Chapter 4
As the demon Devina wandered up and back across cold concrete, her path was not straight, but full of curves. Winding in and out of rows of bureaus, the discordant tick-tocking of hundreds of clocks drowned out the clip-clip of her Louboutins.
Everything had been given a place here, her collection safely moved into the basement of this two-story office building. The location was perfect, just outside of Caldwell's downtown, and to appear legitimate and uncontroversial, she projected an illusion that a human resources firm took up the space above where she was pacing: As far as people were aware, a hustling, bustling business had rented the place to accommodate its expansion.
Stupid humans. As if in this economy anyone was hiring or could afford hand-holding when it came to filling jobs.
Pausing by a Hepplewhite bow front that had been made in Providence, Rhode Island, in 1801, she ran her hand over the mahogany top. The original finish was still on the piece, but then again, she'd kept the thing safe from sun and water damage since she'd bought it over two hundred years before. In its drawers were baskets full of buttons and rows of spectacles and jumbles of rings in boxes. The other bureaus had similar objects, all personal items fashioned out of various metals.
Aside from her mirror, this collection of hers was the most precious thing she had. It was the tie to her souls down below, the tethering security she needed when she felt insecure or stressed-out here on earth.
As she did now.
The problem tonight, however, was that for the first time since she'd started hoarding aeons ago, she was not calmed, nor reassured, nor eased. Walking around this repository of objects, she was summarily unaided by the addiction that had long proved to e so useful.
And what seemed even worse? This evening should have been "a seminal moment," as her therapist called them, a time to center herself and savor her accomplishments: She had won the last round against Jim Heron, and even though he and Adrian and Eddie had infiltrated her previous lair, she had safely gotten her things installed in this new, secure facility.
She should have been fucking ecstatic.
But shit-on-a-shingle, even the scent of fresh death drifting over from the bathroom gave her no pleasure: To protect her mirror, she needed so much more than what ADT or Brinks monitoring had to offer, and the new sacrificial virgin she'd strung up over her tub was bleeding out nicely - getting ready to be useful, not just decorative.
Everything was going her way, at least on the surface, and yet she felt so . . .
Ennui, she believed it was called . . . and what a lovely name for such a crappy, unmotivated state.
Maybe she was just exhausted from setting everything up after the move. She had about forty bureaus full of acquisitions from all eras of humanity, and whenever she was forced to reestablish herself in another place, she was compelled to touch every single object one by one, reconnecting with the essence of the victim that lingered in the metal. She had yet to start on the contact ritual, however, and was a little surprised at herself. Usually, she could focus on nothing else until she fractured time, stepped into the space between minutes, and completed the lengthy process.
She supposed her therapist would have seen this as progress, considering the compulsion was typically prompt and undeniable: These precious items, from ancient Egypt to Gothic France to the Civil War and the present here in the States, were what tied her to home when she was so far away.
Still, there was no panicky rush to snuggle up with what was hers for eternity. All she seemed to want to do was mope around and pace.
It was all Jim Heron's fault.
He was just too defiant. Dominant. Extraordinary.
He had been chosen by her and that supercilious sonofabitch Nigel because Heron was equal parts good and evil - and as she had learned through the ages, when it came to mankind, evil always won. In fact, she'd assumed that drawing him over to her side would be nothing but a tedious bore, the kind of thing she had done to men and women since time had cast its first hour so very long ago.
Instead . . . it was she who had been sucked in and seduced.
Heron was just so . . . unownable. Even when he had turned himself over to her and she had been playing with him, her minions swarming him, her true nature revealed . . . he had been unbowed, unbending, unyielding.
And that strength made him unattainable.
She had never known that before. From anyone.
The thing was, it was in her very nature to take over: She was a perfect parasite, niggling her way in and replicating her essence until what she had entered became hers forever.
Heron's challenge to her was intoxicating, a slap in the face, a breath of fresh air. But it also seemed to deflate the importance of everything else.
Pulling open a drawer, she took out a thin gold bracelet that had a little dove charm dangling off of it. The inscription on the inside was in cursive and just precious. Fromparents to a daughter. With a date from the year before. Blah, blah, blah.
She hated the name Cecilia. She really did.
That irrelevant virgin . . . what a thorn in her side. The purpose of that Barten girl had been to protect the mirror. Now the little shit had some kind of connection with Jim -
Just as she was going to crush the fragile memento, a waft of warmth went through her, as if a lover's touch had passed not just over her flesh, but through to her very bones.
Jim.
It was Jim. Calling to her.
Ditching the bracelet, she hip-checked the drawer closed and ran down the row to an ornate floor-length mirror that functioned only to check her appearance. As she went, she changed her form, assuming the body of a gorgeous brunette who had gravity-defying breasts and an ass with more ledge than a bookshelf.
Fluffing her hair, she smoothed her black skirt, and decided the hem was too long. Willing it upward, she pivoted and flashed her smooth thighs and perfect calves.
Suddenly, she was alive.
Well, alive wasn't technically correct. But that was what it felt like: In the space of a moment, her mood had gone from buried to flying.
Except she was not going to be stupid about this.
Confident of her hemline, her neckline, and her hairline, she went into the bathroom.
"How do I look?"
She did a little twirl in front of the young man who was hanging upside down over her tub. Except he didn't have anything to say, even though his eyes were open.
"Oh, what the hell do you know. "
She bent down and dipped her fingertips into the blood that had been steadily draining out of his carotid artery. Impatient with the delay, she quickly traced around the doorjambs and the floor, going back and forth to the tub to get more. The purity of his essence formed a seal that was better than any security alarm any human could ever create - plus, the process rid the world of one more mortal creature.
Made her job easier.
Closing herself in with Mr. Chatty, she turned to face the ancient mirror that hung in a mangy frame that had rotted out centuries and centuries ago. The leaded-glass surface had a constantly shifting reflection, waves of dark gray and black swirling around a background the color of a rug stain. The thing was a hideous portal, and the only way for her to get to her well of souls.
"Hang out," she told the stiff. "I'll be back. "
Stepping through the surface of the mirror, she was pulled into a vicious suction, and she gave herself over freely, the body she assumed going taffy through the wormhole. On the far side, she emerged at the base of her well, spit out of the tempest, but requiring no time to recover.
As she patted her hair, and smoothed her tight skirt, she thought how stupid it was not to have a mirror here.
Then again, she didn't care what her minions' opinions were, and her souls . . . oh, her lovely souls . . . well, they had other things on their minds.
Tilting her head back, she looked up at the miles of shiny bla
ck walls that rose up from the stone floor. The tortured damned writhed against the confines of their viscous prison, faces and hips and knees and elbows straining for a freedom that they would never attain, their woeful voices multi-layered and muffled.
"How do I look?" she shouted upward.
The chorus of moans rose in reply, but told her absolutely nothing.
For fuck's sake, couldn't she get a witness somewhere? Anywhere?
After a last double-check of herself, she granted access to Jim, summoning him forth. And as she waited, her heart beat triple-time, a flush charging every inch of her skin with an electric sizzle. But she was not going to show it. Cool. Keep it cool.
Jim arrived in a swirl of mist, and her breath caught.
The chosen savior was the very best of the male sex. Built big and lethal, his body was an instrument of warfare, but it was also made for fucking. Raw, pounding . . .
"You want me," she said in a low voice.
His eyes narrowed, and the hatred in them did more for her libido than the best plate of oysters anyone had ever served up. "Not like that, sweetheart. "
Oh, how he lied.
Swaying her hips, she went over to the worktable and trailed her fingertips across the pitted, discolored surface. Memories of him tied down naked, his legs spread and his sex glistening from use, made her breathe deep.
"No?" she said. "You called me. Not the other way around. "
"I want you to tell me who the next soul is. "
Interesting. "So Nigel turned you down when you asked him, did he. "
"Didn't say that. "
"Well, I find it hard to believe you'd come to me first," she muttered bitterly. "And you think I'm going to tell you?"
"Yeah, I do. "
She laughed in a violent burst. "You should know what I'm like by now. "
"And you're going to tell me. "
"Why in the world would I . . . "
His hand lifted to his heavy chest and slowly, oh, so slowly, drifted down his stomach. . . .
Devina swallowed hard. And then her mouth went totally dry as he cupped himself between his legs.
"I have something you want," he said roughly. "And vice versa. "
Well, well, well . . . She wanted to be with him, yes, but this was even better than voluntary coupling. He was going to have to force himself to have sex with her, sacrificing his flesh to her for information . . . in front of his dear, sweet Sissy.
Devina looked up to her wall and found the soul he was so goddamned concerned with. Willing the girl downward, she leaned back against the table.
"Exactly what are you proposing. "
"Tell me who it is and I'll fuck you. "
"Make love to me. "
"It'll be fucking. Trust me. "
"A rose by any other name . . . But I'm not sure. " What a lie. "That's very valuable information. "
"And you know what I'm like. "
Oh, she did, and she wanted him again. Wanted him always.
"Fine," she said. "I'll tell you who it is, and in return, you will give yourself to me whenever I want you. You will be at my beck and call. "
His eyes narrowed again in that way they did, turning into slits that made him look like a predator.
And then there was only silence. As the quiet stretched out, she held tight. He was going to come around, and oddly enough, she had Nigel, the tight-ass rule abider, to thank for it. If that archangel had breathed the name of the soul, this wonderful sacrifice wouldn't be getting made.
"Done. "
Devina began to smile -
"With a caveat. " As she froze the expression, he said, "I'll be with you now and you give me the name. Then we'll see if it's the right one. At the end of this round, if you didn't lie . . . you've got me. Whenever you want me. "
Devina growled. Fucking piece of shit free will. If she could just own him properly, he wouldn't get a vote at all. But that was not the way it worked.
Although there were still loopholes to be had, she told herself. Ways to shade this so that she didn't give too much away and yet managed to have him regardless.
"Do we have a deal," he demanded.
Walking forward to him, she focused over his shoulder at the small shape in the wall that she had called down for a close, ringside seat at what was going to happen.
As Devina stepped into that hard body and rose up onto her tiptoes, she reveled in the utterly rigid flesh she brushed against. Into Heron's ear, she whispered, "Take off your pants. "
"Deal or no deal, demon. "
He was unbending before her, perfectly capable of denying her, not just now but in the future: Even though he was right in front of her, he was completely untouchable.
Except as he'd said, they both had something the other wanted.
"Take off your pants. " She stepped back, ready to enjoy the show. "Do it slowly - and we have a deal. "
"What the hell is he doing up there?"
As Adrian barked out the rhetorical, he didn't expect a response from his roommate. Then again, you could drop a Lexus on Eddie's combat boot and maybe you got an ow. More likely the angel would just blink and kick the sedan off his big toe.
Frankly, the strong-and-silent bullshit got to be annoying.
"It's been two hours. " He stopped at the foot of the bed Eddie was sprawled out on. "Hello? You tracking at all? Or were you planning on sleeping through this round. "
The lids on that red stare lifted. "I'm not sleeping. "
"Meditating. Whatever. "
"I wasn't meditating. "
"Fine. Psychically manipulating energy fields - "
"You make me dizzy when you pace. It's vertigo persion. "
He didn't buy that for a second. "Would it kill you to get worried once in a while. "
"Who says I'm not. "
"I do. " Adrian ran his eyeballs down his buddy's long, still body. "I feel like rolling in a defibrillator and paddling your ass. "
"What am I going to do, Ad? He's going to come back when he does. "
Images of Nigel, the dandy, going galactically stoopid all over Jim came to mind, and made Adrian wonder if they'd need to plan a memorial service. That archangel up there might pass his time playing croquet and polo, but that didn't mean he couldn't rip into a guy - and Jim had left here with a whole lot of throw-down on his mind.
Maybe the bastard had gotten what he was looking for.
Adrian started up with the pacing again, but the hotel room didn't offer much in terms of floor space. He supposed he could go down to the bar -
Next door, there was a creaking sound. Like someone had sat down on the bed. Or opened and closed something.
Reaching behind to the small of his back, Ad withdrew his crystal knife. If it was just some human breaking in to steal a laptop, he wasn't going to need what was in his palm. But if Devina had sent over a minion or two to distract them, the weapon was going to come in handy.
Pushing the connector open an inch or two, he leaned in.
A black shirt came flying out of the bathroom. Then a pair of beat-to-shit jeans.
Boot.
Boot.
The shower started running and then there was a hiss, like Jim hadn't waited for the water to warm up first.
Shit. He hadn't just been to see Nigel, had he.
Reholstering his dagger, Adrian shoved the door wide, walked through and sat on the other angel's bed.
God knew there was no reason to ditch the duds and hot-water it right after you met with the archangel. Poor bastard must have been to Devina's - and nobody needed two guesses to figure out what had happened.
Listening to the sound of Jim washing the stank of the demon off, Adrian was weary to the point of blurry-vision exhaustion. This path the savior was on? Been there. Done that.
Lost his mind over it.
That was the thing with Devina. She got into you. Even though,
in the beginning, you thought you were the one in control? Eventually, what you were making yourself do with her, for reasons that sounded entirely sane, ate at you until she was inside your skin and driving your bus. It was how she worked, and she was very successful at it.
When Jim eventually stepped out of the bathroom, he stopped with the towel stretched across his back, one arm up, the other down. There were scratch marks on his thighs and abdomen, and his sex hung low, as if it had been used hard and left for dead.
"She's going to eat you alive," Adrian said.
The angel who was responsible for saving everyone and everything shook his head. "The hell she will. "
"Jim - "
"She's going to tell us who the soul is. " Jim wrapped the towel around his hips. "We're meeting her tomorrow morning. "
Holy. Shit - "Wait, she didn't give the info to you now?"
"Tomorrow morning. "
Ad just shook his head. "She's fucking with you - "
"She'll show. And she'll tell. Trust me. "
"She's not a reliable source. And this is not the way to win. "
"So you liked last round's outcome better?"
Well . . . fuck.
Jim went over to his black duffel and took out a pair of fatigues. As he turned away and pulled them on, that massive back tat of his, the one featuring the Grim Reaper in a graveyard, distorted and then refound its shape.
Maybe Jim was tougher.
Which would be a slap in the balls, and something Ad would admit only over his own steaming carcass. But if the guy could hold it together . . . if he could somehow sustain himself . . . then they had the best weapon in this fight because the demon had a jones for the guy. Bad.
Jim went over to the jeans he'd tossed out of the bathroom and rifled through the pockets. When he stood back up again, he had a square of folded paper in his hands.
Hands that shook ever so slightly.
As the guy carefully brushed off the thing, even though there was no lint on it, Adrian scrubbed his face and wished a Lexus would fall on his own head: He knew damn well that had to be the article on that girl they'd found hanging over Devina's tub - the virgin Jim was obsessed with.
Tougher his ass, Ad thought. They were fucked.
They were so fucked.