by J. R. Ward
But she continued to have the head spins over the thing from time to time.
The second she got in her SUV, she cranked the rearview mirror down and fluffed her goldie locks. What good timing, she thought—considering that for the first time in God only knew how long, she was meeting a friend after hours.
Starting her engine, she pulled out onto the empty road and retraced her route away from the wealthy enclave. Her “date” was actually her old college roommate—
As the past began to bubble up, she turned on NPR to cut the quiet, and hit the brakes at a red light. Leaning in, she couldn’t resist glancing into the rearview again—
“Oh, crap …”
Cait turned her head to the opposite side, even though that was silly. But at least she hadn’t lost both her earrings.
The thing had probably come out in the dressing room. Her sweater had a tight neck, and those little gold shells had iffy backings. As the light turned green, she hit the gas and told herself to just leave it—
That didn’t last long.
The earrings were solid fourteen-karat, but more than that, she’d bought them on her one Bahaman vacation right after graduation.
Wrenching the wheel left, she executed an illegal turn and headed back to reclaim what was hers.
As Adrian manifested himself in Heaven, he hummed that Eric Clapton song—in tune, because there was no one around to annoy with his fake tone-deaf routine.
“… would you know my name…”
The lawn was a bright spring green, and the sky as brilliant and resonant a blue as a cathedral’s stained glass. To the left, the protective walls of the Manse of Souls stood sturdy and tall as a mountain range, the drawbridge down over a moat that shimmered in sunlight that had no obvious source.
Up on the parapet at the top of the wall, only two victory flags waved in a lazy way—one colorful banner was missing.
What the hell was Jim thinking?
Adrian kept walking. Off to the right, next to a croquet setup, there was a table set for tea, four chairs surrounding all kinds of damask and porcelain and silver. No one was sitting at it. In fact, as he looked around, he got the distinct impression he was alone.
Made no sense—Colin had summoned him here, so the archangel had to be—
The whistle was high-pitched and distant, floating across the landscape to his ear. Pivoting around, he looked toward the river, and then started marching over in the uneven gait he was still adjusting to. Funny, he hadn’t noticed before how much grass there really was—but with his bum leg, he’d been learning new things about what distance really meant.
The archangel Colin was down at the tree line, by the old-fashioned British campaign tent that was his private quarters. Standing in the stream that wound around his little slice of Heaven, he was buck-ass naked, the rushing water teeming up to his hips.
“Moving a bit slower now, mate?” the guy said as Ad got in range.
Whatever—his gimp routine was not the reason he’d come. “We have a big fucking problem.”
Typically, Colin was good for a wisecrack or two—not tonight, evidently. The archangel emerged from the river, his powerful body glistening, his strong legs leading him over to where he’d hung his white towel on a tree branch.
“How bad is it down there?” he asked as he covered up.
Ad grunted while he lowered himself onto a rock, its warm face feeling good on his sorry ass. “So you know where Nigel is.”
“But of course.”
“Then you also know why I’m not going to waste time here.” Ad held up his palms to cut the oh-no-I-couldn’t-possibly’s. “Jim’s just taken a left-hand turn off the road and into the weeds. No one down there is in the game—except for Devina, and you know what? If Jim’s distracted now? That ain’t nothin’ compared to what’ll happen if the demon gives him that girl.”
Colin’s response was just a shake of the head. And that was so not good enough.
Ad cursed. “Seriously. Before we lose this whole goddamn thing, you need to step up. I already know I can’t go to Nigel about anything—he and I are oil and water and then some.”
Colin pushed his dark wet hair out of his harsh face. “I had hoped…”
When that was as far as the guy got, Ad shrugged. “Hoped what? That Jim slipped in the shower and hit his head hard enough to wake the fuck up? Hell, if there was any chance of that, I’d cock him upside with a two-by-four myself. But let’s not kid ourselves. The savior’s no longer in this game, and I don’t think he’s coming back—even if Nigel threatens to rip him a new one.”
Colin curled his hands into fists, like he wanted to do a little swinging himself. “Jim is the sine qua non. There is nothing we can do to turn him over, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“Like I want the job?” Ad laughed harshly. “Are you fucking me.”
“That is not why you came?”
“I want to win. That’s the only reason I’m here.”
Colin lifted an aristocratic brow. “You are actually engaged in the war. Quite a shift for you, is it not.”
“We can’t lose this.”
“Because of Eddie?” When he didn’t reply, the archangel frowned. “One need not apologize for loyalty to the dead, and in truth, if it makes you focus, I shan’t complain.”
“Give me the name of the soul. That’s all I need.”
Colin didn’t seem surprised, but then again, he wasn’t an idiot. Unfortunately, he also wasn’t prepared to break the rules: “You know I can’t do that.”
“We’ll keep it between the two of us.”
“Don’t be daft. And no, it’s not Nigel I’m concerned with. I have some sway over him. It’s the Maker, dear boy.”
“Then get down to Earth and intercede with the soul yourself. Jim isn’t going to—and this obsession he’s got going on is gonna kill us all. Who the fuck gives a win away?”
“Were you unaware of his intentions with the flag?”
“Of course I wasn’t! I’d have done something to stop him—my buddy’s soul is on the line.”
“I’d wondered.”
Colin plugged his palms into his waist and walked around, his bare feet leaving a pattern in the silt by the river’s edge.
“Tell me who it is,” Ad prompted, “and I’ll take care of it.”
“You cannot intercede, any more than I’m allowed to.”
“Okay, fine, give me the soul and I’ll figure out a way to put Heron in front of him.”
The old Adrian would have push-push-pushed into the silence, but the logic was sound, and spoke for itself—and Colin was the rational one in the group. Always had been.
“I can’t get involved,” Colin said under his breath.
“Then let me.”
“That isn’t done either, I’m afraid.”
Great. “So what’s our goddamn option? Sit around and watch Jim blow this whole cocksucking thing?”
When nothing but silence came back to him, he began to get really worried. “Colin, you gotta help us. Not to go Star Wars on your ass, but you’re our only hope.”
“Star Wars?”
“Forget about it. Just … fucking do something, would you?”
The archangel was silent for a very long time. “I can’t take you all the way.”
“You don’t have to. Point me in the right direction—that’s the only thing I need. But know this. You boys up here keep doing the hands-off shit? We’re going to lose this. I’ll put what’s left of my balls on it.”
Chapter
Four
Alex Hess’s office at the Iron Mask was just like the woman herself—stripped down to its most functional components, with a lot of hard corners. As Duke waited for his knock to be answered, he jacked up his jeans.
The door opened inward, and the guy on the other side was the only thing Duke would ever take a step back for: Alex’s husband was tall as a basketball player, built like a boxer, and had the kind of physical confidence only traine
d killers had.
Mortal combat wasn’t just a video game to him.
As they passed, Duke nodded, and John Matthew, as he was called, did the same—and that was the extent of it. No one had ever heard the SOB say a word, but by the same token, anyone built like that didn’t have to talk.
“Sorry to bug you,” Duke said as Alex sat down in the chair behind her desk. Her eyes were on the departing hubs, lingering at a level that suggested she was checking out his ass. “Where do you want me? Can’t find Big Rob.”
“Out front.”
That was where they usually put him, although God only knew why. He was more barbed wire than velvet rope.
“Any special instructions?”
Now she looked at him, that dark gray stare narrowing. “Nope. Just do you.”
Lucky him. That was the only thing in his repertoire.
Striding back out into the hall, he pushed through the staff-only door into the club proper, and on the far side, the Goth clientele was a total snore for him. He’d long ago lost interest in women who wanted people to be interested in them: After so many push-up bras, bustiers, and sprayed-on leather pants, the ready-for-anythings formed a composite identity that just spelled desperate and easy.
They liked him, though, their eyes locking onto him like Alex’s had to her man—and wasn’t that the eternal conundrum of sex: Chicks who needed attention only got hot and bothered over men who didn’t notice them. The good news, he supposed, was that when he did want sex, there were always volunteers.
Outside, he took position next to a guy named Ivan who was built like an SUV, and faced off at the line that had already formed. The rule was two of them at all times—because you never knew what could—
“… fucked my sister! You did! You fucked my sister, you cocksucker!”
Exactly.
“I got this,” Duke said, breaking rank and striding down all the antsy, stamping, pre-drunk, ante-stoned, chilled-to-the-bone people.
“… did not fuck her! I let her blow me—”
Crack!
Apparently the brother didn’t appreciate the fine line between a suck off and coitus.
And then it was a case of cue the hysterics. The woman in question, a lovely little beaut with Marilyn Manson features, mime makeup, and your friendly neighborhood stripper’s version of a wardrobe, got right in between the men.
“Danny, listen to me! I—”
Before Duke could reach them, the pair of men locked onto each other—and the sister got shoved right into the road, her high-heeled boots failing to find purchase on the sidewalk, the curb, then the payment.
Duke let her go. One of two things was going to happen—she was going to land on her ass and rip that skirt, or she was going to get mowed down by a car. In either event, it was off club property, and not his business.
What was part of his job was the fact that her boyfriend or fuck buddy or whatever he was to her was all about the payback—so what you now had were two guys in New Rocks shoving each other in a china shop of other people who were jonesing for their fix of drugs, alcohol, or sex.
And therefore likely to hit back.
Given that humans one-on-one were dumb enough, but in a group they could be truly stupid, he knew he had to take control. Jumping in between the two, he strong-armed both at the collarbone.
Before he could start his speech about pulling their shit together, the four men behind the fight decided to get involved.
Fists flew around him, one of them clipping him in the head.
No more talking.
Duke dominated the situation, grabbing lapels and throwing men bodily onto the concrete, elbowing others in the chest, coldcocking whoever tried to step to him. The entire time, as hands latched onto him and he ducked punches and dodged a knife, he was utterly calm, totally detached.
He honestly didn’t care whether he got arrested for violence, or stabbed, or shot. And he didn’t give a damn whether he did permanent damage to the people he was submitting—or whether that chick got turned into a hood ornament or not.
“Nah, let him go,” he heard Big Rob say over the din. “He needs the exercise.”
The sound of flapping clothes and the grunted curses from the crowd he was controlling cut through the night as the line tried to re-form around the drama and all kinds of cell phones broke out. Fortunately, the club’s front entrance was not well lit, and this was going to be over soon.
Which it was.
There weren’t a lot of MMA fighters waiting to get in line to hang out at the Iron Mask, so the men who had volunteered for a beat-down didn’t have a lot of staying power. One punch was usually enough to wipe their slate clean—which was a pity. He enjoyed hitting them, feeling his knuckles connect with flesh, watching them go down or trip over their own feet.
He was not interested in being on the news, however.
Wrapping things up, he went over to the two primary aggressors, who had parked it at the curb and were in recovery mode, grimacing as they rubbed their jaws, their heads, their shoulders. The sister in high-heeled boots had tottered back into their orbit, her mascara-stained face and crazy hair pretty much the way they had been before the argument over familial relations had broken out.
Both men gave Duke the hairy eyeball as he loomed over them.
In a quiet voice, he said, “Don’t stand in my line again. Or I’ll follow you home. Clear?”
“You can’t threaten us!” the lady of the hour hollered, going all stampity-stamp-stamp with her size sixes. “We have rights.”
Duke leaned in, putting his face into hers. “You won’t know I’m there. You won’t see or hear a thing. But I’ll come after you—you can bet your life on it. And know this—I like scaring people. It’s fun for me.”
Whether it was his dead eyes, or the hiss in his voice, or the words he spoke, she went quiet. And moved closer to the man who she’d put her knee pads on for.
Duke looked down at the two dummies, giving them a chance to speak up if they were so inclined. Total silence. And then the pair of them stood up and escorted the girl away.
Turning back to the club, he found that the line had reestablished itself and was back to inching its way inside. Keeping his head down, so that any pictures wouldn’t show him clearly, he regained his post.
“Shit, man,” Ivan said. “You’re not even breathing heavy.”
Duke just shrugged. When you worked road crews for a living, shoveling hot asphalt in the summer and road salt in the winter, your heart was quickly turned into an efficient machine, its atria and ventricles, its myocardium, its three hundred or so grams, pumping with total coordination to supply oxygenated blood to the body.
No big deal. Just an issue of training.
The real miracle was that he was somehow able to live without one. Oh, he had that hollow muscle posterior to his sternum, sure. But in the metaphysical sense? He’d lost his heart years ago—and he wouldn’t change a thing about that.
Nope.
Duke lifted his arm to check the time— “Fuck.”
“What’s up?”
“I lost my fucking watch.” He leaned out and looked down the sidewalk to where the fight had taken place. Naturally, there was nothing on the ground that appeared even vaguely metallic.
Then again, if that clasp had broken, and the thing had slipped off his wrist and been seen by any one of the, oh, say, hundred or so kibitzers? It would’ve been snatched. Vintage Rolexes were desirable, even to morons.
It was the only nice thing he owned, a relic from the past.
Had owned, that was.
Whatever. He’d lost more than that along the way, and he was still upright and walking.
“I gotta leave a little before ten,” he told Ivan. “But I’ll flipside in thirty minutes.”
“That’s what Big Rob said. I think he’s going to cover.”
“Cool.”
Back at the hair salon, Cait knocked on the glass door and leaned in, trying to tea-leaf whether
Pablo was still inside. The lights had been dimmed, which was not a good sign, but come on, it had taken her less than five minutes to—
The stylist walked out from the rear, in the process of pulling a black jacket on. “Vev closed,” he called out.
“I know,” she shouted back, her breath condensing on the glass. “I lost my earring? I just want to check the dressing room floor?”
She tugged at her earlobe, like that would help in translation.
Pablo was a little huffy as he unlocked things and let her in. “Lovt und fond behd desk?”
“I think it’s probably in there.” She pointed to the hallway.
“Wen yoo in here?”
Cait frowned. “I’m sorry?”
He waved his hand with impatience. “Yoo go thur. I get out box.”
Wow, she thought as he turned away. Maybe he had short-term amnesia from all the peroxide in the hair color? Too much aerosol from the sprays? Mousse-induced dementia?
Cait went back to where she’d done her disrobing and got down on her knees, patting under the built-in bench, looking around on the carpet. She even pulled her sweater out at the neck to see if the shell had gotten stuck in the weave.
“Damn it…”
Heading back out, she went over to Pablo, who was clearly tapping his boots to go home. The “lovt und fond” was in fact a Stuart Weitzman shoe box, and in it there were two pairs of sunglasses, a stringy scarf, a couple of chunky, fake-gold necklaces, and…
A hoop earring that was big enough to double as a choker.
No dainty seashells. But she hadn’t really expected it to be there—Pablo didn’t seem like the type to rock a vacuum around his business before he left for the night.
“Okay, thanks,” she said. “It’s a little seashell, a gold shell?”
“Do ve haf number for oo?”
“Ah … your assistant called it yesterday to confirm my appointment with you?”
