by J. R. Ward
He must have one really short Christmas list, though.
Back in her Lexus, she gave the whole head-to-Old Caldwell thing another go, and about fifteen minutes later, she made it to the part of town where an entire twelve-block section of multicolored Victorian mansions had been turned into condo associations, cafes and shops--although the latter were nothing like where she'd just been. Here they were folk-art galleries, organic spice sellers, hemp clothiers, that kind of thing.
"Four seventy-two ... four seventy-two ... where are you...?"
Seemed like this was the theme for the night, her out in the dark, searching for--
"Got it," she said as she hit the directional signal.
The cafe was called the Black Crow, but its exterior was all about the friendly: the gabled details, the overhang above the door, and the curlicues under the eaves were painted pink and yellow and pale blue. Matter of fact, the facade looked like a cartoon face, its two plate-glass windows like oversize eyes, with the rafters as the brows and the slate roof like a bowl haircut.
Following the arrows around behind, she rode out the potholes in the dirt lane between buildings and parked in the shallow lot.
Grabbing her bag, she got out--
Over by a door marked "Staff Only," a man was getting off a vintage motorcycle ... and as he removed his helmet, long dark hair swung free across a broad back. His leather jacket was beaten up, but it seemed weathered from age, not some kind of designer distressing stuff, and his long legs were covered with the sort of jeans that were very un-Victoria Beckam.
With a smooth movement, he bent down and took something from the back of the bike--a guitar case?
She couldn't see the front of him because he was facing away from her, but the way he strode into the back of the cafe would have made her notice him even more than that dark rush of hair: He moved with total confidence. Maybe he was an owner? Or ... the talent, given that case?
Whatever his role, he was in charge.
As that door clamped shut behind him, Cait shook herself, feeling strange that she'd just eyeballed some man. Then again, maybe the blond had gone to her head?
Har-har, hardy har-har.
Shaking herself back to reality, she walked around to the cafe's front entrance and pulled open the door.
In a rush of air, she got hit with a hot blast of coffee, vanilla and patchouli--like a latte had been splashed in her face by a member of the Grateful Dead. Rubbing her finicky nose, she eyed the thick crowd and wondered how she was going to find anyone in the place: the cafe was long and thin as a cattle chute, with a bar that ran down one side, little tables lined up along the opposite wall, and about two hundred people squeezed between the two.
At least she was in the right place to hear music, though. At the far end, there was a raised stage big enough for a quartet, and all around the exposed brick walls, folk instruments hanging from wires alternated with fairly serious-looking speakers--
"Cait! Over here!" came a holler from down in front.
"Hey!" With a wave, she started to work her way toward the stage, squeezing between vertical waiters in sherbet-colored T-shirts, and seated patrons who struck her as disproportionately female.
"What the hell did you do to your hair?" Teresa Goldman said as she got to her feet for a hug.
Teresa had been a good friend in high school and a great roommate in college, the kind of girl who could be depended upon to give you a straight answer whether you needed it or not. In short, she was awesome--and a little frightening.
Especially when you'd gone from blond to brunette without any warning.
"Is it awful?" Cait fussed with her bangs. "Is it--"
"Fuck, no! It's fantastic! Are you kidding me? And, Christ, have you lost more weight?"
Cait shuffled into a wooden chair that squeaked. "I haven't lost any, I swear."
"Bullshit."
"Does your mother know you talk like that?"
"Who do you think taught me to curse?"
As they went through the back-and-forth they'd coined in their freshman year, a server brought Cait a menu printed on cardboard.
Cait stopped laughing as she looked things over. "Wait a minute--what's all this stuff? Kombucha? Tulsi? Yerba mate?"
"You are so behind the times--"
"These people ever heard of Salada?"
"What a plebe--"
"No Earl Grey--?"
"You are not cool enough for your hair."
Just like the good ol' days, Cait thought with a smile. And see, this was exactly what she needed: a break from her work routine, a good distraction from her mourning, an opportunity to put her money where her mouth was--and live a little.
Teresa leaned forward. "Fine, forget the libations--I didn't bring you here for the drinks."
"Good." Cait frowned. "Because I'm going to pass on all this. Call me common, but I'm proud of my simple Midwestern roots--Dunkin' Donuts coffee is as exotic as I get."
"The singer. It's all about the singer."
That man on the motorcycle? she wondered. "I didn't know you were into music played in a place like this. Not exactly Aerosmith or Van Halen."
"Ah, but the good news is Katy Perry isn't showing up, either."
"Hey, I like to work out to her stuff."
"I can't help that."
"You know, you should really try to past eighties metal. How old were you when it came out? Three?"
"Have some kombucha with that judgment, would you?" Teresa grinned. "Anyway, his name's G.B. and he comes here the last Monday of the month. As well as Hot Spot on Wednesdays at eight, the Hut on alternative Tuesdays, and the--"
"Are you a fan or his tour manager?"
"Wait'll you see him. He's incredible."
The waiter in the raspberry shirt came back. "What can I getcha?"
"I'll just have water."
"We have tap, Pellegrino, Rain Forest--"
Too much choice around here, she thought. "Just tap."
"With or without cubes?"
"Ah ... with?"
"In a mug or a glass?"
"No preference."
"Infused with--"
"Honestly, just plain tap would be great, thanks." She smiled up at him as she handed the menu back.
As he left, she exhaled. "I don't know how you handle it."
"Again, not here for the drinks. Although I've tried the strawberry infusion and it's awesome." Teresa eased back in her chair. "So what's new? I feel like it's been a month since I saw you over the holidays."
"That would be five months ago, I think."
"Is it almost May? Wow." Teresa shrugged. "I don't pay much attention to time."
"Which was why you gave me your schedule of classes each semester."
"You always were a great sheepherder. Wish my assistant was as good as you were."
"How's work?"
"Same shit, different day. But I knew that tax law wasn't going to be glamorous."
"It's clearly lucrative, though. What kind of bag is that? Prada?"
"Aw, you noticed, how sweet."
As Teresa settled into a pause that grew much, much longer, Cait stiffened. Silence was antithetical to her old roommate. "Okay, what's up. And tell me now, before the waiter comes back and interviews me for five years over whether or not I want a cinnamon bun."
"Their croissants are better."
"Spill it, Goldman."
The hesitation lasted through the delivery of a tall mug full of ice cubes and H20.
When they were alone again, Cait said grimly, "You're scaring me, Teresa, and no offense, after the last couple of weeks, I don't need any more of that."
"Yeah, I'd heard that Barten girl went to Union."
Cait ducked her eyes. "She was in my drawing class."
"Shit, Cait ... I didn't know you knew her."
"I did. And she was a lovely girl--I had her for my intro to sculpting seminar, too."
"You going to the funeral?"
"I wouldn't miss it." Cait looked up. "
Now tell me what you don't want to tell me."
"There's a sentence and a half."
"Talk, Goldman."
Her old friend cleared her throat. "Did you hear about Thom and the girlfriend?"
Cait looked away again. Yes, she thought. "No," she said.
"They're pregnant. Due this month, as a matter of fact. I ran into him downtown at the courthouse. I guess one of his colleagues was brought up on embezzlement charges and he was there to testify, and I was there for ... shit, what does it matter. I just ... yeah, I figured you'd want to know."
Cait forced a smile onto her face, and didn't know why she bothered. Teresa knew better than to be fooled by a fake show of teeth. "I'm happy for him. For them, I mean."
"Look, I don't mean to be a bitch, but it had to have been a mistake. I can't picture Thom with his nitpick all covered in spit-up, while he changes diapers and fills bottles with formula. That man used to vacuum his dorm room. Who does that?"
"In his defense, we did."
"We're girls."
"Traditional sex roles much?"
"Whatever. You know what I mean."
Cait nursed her water, feeling a cold tingle in that molar with the iffy filling she needed to take care of.
The truth was, Thom had told her the news six months ago. As soon as they told their families. And to his credit, it had been in a kind way--because he didn't want her to hear it from anyone else, and his GF was shouting it from the rooftop, evidently. Cait had been shocked to the core, but she'd said all the right congratulatory things ... then hung up the phone and burst into tears.
The woman who was about to give birth to his baby was the one he'd cheated on her with.
Margot. Her name was Margot. Like she was a French movie actress or something.
Hell, maybe it was even spelled Margeaux.
At least they'd been together for a while now. How many years had it been? Almost as long as Cait had been with him. No, wait ... longer. So why the pregnancy had been such a shock to the system, she hadn't a clue. But it had thrown her into a tailspin that had landed her here, in this hard little chair, with new hair, and an improved body ... and a sense that she was through hiding from life, and ready to...
Okay, she didn't know the answer to the "what" on that one.
"Hey, did you know you're missing an earring," Teresa said.
"Oh, yeah. I think it happened at the hair salon--"
"Here he is," Teresa hissed as she sat up straighter.
Cait glanced over her shoulder. And did a little spine stretching of her own.
Yup, it was the one she'd just seen by the bike ... and if the guy had been an eye-catcher from the back, the front view was even better: His face was a stunning composite of strong lines, enhanced not only by that holy-crap hair of his, but a goatee and a pair of hooded eyes that had bedroom all over them. Long and lean, he was wearing just a muscle shirt now, his arms covered in flowing black and gray tattoos marked with lettering in a foreign language.
As he sat down on a pine stool, he drew a hand through that hair, pushing it over his shoulder--and it refused to stay put, copper highlights flashing in the stage illumination as it rebelled back into place.
His smile was easy as a summer breeze, and as he tapped the mic to make sure it was working, Cait found herself wondering what his voice sounded like--
"Hey," he said, deeply, softly. "How you doin' tonight?"
The line was anything but cheesy coming from him, especially as the tenor of the words floated down from the ceiling like a caress.
"So I wanted to share a new song with you, something I just wrote." He looked around as he spoke, and even though Cait was sure he didn't focus on her, it felt like he was speaking to her and only her.
"It's about living forever," he intoned. "And I wish I could use my guitar, but there's been a technical difficulty there--so you're just going to have to put up with my voice all by itself."
The clapping was quick and fervent, suggesting that there were a whole lot of Teresas in the crowd. In fact ... this was why there were just women here tonight, wasn't it.
He was even waving at a couple of them, like they were friends.
As he cleared his throat and took a deep breath, Cait found herself turning her chair around to face the stage.
"Told you," she heard Teresa say with satisfaction.
Chapter
Five
The demon Devina took form in front of the nondescript, almost-modern headquarters of Integrated Human Resources, Inc. Located in one of Caldwell's countless professional services complexes, the "firm" had no clients, no employees and was neither a resource for humans, integrated, or incorporated. It was, however, the perfect, protective shell for her collections, and the name was a nice play on what she did.
She was good at integrating herself into humans.
Had just come out of a rather accommodating vessel, as a matter of fact.
Loved those black jeans.
Striding to the door, she passed through the locked steel panels and emerged into the empty, shadowy interior. Inside, there were no desks, no phones, no computers, no coffee machines or watercoolers--and even M-F, eight a.m. to five p.m., there were no meetings being held, interviews set up, or business being conducted. If she had to, however, she could conjure that illusion out of the air at the drop of a hat.
After her last hideout had been infiltrated by Jim and his angel buddies, she'd had to relocate, and so far, so good.
"Hi, honey, I'm home," she said to the newest sacrificial virgin who was hanging upside down over a tin tub by the elevator.
He didn't answer her, natch.
In his previous life, before he'd become something important, he'd been a computer geek--God, with the chronic shortage of virgins in contemporary America, she'd never been so grateful for technology; all she had to do was search the yellow pages under IT.
And yet, even with him serving as a metaphysical ADT system, creeping tension made her walk faster and faster toward the elevator doors. There were two choices for other floors: "2" and "LL," and when she got inside, she hit the latter. Silence accompanied the drop in height as she proceeded down to the windowless, open space of the basement. Her breath trapped in her lungs as the doors parted...
"Oh, thank fuck," she said with a laugh.
Everything was there. All her clocks, which responded to her presence by resuming their count of minutes and hours; her many bureaus full of things that had just re-lined themselves up, their pulls still clapping from the return to proper position; her countless knives that were now once again facing point-first to the south; and her most important possession--the most priceless thing of all, in spite of its ugly state of decay--her mirror, was right where she had left it in the far corner.
Well, and then there was also the fun stuff in her "bedroom" area, the king-size bed, the vanity with all her makeup, her racks and racks of clothes, her shelves of shoes, her cupboards of bags.
Whenever she left, her possessions discorded, the orientation of the vast space becoming jumbled and confused. When she returned? Order was reestablished.
The same way a magnet would pull metal shavings together.
And just as her objects orbited around her, she too was drawn to them. Her greatest fear, at least on Earth, was that someday she would come back here and something would be gone. Or all of it would be. Or just a part.
As her heart rate regulated and she took off her fur coat, she walked down the aisles created by the bureaus. Stopping randomly, she pulled open the top drawer of a Hepplewhite she'd purchased from its maker back in 1801. Inside, there were eyeglasses from the period, thin wires curling around, circles of aged glass glinting. As she touched them, the energy of their past owners surged into her fingertips and connected her with the souls she had claimed and now held in her prison.
She knew each and every one of the sinners, her children, the beloved chosen who she nurtured through eternal pain and humiliation in her wall down be
low.
Fucking Jim Heron.
That goddamn "savior" might well be the death of her--literally. And that was not supposed to be the way shit went. In the beginning of this seven-round war, she'd had such hope for him, had been convinced that his bad side, cultivated in his professional pursuits for so long, would serve her well. Instead? That cocksucker was playing for the other team.
And winning.
If he pulled off one more victory?
Overwhelmed, Devina surveyed her collections, tears spearing into her eyes.
If that savior won for Team Angel, all of this was gone, all of her things no longer existed--worse, all of her souls were history as well. Everything she had spent eons amassing? Up in smoke.
Her, too.
Fucking Jim Heron.
Marching over to her vanity, she tossed the mink onto the bed, pulled out the dainty chair, and sat down. As she stared at herself in the oval mirror, she approved of the way she looked--and hated the way she felt.
First off, she despised the fact that there was a female who Jim wanted badly enough to give a win up for. And then there was her personal rock and a hard place--give up something she owned?
When was the last time she'd let anything go?
Well ... hell, she'd have to go Taylor Swift on that one: never, ever, ever...
Man, OCD sucked on a good day. Faced with losing all the shit in this basement? It was enough to give her a fucking heart attack--
Bracing herself on the vanity, she had to open her mouth to breathe. "You're immortal ... you're immortal ... you don't have to call nine-one-one..."
'Cuz for fuck's sake, you couldn't resuscitate someone who didn't exist in the crash-cart kind of way.
Good logic. Except as high-octane panic roared through her veins, and knocked out her higher reasoning, that little slice of rational got kicked in the can. With a trembling hand, she brushed her dark hair out of her face and tried to remember the cognitive behaviorial therapy she'd been doing.
Not going to kill her. Just physical sensations. Not about the things, Devina--it's about trying to exert control over ...
Bullshit it wasn't about the things. And even immortals could in fact die--she'd proved that when she'd killed Adrian's precious little buddy Eddie in the round before last.
"Oh, God," she moaned as a sense of disconnection separated her from her environment, her eyesight going funhouse, her balance destabilizing.
Winning the war meant that she had dominion over the Earth and all the souls on it. Awesome. Totally. But losing?