Possession fa-5

by J. R. Ward

  From the other side, the response was something along the lines of, “What do you think this is, a Rocky movie?”

  “I need you to do something for me.”

  “I gotta leave.”

  “You’re kidding me.” He should have known better than to think Adrian’s departure had been about the polite. “And where the hell are you going?”

  The door opened. Adrian was fully dressed, with wet hair. “I gotta go.”

  Jim took the guy’s arm in a strong grip. “Where.”

  Ad narrowed his eyes. “While you’re with your girlfriend down there? Worrying about her? I’m taking care of business. And that’s all you need to know—unless you’re planning on getting back in the game?”

  “Oh come on, that’s bullshit.”

  “Is it. Really.” Adrian ripped free and limped in the direction of his room. “I’m thinking it’s not.”

  “So where are we?” Jim demanded as he followed the guy into his private space. “What’s going on?”

  Adrian just shook his head as he went over to his bureau and shrugged into a holster. “You ready to play ball? Because, again, until you are, there’s no point in wasting my breath, is there.”

  With a curse, Jim thought of Sissy, sitting in that kitchen, relying on him to be the compass in her fucked-up world. She had no one else. “Look, I just need to get her up and rolling. This has been a shocker, okay—”

  Adrian wheeled around as he popped a forty in under his arm. “Fuck you, Jim. I’ve lost my best friend, and some other pretty heavy shit. Permanently. So first off, do not tell me what’s shocking to her, and second? Excuse me if I’m not real impressed by your caretaking side. You want to masturbate to the Hallmark Channel—knock yourself out. But then don’t question me about where I go or what I do to keep things on track—or make like I owe you an operational update. Ain’t going to happen.”

  Jim dragged a hand through his hair. “One day, Adrian. Gimme one day.”

  “So you can do what? Get mani-pedis together and go to the mall? Fuck that—”

  “I just need one day, and then I’m back. I promise.”

  The other angel cursed under his breath as he picked up his crystal dagger and tucked it into the small of his back.

  “You have my word on it,” Jim said roughly. “I’ll be a hundred percent all in. I just need you to do something for me in the meantime—”

  “Annnnnd the sonofabitch wants something. How perfect—”

  “Adrian. Please.”

  Ad looked around like he was hoping to find some sanity somewhere. Finally, he muttered, “What do you need me to do?”

  When Jim finished the ask, Adrian just stared at him.

  After a long, tense moment, the angel said, “You owe me. We clear? I do this for you, you owe me.”

  Jim stuck out his palm. “On my honor.”

  Chapter

  Twenty-four

  It was harder to go back into the parking garage than she’d thought.

  As Cait entered the facility and took her pink ticket, the gate rose and … that was about it. Her foot refused to leave the brakes and her SUV stayed right where it was, as if her Lexus were afraid of what was up there, too.

  The flashbacks were intense enough to have her release the steering wheel and grip her thighs, her body bracing itself even though her doors were locked and it was daylight and there was no way whoever or whatever it had been was still—

  Beep!

  Her eyes shot to the rearview mirror. Behind her, a woman in a minivan was looking as stressed as anybody who no doubt had a carload of kids, too many appointments, and no privacy in the bathroom would be.

  Cait hit the gas and began the ascent, giving herself all kinds of pep talk. But as she got closer and closer to the top floor, her body was flooded with no. Which was really pretty crazy. Again, it was broad daylight, and people were all over the place, getting in and out of cars. No isolation, no darkness.

  “Nope. Not doing this.”

  Wrenching the wheel to the side, she rerouted, heading for the exit arrows that would ultimately take her down instead of up.

  She had to use all her self-control to keep from punching the accelerator and going all Jeff Gordon on the escape.

  At the bottom, she presented her ticket to the woman in the kiosk and began to explain to her adrenal gland that she was about to get out of here. Really. Like, for sure—

  “Wait a minute,” the ticket taker said. “Did you just come in? Or am I getting another misread?”

  “I, ah—I forgot my phone. Have to go home.”

  The woman batted the air in front of her. “Oh, honey, I know all about that. You go through. There’s a minimum of an hour, but we’ll just pretend you were never here.”

  Amen to that. “Thank you so much. It means … a lot.”

  The ticket taker beamed like doing a good deed had made her day.

  And didn’t that make Cait feel like crap about lying—but was she really going to explain why she was panicking?

  And what do you know, it looked like God Himself approved of her decision to leave her car on the street—twenty yards past the garage entrance, there was a vacant metered space. Backing the Lexus in, she grabbed her purse and checked her new hair in the mirror.

  Wow. Even after a two-hour painting class and a breezy, slightly humid day? The stuff was hanging like a champ, the color glowing, the layers bringing out the natural curl.

  As scrambled as she was inside, it seemed bizarre that her image was so collected.

  Getting out, she locked up and found—bonus—that there were twenty-three minutes left on the meter—so she only had to put one dollar and seventy-five cents on her credit card.

  “Once more with feeling,” she said as she walked toward the Palace Theatre’s sign.

  As she went along, she fussed with her yoga pants and her loose J.Crew barn coat. Chances were good G.B. would be in something casual, right? No way they would make him practice in a tuxedo.

  Crossing over that mosaic stretch in the pavement, she opened the door to the foyer. The first thing she smelled was floor cleaner, and over in the corner, there was a polisher plugged into an outlet, standing at attention as if ready to be called back into service.

  “Careful,” a man in a navy blue uniform said as he came out of the lobby. “Just finished waxing it.”

  “Thanks.” She hiked up her purse on her shoulder. “Hey, I’m sorry to bother you. But I’m supposed to be meeting someone here? I’m a little late—”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Cait turned. It was the receptionist from the night before, the one from the glass office who’d lost it all over G.B. Dressed in something short and tight, she was propping open the door of that staff-only corridor next to will-call—and the good news was, she didn’t appear to be as angry as she had been, but she wasn’t any sort of Suzy Sunshine, either.

  Matter of fact, that expression of haughtiness and superiority rubbed Cait like barbed wire.

  “Follow me,” the woman said in a bored voice.

  You know, you had to wonder why people did jobs they hated, Cait thought as she headed across the slippery floor.

  Although in this economy, you took what you got, she supposed as she stepped through into the corridor.

  “He’s very busy, you know,” the receptionist announced as she strode off like something was on fire down the hall. “G.B. is a very busy guy.”

  Then why did he ask me to come, Cait thought dryly. “I can imagine.”

  “He’s the most talented one here. But then, he works so hard.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  By this time, they were already passing by the glass office, the receptionist’s high heels making like a snare drum—to the point where you had to wonder how she stayed upright.

  Thank God for flats. And the gym.

  As they went deeper and deeper into the theater complex, things began to clutter the hallway, a controlled chaos of props, stray chairs, and
lighting equipment taking up space as the corridor widened. Double doors began to crop up with signs like REHEARSAL I and MUSIC III mounted over them, and then a fleet of bulletin boards appeared, one every ten feet or so, their faces covered with schedules, notices, ads for take-out places.

  Suddenly, the receptionist with the attitude disorder stopped short with no notice. As she pivoted on her stillies, she smiled with enough condescension to strip paint off a car door. “You can’t go any farther—they’re doing a read-through onstage. But I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  As she sauntered off, her chin was up, her body moving with a sinuous strut—like she was used to being stared at.

  “Wow,” Cait muttered as she leaned in and checked out the nearest bulletin board. “I can so see why they hired that for reception.”

  But at least how the woman behaved was her own issue. And with any luck, Cait would never have to see her again.

  Lifting a production schedule out of the way, she eyed a flyer for a Chinese place, and then a B.C. comic strip that made her smile, and … a couple of business cards from a psychic down on Trade Street.

  For no good reason, she thought of the vibe from the night before as she’d run for that elevator.

  Funny, there had been two times in her life when she’d been as afraid as that. One had been a couple of summers ago, when she’d been waterskiing on Saratoga Lake and had gone outside the boat wake just as they were heading into a turn. Momentum being what it was, she had shot forward, her speed overtaking her skill in the work of a moment. When she’d lost her balance, the initial impact had been so violent, it had felt as though she’d crashed into pavement—and then things had gotten nasty. The skis had popped off her feet in a messy fashion, twisting her ankles, wrenching her in midair as she had bounced like a skipping stone across the water’s surface.

  The PFD had kept her from sinking when things had eventually slowed down, but she’d ended up facedown in the water. Stunned, in pain, unable to coordinate her arms or legs, she had opened her mouth for air and gotten nothing of the sort.

  A friend had dived in at just that second and rolled her over in the nick of time.

  The terror had come that night. Lying in a bed at that stuffy cabin she and Teresa had rented for the week, she had passed out from pain meds, discomfort, and exhaustion—only to wake up screaming in panic.

  The dream had been that she was trapped on her stomach, and instead of help coming and flipping her over for air, she’d breathed in water until she was choking, drowning … dying.

  Same sensation as she’d run from whoever had been chasing her last night.

  And the other time she’d felt that scared? It had been much earlier, back when she’d been twelve. She’d been standing in a hospital corridor, waiting for news about her brother’s condition. As things had gotten worse, the fear had been about reality setting in. No matter how bad the accident had seemed, she’d never thought they would lose him—and when that had been a possibility? True terror.

  In both those situations, there had been a good reason to feel as she had. And yes, getting chased in a parking garage would also do it—but there had been more to the experience than that.

  She had sensed evil last night. Her bones had recognized it, sure as her eyes could catch a flash of movement or her ears could pick up the sound of distant thunder.

  She knew what she knew.

  And she wished she had been able to see more. In her parents’ lexicon, evil came in all guises—and she wasn’t sure why, but she wanted to know what it had looked like. A man, tall or short, light or dark, slim or heavyset, armed or not … she just wanted to know.

  Because in the absence of knowledge, her mind had been making up some pretty weird stuff.

  Demon, for example. Although where that came from, she had no clue. Maybe it was her parents, yet again, talking in her head?

  Cait reached up and pulled out the thumbtack that was holding the cards to the cork. Three fell free, fluttering to the floor, and when she picked them up, she stared at the purple print. YASEMIN OAKS. PALM READINGS, TAROT, DREAMSCAPING, PSYCHIC INSIGHT. Her logo was an open hand.

  Cait put two back. The third she slipped into her purse—

  “Hi!”

  Spinning around as if she’d been caught stealing, she put her hand to her throat. “G.B., hi.”

  As he smiled at her, he looked really good in his jeans and his loose black shirt, his hair tied back, his shoes leather and long toed. Oh, and yup, same cologne—and just as delicious.

  For a moment, she was a little starstruck, just as she’d been before, the idea that he was actually standing in front of her, talking to her, seeming strange and wonderful.

  She shook herself. “Sorry, hello.”

  Wait, she’d already hi’d him.

  As she floundered, he just kept smiling, like he was honestly glad she’d come. “You look great. Can I hug you?”

  When he held his arms wide, she blinked for a second and then went in for a quick embrace. “I probably smell like turpentine.”

  “Not in the slightest. How was your class?” He pulled back. “Good?”

  “Yeah, we’re studying shadow, light sourcing, that kind of thing.”

  “Sounds fascinating.”

  She lifted a brow. “Are you being charming again?”

  “Maybe. It comes easily with you.” He nodded over his shoulder. “How’d you like a little tour on our way down to the break room? You’ve got to see the stage, it’s incredible—and we’re taking a breather from rehearsing.”

  “Now, that would be a treat.”

  Falling in beside him, she had to look up to meet his eyes, and from that angle, she was struck again by the thought that she’d seen him somewhere before. “I’ve been to a number of shows, but never behind the scenes.”

  G.B. casually put his arm around her. “Let me be your guide.”

  Nice gesture. Nice guy. Now, if only she could shut her mother’s voice up in her head, she might stop feeling guilty and actually enjoy this.

  No doubt she needed a shrink more than a tarot card reader.

  More black curtains, now falling vertically in their path so they had to push them aside. And then a preamble open space that was filled with mile-high scaffolding, and huge background props, one of which was a townscape, the other a park scene.

  “It’s so vast,” she murmured, looking way, way up to a ceiling she couldn’t see. “Hey, is that what they call a catwalk over there?”

  “Check you out with the theater lingo. Yup, that’s where the lighting guys do their thing. And here’s…”

  He led the way around one last curtain, and then…

  “Oh … my … God …” she whispered.

  Stepping out onto the golden floorboards, she was astounded by the breadth of space before her, the expanse of the ceiling, the regal nature of it all: Five thousand red velvet seats rose up in three sections, the concentric rows moving away from the black orchestral pit like rings from a stone thrown in still water. Articulated plaster molding that was gold leafed ran up the side walls where the box seats were and across the balcony of the second-story seating area and all around the Greco-Roman murals that were painted on the walls. Red-carpeted aisles striped down toward the stage, and red velvet curtains hung next to all the exits…

  And far, far above, directly in the center, a chandelier the size of a house hung in the midst of a glorious painted scene of cherubs.

  What an honor to perform here. To just stand here, as a matter of fact.

  “When was this built?” she wondered aloud as she walked around a long table that was littered with scripts and pens and Starbucks coffee mugs.

  “Late eighteen hundreds, I heard someone say.”

  “It’s breathtaking from the audience … but like this? It’s … awe inspiring.”

  G.B. wandered around, too, hands on his lean hips, eyes searching out into the space. “I’m so glad you think that, too. I feel it every time I get o
nstage here. It makes me want to be a Richard Burton kind of actor.” He laughed. “I mean, the singing is great, but could you imagine doing Shakespeare from here?”

  As he assumed an orator pose, she measured him. “I can totally see it for you.”

  “Really?” He turned to her. “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  He smiled after a moment and came over to her, the sound of his hard-soled shoes rising up. “You know, they say this place is haunted.”

  “By who?”

  “Are you scared of ghosts?” He rubbed her arms. “People talk about all kinds of suspicious noises and feelings of dread—”

  Something in her face must have given her away, because he stopped abruptly. “What’s wrong?”

  Cait brushed off the concern. “Oh, I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Did you say something about a break room?”

  As she went to walk away, he moved in front of her and stayed there. “Talk to me.”

  “It’s nothing—I just, you know, I had … a strange thing happen to me last night.” She pushed her hair back. “It’s …” Crap. She might as well tell him. “The truth is, when I went to will-call after you left to go warm up? The ticket wasn’t there—”

  “What do you mean, there wasn’t a—”

  “—so I went home to wait—”

  “What the hell—”

  “No, don’t get angry. I’m sure it was just an innocent mix-up. Anyway, when I came back so I could meet you at the end of the performance, I parked in the garage and … someone chased me, or something—”

  The change in him was so abrupt and complete, she actually took a step back: Fury in his face contorted his features, making him look like someone who could go out and put a serious hurt on a person. But it wasn’t directed at her, not at all.

  “Are you okay?” he demanded.

  “Yes. I wasn’t hurt because I was able to get into an elevator and lock the doors. The police—”

  “You had to hide? And you called the police! Jesus Christ, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It all ended okay. I promise you.”