto the floor.

  CHAPTER 47

  Back in Beacon Hill, Isaac walked up the town house’s front stairs, paused at the second-floor landing and then kept going to Grier’s bedroom. In her private space, he paced around the bed, and felt like he was losing his ever-loving mind.

  He checked her alarm clock. Walked to the French doors. Looked out onto the terrace.

  Nothing moved outside, and there was no one else in the house but him and Jim.

  Time was passing, but nobody was showing, and no matter how many times he went down to Jim and then came back upstairs again, he wasn’t able to jump-start the next sequence of events.

  It was like a director with no bullhorn and a cast and crew who didn’t give a shit what he had to say.

  The inescapable fear that drove him was that they were in the wrong place. That he and Jim were cooling their heels out here while the action was happening elsewhere. Like Grier’s father’s farmhouse.

  On a vicious curse, he headed back for the staircase and jogged downward, expecting nothing else along the way or at the bottom other than a short pause in the kitchen and another trip up.

  Except . . .

  When he came to the landing, the front door down below creaked as if it were being opened. Palming his guns, he was ready to pounce—until he heard Jim’s annoyed voice rising up.

  “What are you doing here?” Heron demanded.

  “You texted us.”

  Isaac frowned at the sound of the pierced man’s voice.

  “No, I did not.”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  At that moment, the Life Alert went off with a subtle shimmy in Isaac’s pocket.

  All instincts firing, he ducked quietly into the guest-room he’d stayed in. Holding the transmitter in his palm, he activated the device, and this time there was no delay in response.

  Matthias answered right away. “I have your girl at her dear old dad’s place. Get out here. You have a half hour.”

  “If you hurt her—”