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“Godspeed, James Heron,” Nigel said, raising his palm. “You have proven yourself worthy against our enemy. Now do it again, you tough bastard.”
Jim got one last look at the castle walls, and imagined his mother safely and happily on the far side of them. Then a blast of energy blew out of the angel's hand and he was scrambled down to his molecules and sent flying.
* * *
Hard. Cold. Fuckin' ow.
Those were Jim's first thoughts when he woke up again, and opening his eyes, he got another load of milky, diffused light that seemed to come from no particular source. Which made him wonder if Nigel's flashy palm crap hadn't fucked up and landed him right back where he'd been.
Except the air wasn't fresh. And instead of a bed of springy grass, he felt like he was lying on a stretch of pavement—
As a sheet was whipped off his face, Jim nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Hey,” Eddie said. “Ready to go?”
“Fuck!” He clutched his chest. “You want to scare me to death?”
“Little late for that.”
Jim looked around. The room they were in had pale green tiles on the floor, walls, and ceiling and an entire bank of three-by-two-foot stainless-steel doors with meat-locker handles on them. Empty stainless-steel tables with hanging scales and rolling tables were arranged in orderly rows, and the sinks in the far corner were the size of bathtubs.
“I'm in the fucking morgue?”
“Well, yeah.” The duh was implied.
“Jesus Christ…”
Jim sat up, and sure enough there was a body bag with an occupant two tables down, and a sheet-covered corpse with its feet sticking out from the end next door. “So they really do put toe tags on them, huh.”
Eddie shrugged. “It's not like they can give their name or some shit.”
With a curse, Jim swung his legs off the table he was on, and that was when he saw Adrian. The angel was standing just inside the room by the double doors and he was unusually self-contained: Typically a sprawler, he had his arms linked tightly across his chest and his feet were set right together. With his mouth nothing but a slash, and his skin the color of Kleenex, the guy stared at the tile floor, brows down, lashes dark against his pale cheeks.
He was hurting. Inside and out.
“I brought you some clothes,” Eddie said. “And yes, I went back and got Dog. He's in our truck, happy as a little clam.”
“So I'm dead?”
“As a doornail. That's the way it works.”
“But I still get to keep Dog even though I'm…” A stiff? God, was there a politically correct word for the dead? he wondered. Or was it a case of, if you'd bit the big one, you didn't have to worry about politics?
“Yup, he's yours. Wherever you are, he'll be.” This was a momentous relief for some reason. “So you want these threads?”
Jim looked at what was in Eddie's arms and then down at himself. His body seemed the same, big and muscular and solid. Eyes, nose and ears seemed to function just fine. How the hell was this going to work?
“There'll be a better time and place to explain shit,” Eddie said, holding out the clothes.
“No doubt.” Jim took the jeans and the AC/DC T-shirt and the leather jacket. The boots were shitkickers. Socks were thick and white. And everything fit.
As he dressed, he kept glancing back at Adrian every now and again.
“Is he going to be all right?” Jim asked quietly.
“In a couple of days.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Yup. Don't ask him about it.”
“Roger that.” After he did up the buckles on the boots, Jim pulled the jacket on over his shoulders. “Listen, how are we going to explain that I'm back from the dead? I mean, there's going to be a body missing—”
“No, there won't.” Eddie pointed to the table Jim had been on and…holy shit. It was his body. Lying there like a slab of beef, with gray skin and a bullet hole right in the center of the chest.
“Your probationary period is over,” Eddie said as he tugged the sheet in place over the face. “There's no going back now.”
Jim stared down at the peaks and valleys that contoured the shroud and decided he was really glad his mother wasn't alive to “mourn” him. Made shit much easier.
And now Matthias was off his back.
This made him smile briefly. “There are advantages to being dead and gone, aren't there.”
“Sometimes, sometimes not. It just is what it is. Come on, let's blow this place.” Still staring down at his corpse, he said, “I'm going to go up to Boston for a little while. Not sure how long. The boys upstairs were cool with it.”
“And we're going with you. Teams stick together.”
“Even if it's not your fight?”
“Yup.”
The idea of having his own backup was attractive. Three could definitely cover more ground than one, and God only knew how long it was going to take to find Matthias's target. “Okay, cool.”
At that moment, two white coats came in, both with coffee mugs in their hands and mouths that were flapping. Jim got ready to bolt behind something, anything—and then realized that whereas he could see the pair, and smell what they were drinking, and hear their Crocs across the tile floor, they were utterly unaware that there were three other people in the room with them.
Or not people, he supposed.
“You want to do the paperwork on that one?” the guy on the right said, nodding to Jim's body.
“Yup. And I have a name to call if no one claims him. It's…Vincent diPietro.”
“Hey, he built my house.”
“Oh?”
The two put their mugs down on a desk and picked up clipboards with forms on them. “Yeah, me and my wife are in that subdivision down by the river.” The man walked over, lifted the sheet up off Jim's feet, and read the tag tied to his big toe. “Must be nice.”
“It is.” He started to fill out the squares one by one. “But it was expensive. I'll be lucky if I can retire at the age of eighty.”
Jim took a moment to say good-bye to himself—which was fucking weird, but also a relief: He'd been looking for a fresh start when he'd come to Caldwell, and man, had he gotten one. Everything was different now—who he was, what he was doing, who he was working for.
It was as if he had been reborn and the world was fresh once more.
As Jim left the morgue with his wingmen, he was curiously uplifted…and totally ready to fight again. And he had a feeling that for the next couple of years, Bring it on, bitch was going to be his goddamn theme song.
And then he remembered.
“I need to go back to that warehouse,” he told them out in the hall. “Now. I want the body of that girl.”
Adrian's voice was little but a rasp. “It's gone. All of what was in there is gone.”
Jim stopped in the middle of the corridor. As an orderly pushing a cartload full of sheets went through the three of them, literally, Jim felt nothing more than a shiver in his body—and maybe he would have done a hey-check-this-shit-out under different circumstances, but he was instantly obsessed and cared only about one thing.
“Where did Devina take her?” he demanded.
Adrian just shrugged, his eyes still locked on the floor, his piercings glowing darkly in the corridor's fluorescent lighting. “Wherever she wants. When I woke up on the floor in the middle of that place, it was empty.”
“How'd she move the shit so fast? There was a lot of it.”
“She has help. The kind that she can mobilize quick enough. I was chained or I would have—” The guy stopped himself. “It took 'em about two hours, I think. Maybe longer. I was kind of in and out at that point.”
“And they removed the girl's body?”
Adrian nodded his head. “For disposal.”
“How do they get rid of it?”
The angel started walking again, like he was finished with the conversating business for a while. “Same way anybody
ditches one. They'll cut it up in pieces and bury it.”
As Jim followed, the need for vengeance choked him up and his focus sharpened to the point of pain. He was going to need to find out more about the girl, her family, where her body ended up. And sooner or later he was going to take that innocent's death right out of Devina's hide.
Oh, yeah, things were gonna get personal, all right.
Real, bloody and personal.
Jim had a job to do.
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Document ID: 553d1bae-3dc3-4647-8194-a715d1db1bfd
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Document creation date: 2010-01-18
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