Covet fa-1

by J. R. Ward

  Covet

  ( Fallen Angels - 1 )

  J. R. Ward

  Redemption isn't a word Jim Heron knows much about-his specialty is revenge, and to him, sin is all relative. But everything changes when he becomes a fallen angel and is charge with saving the souls of seven people from the seven deadly sins. And failure is not an option.

  Vin DiPietro long ago sold his soul to his business, and he's good with that—until fate intervenes in the form of a tough-talking, Harley-riding, self-professed savior. But then he meets a woman who will make him question his destiny, his sanity, and his heart-and he has to work with a fallen angel to win her over and redeem his own soul.

  COVET

  Fallen Angels Series, Book 1

  J. R. Ward

  Prologue

  Demon was such a nasty word.

  And so damned old-school. People heard demon and they conjured up all kinds of Hieronymus Bosch helter-skelter—or worse, Dante's stupid-ass Inferno crap. Honestly. Flames and tortured souls and everyone wailing.

  Okay, maybe Hell was a little toasty. And if the place had had a court painter, Bosch would have been at the head of the pack.

  But that wasn't the point. The Demon actually saw itself as more of a Free-Will Coach. Much better, more modern. The anti-Oprah, as it were.

  It was all about influence.

  The thing was, the qualities of the soul were not dissimilar to the components of the human body. The corporeal form had a number of vestigial parts, like the appendix, the wisdom teeth, and the coccyx — all of which were at best unnecessary, and at worst capable of compromising the functioning of the whole.

  Souls were the same. They, too, had useless baggage that impeded their proper performance, these annoying, holier-than-thou bits dangling like an appendix waiting for infection. Faith and hope and love…prudence, temperance, justice, and fortitude…all this useless clutter just packed too much damn morality into the heart, getting in the way of the soul's innate desire for malignancy.

  A demon's role was to help people see and express their inner truth without their being clouded by all that bullshit, diverting humanity. As long as people stayed true to their core, things were going in the right direction.

  And lately, that had been relatively true. Between all the wars on the planet, and the crime, and the disregard for the environment, and that cesspool of finance known as Wall Street, as well as the inequalities far and wide, things were okay.

  But it wasn't enough and time was running out.

  To go with a sports analogy, Earth was the playing field and the game had been going on since the stadium had been built. The Demons were the Home Team. Away was made up of Angels pimping that chimera of happiness, Heaven.

  Where the court painter was Thomas Kincaid, for fuck's sake.

  Each soul was a quarterback on the field, a participant in the universal struggle of good against evil, and the scoreboard reflected the relative moral value of his or her deeds on earth. Birth was kickoff and death was game-over—whereupon the score would be added to the larger tally. Coaches had to stay on the sidelines, but they could put different complements of players on the field with the human to influence things—and also call time-outs for pep talks.

  Commonly known as the “near-death experience.”

  Here was the problem: Like a spectator who had been watching a postseason game in a cold seat with one too many hot dogs in his belly and a screamer sitting right behind his ear, the Creator was eyeing the exit.

  Too many fumbles. Too many time-outs. Too many ties that had led to too many unresolved overtimes. What had started out as a gripping contest had evidently lost its appeal, and the teams had been given their notice: Wrap up the play, boys.

  So both sides had to agree on one particular quarterback. One quarterback and seven plays.

  Instead of an endless parade of humans, they were down to seven souls in the balance between good and evil…seven chances to determine whether humanity was good or bad. A tie was not possible and the stakes were…everything. If Team Demon won, it got to keep the facility and all the players thai had ever been or ever would be. And the Angels became slaves for eternity.

  Which made torturing human sinners seem like nothing but a bore.

  If the Angels won, the entire Earth would be nothing but one giant Christmas frickin' morning, a choking wave of happiness and warmth and caring and sharing taking over everything. Under that hideous scenario, the Demons would cease to exist not just in the universe, but in the hearts and minds of all of humanity.

  Although considering all the happy-happy, joy-joy, that was the best outcome in that scenario. Short of getting stabbed repeatedly in the eye with a pole.

  The Demons couldn't bear losing. It just wasn't an option. Seven chances were not a lot, and the Away Team had won the metaphysical coin toss—so they got to approach the quarterback who was going to drive the seven “balls,” as it were.

  Ah, yes…the quarterback. Not surprisingly the choice of that key position had led to a lot of heated discussion. Eventually, though, one had been selected, one who both sides found acceptable…one who both coaches expected to rock the plays according to their values and goals.

  Poor fool didn't know what he was in for.

  The thing was, though, the Demons weren't prepared to leave such a momentous responsibility on the shoulders of a human. Free will was malleable, after all—which was the basis of the whole game.

  So they were sending someone onto the field as a player. It was against the rules, of course, but true to their nature—and also something the opponent was incapable of doing.

  This was the edge the Home Team had: The one good thing about the Angels was they always colored within the lines.

  They had to.

  Suckers.

  Chapter 1

  “She wants you.”

  Jim Heron lifted his eyes from his Budweiser. Across the crowded, dim club, past bodies that were clad in black and hung with chains, through the thick air of sex and desperation, he saw the “she” in question.

  A woman in a blue dress stood beneath one of the few ceiling lights in the Iron Mask, the golden glow floating down over her Brooke Shields brown hair and her ivory skin and her banging body. She was a revelation, a standout slice of color among all the gloomy, neo-Victorian Prozac candidates, as beautiful as a model, as resplendent as a saint.

  And she was staring at him, though he questioned the wanting part: Her eyes were set deep, which meant as she looked over, the yearning that stalled out his lungs could just be a product of the way her skull was built.

  Hell, maybe she was simply wondering what he was doing in the club. Which made two of them. “I'm telling you, that woman wants you, buddy.”

  Jim glanced over at Mr. Matchmaker. Adrian Vogel was the reason he'd ended up here, and the Iron Mask was definitely the guy's scene: Ad was dressed in black from head to toe and had piercings in places most people didn't want needles anywhere around.

  “Nah.” Jim took another swig of his Bud. “Not her type.”

  “You sure about that.”

  “Yup.”

  “You're a fool.” Adrian dragged a hand through the black waves on his head and the stuff eased back into place like it had been trained well. Christ, if it weren't for the fact that he worked construction and had a mouth like a sailor, you'd wonder whether he trolled the women's mousse and spray aisles.

  Eddie Blackhawk, the other guy with them, shook his head. “If he's not interested, that doesn't make him foolish.”

  “Says you.”

  “Live and let live, Adrian. It's better for everyone.”

  As the guy eased back on the velvet couch, Eddie was more Biker than Goth in his jeans and shitkickers, so he looked as out of place as Jim did—
although given the hulking size of the guy and those weird-ass red-brown eyes of his. it was hard to imagine him fitting in with anyone but a bunch of pro wrestlers: even with his hair in that long braid, nobody razzed him at the construction site—not even the meathead roofers who gave the biggest lip.

  “So, Jim, you don't talk much.” Adrian scanned the crowd, no doubt looking for a Blue Dress of his own. After focusing on the dancers who writhed in iron cages, he flagged their waitress. “And after working with you for a month, I know it's not because you're stupid.”

  “Don't have a lot to say.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Eddie murmured.

  This was probably why Jim liked Eddie better. The SOB was another member of the Spare Club for Men, a guy who never used a word when a nod or a shake of the head could get his point across. How he'd gotten so tight with Adrian, whose mouth had no neutral on its stick shift, was a mystery.

  How he roomed with the fucker was inexplicable.

  Whatever. Jim had no intention of going into all their hows, whys and wheres. It was nothing personal. They were actually the kind of hardheaded smart-asses he would have been friends with in another time, on another planet, but here and now, their shit was none of his business—and he'd only gone out with them because Adrian had threatened to keep asking until he did.

  Bottom line, Jim lived life by the code of the disconnected and expected other people to leave him to his I-am-an-island routine. Since getting out of the military, he'd been vagabonding it, ending up in Caldwell only because it was where he'd stopped driving—and he was going to hit the road after the project they were all working on was finished.

  The thing was, given his old boss, it was better to stay a moving target. No telling how long it was going to be before a “special assignment” popped up and Jim got tagged again.

  Finishing off his beer, he figured it was a good thing he owned only his clothes, his truck, and that broken-down Harley. Sure, he didn't have much to show for being thirty-nine—

  Oh, man…the date.

  He was forty. Tonight was his birthday.

  “So I gotta know,” Adrian said, leaning in. “You have a woman, Jim? That why you're not picking up Blue Dress? I mean, come on, she's smokin' hot.”

  “Looks aren't everything.”

  “Yeah, well, they sure as hell don't hurt.”

  The waitress came over, and while the others ordered another round, Jim shot a glance at the woman they were jawing about.

  She didn't look away. Didn't flinch. Just slowly licked her red lips like she'd been waiting for him to make eye contact again.

  Jim refocused on his empty Bud and shifted in the booth, feeling like someone had slipped lit coals into his shorts. It had been a long, long time for him. Not a dry spell, not even a drought. Sahara Desert was more like it.

  And what do you know, his body was ready to end that stretch of nuthin' but left-handers.

  “You should go over there,” Adrian said. “Introduce yourself.”

  “I'm cool where I am.”

  “Which means I may have to reassess your intelligence.” Adrian drummed his fingers on the table, the heavy silver ring he wore flashing. “Or at least your sex drive.”

  “Be my guest.”

  Adrian rolled his eyes, clearly getting the picture that there was no negotiating when it came to Blue Dress. “Fine, I'll lay off.”

  The guy sat back into the sofa so that he and Eddie were striking similar sprawls. Predictably, he couldn't stay silent for long. “So did you two hear about the shooting?”

  Jim frowned. “There another one?”

  “Yup. Body was found down by the river.”

  “They tend to turn up there.”

  “What is this world coming to,” Adrian said, throwing back the last of his beer. “It's always been this way.”

  “You think?”

  Jim leaned back as the waitress planted freshies in front of the boys. “Nope, I know.”

  * * *

  “Deinde, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patrls, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…” Marie-Terese Boudreau lifted her eyes to the confessional booth's lattice window. On the other side of the screen, the priest's face was in profile and heavily shadowed, but she knew who he was. And he knew her.

  So he was very aware of what she did and why she had to go to confession at least once a week. “Go, my child. Be well.”

  As he closed the panel between them, panic nailed her in the chest. In these quiet moments when she laid out her sins, the degrading place where she'd ended up was exposed, the words she spoke shining a brilliant spotlight on the horrible way she spent her nights.

  The ugly images always took a while to fade. But the choking feeling that came from knowing where she was headed next was just going to get worse.

  Gathering her rosary together, she put the beads and links in her coat pocket and picked her purse up off the floor. Footsteps right outside the confessional stopped her from leaving.

  She had reasons for keeping a low profile, some of which having nothing to do with her “job.”

  When the sound of heavy heels dimmed, she pulled open the red velvet curtain and stepped out.

  Caldwell's St. Patrick's Cathedral was maybe half the size of the one down in Manhattan, but it was big enough to inspire awe in even the casually faithful. With gothic arches like the wings of angels and a lofty ceiling that seemed only inches away from Heaven, she felt both unworthy and grateful to be under its roof.

  And she loved the smell inside. Beeswax and lemon and incense. Lovely.

  Walking down by the chapels of the saints, she weaved in and out of the scaffolding that had been erected so that the clerestory's mosaics could be cleaned. As always, the racks of flickering votive candles and the dim spotlights on the still statues calmed her, reminding her that there was an eternity of peace waiting at the far end of life.

  Assuming you were allowed past the pearly gates.

  The cathedral's side doors were closed after six p.m., and as usual, she had to go out the main entrance—which seemed like a waste of the thing's effort. The carved panels were much better suited to welcoming the hundreds who came for services each Sunday…or the guests of important marriage ceremonies…or the virtuous faithful.

  No, she was more of a side-door kind of person.

  At least, she was now.

  Just as she leaned all her weight on the thick wood, she heard her name and looked over her shoulder.

  No one was there, as far as she could see. The cathedral was empty even of people praying in the pews.

  “Hello?” she called out, voice echoing. “Father?” When there was no reply, a chill licked up her spine.

  On a quick surge, she heaved herself against the left side of the door and burst out into the cold April night. Holding the lapels of her wool coat together, she moved fast, her flats making a clip, clip, clip sound down the stone steps and over the sidewalk as she hustled to her car. The first thing she did as she got in was lock all the doors.

  As she panted, she looked around. Shadows curled on the ground beneath leafless trees, and the moon was revealed as thin clouds drifted. People moved around in the windows of the houses across from the church. A station wagon went by slowly.

  There was no stalker, no man in a black ski mask, no attacker lurking. Nothing.

  Reining in her tailspin, she coaxed her Toyota into starting and gripped the steering wheel hard.

  After checking her mirrors, she eased out into the street and headed deeper into downtown. As she went along, lights from streetlamps and other cars flared in her face and flooded the inside of the Camry, illuminating the black duffel bag on the passenger seat. Her god-awful uniform was in there, and as soon as she got out of this nightmare, she was burning it along with what she'd had to put on her body every night for the last year.

  The Iron Mask was the second place she'd “worked.” The first had blown up about four months ago. Literally.

  She co
uld not believe she was still in the business. Every time she packed that duffel, she felt as if she were getting sucked back into a bad dream, and she wasn't sure whether the confessions at St. Patrick's were making things better or worse.

  Sometimes she felt like all they did was stir up crap that was better left buried, but the need for forgiveness was too strong to fight.

  As she made a turn onto Trade Street, she started past the concentration of clubs, bars, and tattoo parlors that made up the Caldie Strip. The Iron Mask was toward the far end, and like the others, it was hopping every night with its perpetual wait line of wannabe zombies. Ducking into an alley, she bumped over the potholes by all the Dumpsters, and came out into the parking lot.

  The Camry fit nicely in a spot along the brick wall that was marked staff only.

  Trez Latimer, the owner of the club, insisted that all the women who worked for him use the designated spaces that were closest to the back door. He was as good as the Reverend had been about taking care of his employees, and they all appreciated it. Caldwell had a seedy side, and the Iron Mask was right in the thick of it.

  Marie-Terese got out with her duffel and looked up. The bright lights of the city dulled the few stars that twinkled around the patchy clouds, and the heavens seemed even farther away than they were.

  Closing her eyes, she took long, deep breaths and drew the collar of her coat in tight. When she went into the club, she would be in the body and mind of someone else. Someone she didn't know and wouldn't care to remember in the future. Someone who disgusted her. Someone she despised.

  Last breath.

  Just before she cracked her lids, that panic flared again, sweat breaking out under her clothes and over her brow in spite of the cold. As her heart beat like she was running from a mugger, she wondered how many more nights of this she had left in her. The anxiety seemed to be getting worse with every week, an avalanche picking up speed, sweeping over her, covering her in icy weight.