by J. R. Ward
Ad cleared his throat. "I got out only because I was freed by the Creator--thanks to Nigel going to Him."
"You mean Purgatory?" Sissy asked.
"Yeah."
"Holy . . . wait, you've been there?" Sissy shook her head. "Boy, all these things I thought were made up . . . I should have listened more in Sunday school, huh."
"Like I said, I was freed at the Creator's will, and I don't know of anyone who's gone there and gotten out on their own." Ad shifted his eyes to the savior. "I will say this--you won't have a lot of time, Jim. Once you're over there, you start to get into trouble almost immediately. The true wearing down takes a while, but you begin to lose yourself directly upon entry. By the time Eddie came in, I was nearly a goner. And I later found out I had been there only a short time."
"Hell was like that for me," Sissy said quietly. "It was . . . forever."
Jim's eyebrow began to twitch and he brushed at the thing.
"So you're going there to bring this guy back--why?" she asked.
"I don't have a choice," Jim muttered as he patted his pockets. Taking out a pack of Marlboros, he lit up. "Either we get Nigel back or I end up taking his place--and after all this shit? I want to be the one who takes down Devina. Plus it's the right thing to do."
"Why do you say that?"
"I killed him. Not directly, but his death is my fault, and even though I'm a professional soldier, it's one I can't live with."
Sissy stared at the man for the longest time. Then she ducked her head into the book and went back to the first page. "Anyone got a pad of paper around here--and a pen?"
Hours later, as Sissy flipped through the pages of the ancient book, she was relieved to find that the words scribbled on the thick parchment were as easy to read as something between the covers of a Nancy Drew. What was not so hot was that, even with the increase in comprehension, she wasn't finding anything on Purgatory.
Most of the passages seemed to be the ramblings of a twisted mind, the commentary loosely integrated and focusing on the nature and composition of souls, the origins of physical life, the layout of Heaven, the balance between sin and virtue.
And the statistics were just plain weird. Why would anyone care to number the stones of some castle up in the sky? The Manse of Souls, it was called?
So, yeah, the pad of yellow paper remained blank beside the book, the blue Bic pen unused. But still, all the getting-nowhere was kind of useful: She hadn't thought of lighting anything on fire for however long she'd had her nose in the book.
Letting out a groan, she stretched her back and eyed the fireplace. When a soft snore percolated up next to her, she glanced at Ad. He was out like a light, his head back on the cushions of the velvet sofa, his bad leg extended at a strange angle with its boot kicked to the side--as if the bones of his calf had healed together wrong.
Jim had left about ten minutes ago, stomping out and taking the black cloud over his head with him.
Sissy pushed the book away, got to her feet, and cracked her right shoulder. Then she walked out of the parlor, intending to go to the kitchen and grab a quick bite--but her plan changed as she caught a flash of red through the windows on either side of the front door.
"What the . . ." In fact, there was a red glow . . . emanating through seemingly every piece of glass around the house.
Rushing for the door, she yanked the heavy panels open.
It was as if someone had dropped an ink bomb on the property--only it had frozen in place on the free fall, forming a blanket around everything: On the far side of the transparent curtain of red, she could see the ugly lawn, the noontime sun, the sidewalk and the street . . . as well as Jim standing off to the left, his palm raised and glowing even brighter, as if it were the source of the illumination.
"Jim?" she said.
His head lifted and his eyes opened. After a moment, he dropped his arm and came through the stain in the air, stepping right past the barrier he'd created.
"What is this?" she asked in wonder.
"More protection."
"From what." But like she really needed to ask that?
"Devina. She's already gotten in here at least once."
A chill went through her. "When?"
"The other night."
As he walked up onto the front porch, she put her hand on his arm. "In the house? How?"
Jim pointedly moved himself out of range and laughed with a bitter edge. "She turned herself into you. How 'bout that."
"What?"
"You heard me. She was you, everything from your hair to your eyes to your . . ." His blue stare went to her mouth and stayed put until he seemed to shake himself out of something. Then he leaned in, his heft dwarfing her, his tired eyes nonetheless sharp as knives. "Look, when I say I don't want you in the middle of all this, it's for a good goddamn reason, okay? I don't want to lose you again--and I sure as shit don't want to be thrown off my game by worrying about you."
Sissy frowned, thinking back to--
"When I came and knocked on your door," she said, thoroughly creeped out. "And you were shocked to see me. That's when she did it. Didn't she. That's when she became me."
He turned away and started walking back into the house.
She grabbed his arm again. "What did she do?"
In the tense silence that followed, she remembered when he'd opened up that door of his. He'd looked at her strangely, as if he'd never seen her before. And he was doing the same thing now.
Sissy refused to back down. "What did she--"
"You want to know? Fine." He leaned in again, the air between them growing charged. "She tried to seduce me. She was half-naked in my bed, with your body, your skin, your scent. And it almost fucking worked--how about that."
Sissy blinked as her body registered heat--but not from anger. No, this was something else entirely.
Sexual desire. The kind she'd read about, heard about, seen on the big screen, but never, ever felt. Not even close. And she knew damn well what he was doing here--he was trying to scare her off. Except what he failed to realize was . . . that was a hell of an admission on his part.
She thought back to Bobby Carne and his Bud-in-a-can-fueled come-on. Jim was the farthest thing from that sad production--he was a man, not some high school senior with delusions of being Ryan Reynolds. And the idea that Jim might have been attracted to her, even if it was a lie . . .
Then again, the demon had been driving that bus, so to speak.
Jim broke the eye contact first. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what," she said in a husky voice.
"Oh, Jesus," he muttered. "You don't even know."
"Jim--"
"No, nope, I gotta go. . . . I really fucking gotta go."
With heavy feet, he stalked through the open door and marched up the stairs, his big body moving fast and with power. A moment after he was out of view, she heard a door slam on the second floor.
There was a temptation to follow him up there. Open that door. Find out . . . what was on the far side of that heat in his eyes. But she had a feeling all she was going to get was a fight.
Or maybe something she wasn't sure she could handle.
She thought of that demon in the cemetery, so sure of herself, so confident. Now, that was a woman--entity, whatever--who'd take care of a man like Jim . . .
Great, now she felt like finding a Zippo lighter and putting it to good use.
Instead of taking off after the guy, or going Stephen King and giving in to her inner Firestarter, she went over to the protection spell and put her hand out. As if the glow was a living thing, it came forward to her palm, stretching out to lick at her, and staying connected until she pulled her arm way back.
After playing with the connection for a little bit, she went back inside and closed that reinforced front door. Under normal circumstances, she would have been impressed by the size and heft of all that oak--but nothing was normal anymore, and she had a feeling she could trust whatever Jim had done out
there in the yard more than anything built by a human.
Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, she wondered what he was doing in that bedroom of his. The only way she was going to get an answer was by finding out for herself--and how embarrassing would it be to barge in on him changing his clothes . . . making his bed . . . folding his laundry.
Yeah, 'cause he had time to worry about those last two.
Besides, like they'd do anything other than rehash the convo they'd just had?
As she stayed where she was, an inner part of her pointed out that there were, in fact, other things they could do--things that were tied to that light in his eye. Hell, maybe it was time to lose her virginity. And assuming that was true . . . she could not think of a single man, living or dead, who she'd rather give it to than Jim.
"Shit," she whispered.
Chapter
Six
Jim was hard as he shut himself in his room.
And not as in hard-headed. Hard of hearing. Hard backed.
Slamming the door, he leaned back against the damn thing. Bam . . . bam . . . bam . . . The sound of his head hitting the wood was like the heartbeat in his cock.
As he looked down at his hips and measured the tent his erection had made in his sweatpants, he thought, Man, this was too fucking true about him. Back in his old life, when he'd been deep into black ops and working as an assassin overseas, this would happen to him. Keyed-up, going into crunch time, his blood would be running high, his aggression spiked--and he'd inevitably need to burn some of the energy off.
And not on a treadmill.
But FFS, you'd think with the way he'd spent the night with Devina, this wouldn't be a problem.
Shutting his eyes, he cursed as another round of images assaulted him, pictures of him fucking that demon twelve different ways to Sunday all but blinding him. And then he saw Sissy . . . standing on that porch . . . staring up at him like . . .
Like maybe she knew he wanted her.
The very male-est part of him was totally prepared to test that theory out on the horizontal. Yeah . . . in spite of the fact that he needed to stay the fuck away from her, his conscience and his higher reasoning were more than ready to take a quick vacay just so his small head could get the job done.
Great. Good thinking, right there.
Abruptly, he remembered that picture he'd seen of her at her parents' house, the one where she'd been on the sidelines of some game, her eyes narrowed, her body curled and tensed like she'd wanted to spring forward into the action. Her long blond hair had been pulled back, her face had been clear of makeup, and the other people in the background had been student athletes just like her.
She'd looked her age there.
Downstairs on that porch? That had been a woman. Not a girl.
Frankly, he wished the grown-up divide hadn't been crossed--because retaining it would have been enough to keep him in check. He'd always been into full-on women; he liked sex hard and raw, and that required someone with backbone and passion. Some little chippie with strawberry lip gloss and Hello, Kitty sneakers really, totally wasn't going to fucking do it for him.
He would really have preferred Sissy stay on that side of the line. Trouble was, courtesy of her trip into Hell, her eyes were now devoid of any semblance of youth, her soul having aged in Devina's wall, tempered into steel by the torture and the pain. She was no longer that field hockey player with her friends, hyped up on a game played on high school grounds.
She was a woman.
And this was a problem.
Damn it, he'd had such good intentions. Ever since he'd found her bled out in that bathroom, his only goal had been to get her safe--and he'd checked that off his bucket list by making that potentially devastating bargain with Devina. Except what exactly had it gotten Sissy? Out of the demon's wall, sure. But now, all she had was a job combing through an impossible book, looking for a way to get him to and from Purgatory.
Meanwhile, he was upstairs with an issue that, all things considered, he was going to have to cure with his left hand.
"Goddamn it," he breathed.
Shifting his eyes over to the messy bed, he remembered Devina lying on it, clothing herself in Sissy's flesh, hitting him up for sex. That had been his fault. He should have put up multiple protection spells back when they'd moved in.
Then again, if the demon had been able to make it through one, maybe the whole more-is-better thing wouldn't have worked, either.
Shit, how had she pulled that infiltration off? he wondered.
Sliding down until his ass met the floor, Jim propped his elbows on his knees and thought about the many and varied ways a guy could get himself into trouble when he thought with his little head instead of his big one.
And what do you know, the stretch of the sweatpants across his hard-on made him roll his hips--and not because the shit hurt.
I guess I don't expect you to enjoy it, how 'bout that. Or are you going to tell me men can get it up even though they're disgusted by someone? Didn't think the anatomy worked like that--then again, I'm a virgin, right. So what do I know.
"Fuck me . . ."
And that was the problem, wasn't it. Sissy was right: Men couldn't get it up if they weren't into the sex. Unfortunately for him, he didn't necessarily have to like what was happening to get aroused--it was kind of like stabbing your enemy. You were juiced going into the deed, and satisfied when it was over. But that wasn't the same as "enjoying" something.
Somehow, he doubted these subtleties were the kind of thing Sissy needed to hear about. And he was equally certain that his cock didn't give two shits about them.
It knew what it wanted.
He shifted around again, that rasp across his dumb-handle making him grit his teeth and hiss. And for a split second, he couldn't help but go back to that moment when Sissy had been begging him to kiss her--
All it took to reel shit back in was remembering that it hadn't actually been her.
Annnnd all it took to crank things up again was remembering how she had looked at him down on that front porch.
Another hip roll to relieve pressure just ramped him even more. And before he knew it, instead of heading downstairs and seeing what he could do to help with that forty-pound book, his palm was in fact getting into the swing of things.
Or the stroke, as it were.
What the hell else could he do? The damn erection showed no interest in deflating--and even if he did a tuck-up, he had Jon Hamm proportions, so it wasn't like that was a good enough camo job.
He deliberately kept any thoughts of Sissy out of it. Instead, he concentrated on his tight grip going up and down, and the squeeze on the head, and the twist going around the shaft. He had to drop his knees to get room to work, and as the waistband cut into his ass, he ripped off the damn pants. Pretty quickly, a savage edge took over. Biting down on his lower lip until he drew blood, he let his anger out along with his lust, his hatred of Devina driving him higher, hotter.
It was a sick thing to dwell on, but safer and more gentlemanly than what he felt for Sissy.
The orgasm hit like a lightning strike, stopping his heart, freezing his hand, jerking his legs. Then came the thunder--rolling though his mind, his body, his soul . . . and all he saw was Sissy, turning in slow motion to face him, her eyes staring up at him with a woman's speculation.
As the release kicked out of his body, he milked it only because he wanted the sex out of him . . . so he could concentrate, get back to work, do the right thing.
In the wake of the orgasm, exhaustion dogged him, pulling at the corners of his eyes, drooping his shoulders. It had been so long since he had slept well.
Nearly three decades, as a matter of fact.
Not since his momma had died.
And as he snagged hold of those sweatpants and used them to wipe up, he thought any true rest was going to be a long, long time coming.
For now, though, maybe he'd just shut his eyes and let the post-climax floats recharge his batteries
a little. He didn't have tons of time at his disposal, but then again, he never crashed for long, either.
The last thing he thought of as he drifted off while still propped against the door wasn't a thing at all.
It was the woman downstairs who was searching through that book. He wasn't sure whether he hoped she found anything . . . or not.
Maybe Ad was right and he shouldn't tempt the Fates by giving Purgatory a try.
But as always, he was in between a rock and a hard place.
The shadows were growing long out on the lawn when Sissy got to the last page of the book from Hell. Putting her hands on the small of her back, she stretched for the one hundredth time and looked over at Adrian. The angel had shifted positions around three in the afternoon and now he was lying length-wise on the sofa, one of the velvet accent pillows stuffed under his head. He hadn't moved since then, except for crossing and uncrossing his feet. She knew he wasn't sleeping, though.
Where was Jim? she wondered.
"Upstairs," Ad answered like she'd spoken out loud. "You want me to get him for you?"
She closed the book and stared down at the pitted, stained cover. "I don't know."
A split second later, she heard footfalls coming down the stairs, hitting the front foyer, zeroing in on the parlor.
"Is that your doing?" she asked softly.
"Walkie-talkies are so damn cumbersome. Fuckers require batteries, too."
"Nice trick," she said, straightening her shirt, pushing her hair back.
Right before Jim came into the room, she wondered what she looked like, and wished she had a hairbrush, a mirror . . . maybe some toothpaste.
Dumb, dumb, dumb, she thought. One, there was no competing with the likes of that demon. And two, like she wanted Devina's leftovers?
Jim entered the parlor in blue jeans and a white T-shirt that pulled across his pecs and stretched around the heft of his biceps. His face was remote, and his eyes did not meet hers, but his sheer presence sure got through to her. He was, as always, magnetic, the kind of man anybody would look over at. Was it the height? That build? The perma-frown? That beautiful, shimmering halo around his dark blond head . . .
Okay, fine. Maybe she did want to compete with the damn demon.