by J. R. Ward
There were things that had gotten crushed underfoot, too.
Glasses trampled. Watches smashed. Brass buttons and metal clasps bent out of shape.
Devina flexed her hands and assessed the injuries on her palms. Evidently she'd done a lot of the carnage herself as opposed to working magic.
Getting to her feet, she went to take a step forward and fell to the side, throwing out one of her sliced-up hands to catch herself on a now-empty six-foot-tall shoe rack that was twisted out of shape.
Ah, yes, there was a problem with the shoes she had on. Her right one had lost its sky-high heel, so there was nothing to support her weight on that side.
She went to take both of them off . . . but there was going to be no finding any matched pairs in the mess she'd made. So she snapped the other heel from its base and made a pair of flats out of them.
Purse. She was looking for her purse, the saddlebag Dior she'd worn with the outfit before Jim had gotten lost over in Purgatory, she'd gotten him back, and he'd made some big show out of being reunited with that fucking virgin.
The fact that the bag was metallic silver was going to help with the locating. Should help.
Might help.
For God's sake, she had way too much of the animal-print shit, she thought as she began to wade through the wreckage. Zebra. Tiger. Cheetah. Funny, when all of her handbags had been organized in color lots, she hadn't really seen the rut she'd gotten in.
More lizard, she decided. Croc skin. Maybe some old-school patent leather, and Hermes . . .
"Like Grace Kelly."
God, her voice sounded forlorn even to her own ears.
But damn it, someone like Grace Kelly wouldn't have had her lover get wrapped up in some pencil-stick bitch.
She could dye her hair blond. Yeah, that might work.
"Why, why . . ."
Pushing a sky-blue Birkin out of the way, she kicked an older LV Manhattan onto a pile of Chanel quilted stuff.
It was not going to be enough to just win this round and get Sissy back. She was going to have to . . .
Devina looked around at her things.
...do this to that fucking virgin.
"Pony" by Ginuwine started playing softly and she wheeled around. Following the sound, she pawed her way through about fifteen thousand dollars of Prada before she found what she was looking for--although by the time she dug out her phone, whoever it was had gone into voice mail.
At least they helped her locate what she'd been looking for.
Wiping her still-oozing hand off on the ass of her trashed leather pantsuit, she called up her therapist's contact info from the address book and hit send.
One ring. Two rings. And then came, in the woman's irritatingly calm and sensible voice, "Hello, you've reached the offices of . . ."
Blah, blah, blah. Beep! "This is Devina." She had to switch hands and rewipe. "I've had . . ." As she choked up, she thought about ending the call and starting over, but what the hell. The chick was used to hearing people who'd lost their shit. "I've had a setback. A serious setback. I'm not going to be able to wait until . . ." When was their next appointment? She couldn't remember. "I need to come see you as soon as possible. Please . . . call me."
As she ended the connection, she prayed that the woman had something open in the morning. Afternoon, at the latest.
Because she didn't know how she was going to go on from here.
Like some pathetic loser, she let herself fall to the ground and just sat there, surrounded by the evidence of how fucked her immortal life was. She was too spent to get in touch with her anger and her hatred, too betrayed to marshal some kind of revenge, too heartbroken to even think about Jim.
Devina ducked her head and wondered if maybe this was the Creator's punishment. She wouldn't put it past Him to engineer this torture.
He said He had brought her into being to offer balance to His world and its various humans and creatures. He had always reassured her that she served an important purpose. But she knew better than to believe He was impartial. The truth was . . . He preferred the good.
Always had.
And that did not typically bother her. In fact, she liked being the fly in the ointment--most of the time.
Not at the moment, however. Not in this moment when she was more alone than she had ever been.
Chapter
Seventeen
"Sooooo, I guess I'm going to head upstairs and take a shower before bed."
As Sissy spoke casually, Jim was impressed with the subterfuge: Like she had no agenda and all the time in the world, she crumpled up the wrapper of the hamburger she'd eaten, put it into the closest bag and crammed an empty red French fry carton in there with it. Then she stretched her arms overhead and gave a yawn.
But Jim knew better--especially as she shot him a glance that could have melted paint off a car door. Fortunately, Adrian was all about his Filet-o'-whatever. Or had he started in on his Big Macs?
Like Jim cared.
"Night, Ad." As Sissy went over to the guy, the other angel glanced up and offered his cheek. "Sleep well."
"You, too, Sis."
The kiss she planted on the bastard lasted about a nanosecond and was on an entirely innocent part of Adrian Vogel's body--and Jim still had to call off his inner dogs so he didn't rip his wingman's throat open.
Possessive much? he thought to himself.
Sissy bent over and picked up her trash, and to keep himself from going full-tilt ogle, he made work out of unwrapping his next Quarter Pounder.
"Wait," he said to her. Then he looked at Ad. "You got your phone?"
The angel eased onto one butt cheek and took the thing out of his pocket. "Yeah. You lose yours over in Ash Land?"
"No. Ah . . . would you mind taking a picture?"
"You want a mug shot? I thought you already had a driver's license with a shitty close-up on it."
"No, of me and--" Jim coughed into his fist to cut himself off.
What the fuck was he saying here?
"Of the damage to the room," he finished.
"Like you're going to make an insurance claim or something?"
"Just so that we don't screw over the owner."
Ad eyed the destruction. "No offense, but I think that's already happened."
Except the angel started to oblige, putting up his iPhone and clicking away as he kept eating. And after a moment, Sissy floated a wave and took off.
God, he could hear every one of her footfalls as she went up and walked around overhead. He pictured her going down the hall to her room, walking into her bathroom, brushing her teeth--maybe taking a shower. He saw her . . .
Well, shit, he saw her naked. Really, very, totally naked.
Back to the burger. Which now tasted like cardboard and not because it was from the golden arches.
He glanced over at Ad as the angel finished up with the photos. And imagined where things might be if the guy hadn't helped him get back from Purgatory.
"So . . . thank you," Jim muttered.
Ad tucked his phone away, and shoved another load of fries into his piehole. "You haven't seen how awful these are. Plus I'm thinking I've got grease on the viewer thing."
"You know what I'm talking about."
There was a long pause. "You don't have to say that."
"I do."
"Well, whatever. I had no intention of letting Devina take another one of you. Already lost Eddie--kinda done with the whole immortal-except-not-really bullshit." The other angel looked over. "Besides, you'd have done the same for me."
"Glad you know that. And it is the truth."
"Yeah, I figure if you'd be willing to go to Purgatory for that tight-ass Nigel, you'd have my back, too."
They ate in silence for a while. Then Jim had to ask, "How're we gonna know if the Creator's going to do anything?"
Ad laughed. "In my experience--and I've got some when it comes to pissing the big guy off--it happens quick."
"So you're saying I shou
ld save part of this"--he held up his burger--"for Dog."
"I think that would be a good call."
Jim nodded at the drapes they'd pulled across the broken windows. "My protection spell's only going to go so far. We still need to do a better job keeping out the elements."
"It's called Home Depot, buddy. I'll go there tomorrow. Get some plywood and a hammer and nails. I used to be in construction, remember."
Jim thought back to when he'd met the guy . . . and Eddie. Man, the pair of them had been grafted at the hip, a real salt-and-pepper, PB&J-type combo. Death was so damned cruel, he thought.
"Do you know where Eddie is?" he asked.
"Yeah, upstairs in the attic."
"No, I mean . . . where he ended up."
"You thinking about being a hero again?" Ad shook his head. "I'm pretty sure that trying our luck with one portal is more than enough."
"I could go to the Creator, you know."
"You think I haven't already?"
He thought of how hard it must be on the guy. "I'm sorry. About--"
"Hey, let's change the subject, okay?"
"Yeah. Okay." Jim finished his dinner and took a long draw on his Coke. "So we've got to find the next soul. That is mission critical. You got any ideas?"
"They always just seem to come to you." Ad shrugged and stayed focused on his second serving of fries. Or was it his third? "I almost think it's better that way than to put us through some kind of wild-goose chase."
Jim thought back to the first round . . . to Vin diPietro, and the subtle clues that had brought them together. That had been the only time he'd been given any direction. The rest of the rounds had been "luck": Matthias. DelVecchio. Then Matthias again. And finally the twins. Adrian probably had a point, come to think of it.
Maybe he should have trusted the system more from the beginning.
"So, ah, I'm going to crash if it's okay," he said, getting to his feet. "Unless you need help cleaning this up?"
Ad laughed. "I'm tackling the paper bags from dinner, not the room. I think I can handle it."
"Cool. G'night."
He was almost through the doorway when Ad drawled, "Keep Sissy warm, buddy."
Jim froze and looked over his shoulder. Before he could say anything, the other angel shrugged.
"Come on, she didn't say good night to you. You think I'm stupid?"
"It's not like that."
"Don't worry about it." Ad shook his head. "You were ready to leave her to get Nigel back. You put it all on the line for the war. I know your game head's back, and going to stay that way. And listen, if I had a harbor in this storm . . . I'd take it, too. So enjoy it while you can--but keep the sex noise down, 'kay? It's fucking tacky."
Jim frowned. "I feel like I gotta say this. I'm not going to get distracted by anything or anybody."
Again, if he played this right? He and Sissy could work shit out afterward.
In the meantime, however, he had no intention of keeping his hands to himself.
"Roger that," Adrian said from his picnic of one on the floor of the trashed parlor. "But I'm eating your sundae. It's the only kind of enjoyment I got left."
A good half hour later, and Sissy wasn't the only one who'd taken a shower before "bed."
Although she probably hadn't wasted twenty minutes shaving her face, Jim thought as he leaned into the mirror over the bathroom sink.
Double-checking his jaw, he was going for baby's-ass smooth, and he had to give his five-bladed Gillette whatever-the-fuck props. No risk of razor burning her--at least for the next couple of hours.
There was so much steam in the loo that he had to wipe his forearm across the glass again as he inspected the other side. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done this for a woman . . . and then realized that, like the ILY thing, it was a first.
Stepping back, he decided he looked about as good as he was going to. The stab wound in the meat of his shoulder was already on the fast track to healing up, and the bags under his eyes didn't show much as long as he wasn't standing directly under a light. Did she like cologne?
"Not like I have any," he muttered as he picked up his clothes and opened the door.
The cooler, drier air of the landing rushed in like a cleaning crew after a party, draining out the humidity, defogging everything. It did the same to his head--and the dose of reality that followed, the hard shot of crystal-clear on what he was about to do, made him hesitate.
Okay, fine. He was nervous.
Up overhead, footsteps in the attic made creaking sounds: Adrian was settling in beside Eddie again, probably on some makeshift bed that involved old Victorian clothes and a shoe box for a pillow. Not that the angel was going to care. He was made of tougher shit than that.
That SOB had sacrificed so much to win. What had he gotten in return?
Loss of a good friend. And fast food tonight.
Hell of a compensation rate.
With a curse, Jim went into his own room, dumped the clothes he'd been wearing in the dirty pile, and picked out a laundered version of precisely what he'd had on from the clean one: white Hanes undershirt that he wore like it was a T-shirt, blue jeans. He left his feet bare. With any luck, he was going to be naked in a matter of moments so who needed socks and shoes.
He couldn't resist one last look-see in the mirror and actually smoothed his hair down. His buzz cut was growing out, and the fact that the fade wasn't regulation tight made him itchy.
Old habits of being a military man died hard.
Just as he was about to turn away, he narrowed his eyes and thought of Devina. Over dinner, Sissy and Ad had filled him in on the particulars of how they'd created the portal to Purgatory, and that made him think of the two vortexes that the Creator Himself had made.
One was that mirror of Devina's.
He'd seen the hump-ugly thing once before, when they'd found her loft in the meatpacking district. Ad--or had it been Eddie? Probably Eddie--had said that taking possession of it was the way to hit Devina in the nuts the hardest. Steal its transportive powers from her, and she was trapped either in Hell or on this side. But you had to be careful how you did it. You shattered the reflective surface in the conventional way and, assuming he remembered right, you yourself were destroyed, busted into a million Humpty Dumpty pieces.
With no hope of a Super Glue save.
The temptation to eliminate the bitch was nearly all-consuming, but he had to wonder what was on the other side of that. Something worse? The safest bet was to just win the war and let the Creator's rules take care of her.
Except fuck safety. To him, there was a law of equity that demanded she lose the thing that was dearest to her--in light of her fucking with his Sissy and taking Eddie away from Ad.
And PS, he was done apologizing for referring to Sissy like that.
She sure as hell felt like his.
On that note, he left his room and shut the door quietly, even though there was no reason to pretend he was sleeping in his own bed.
Guess he wanted to protect her virtue even in the hypothetical.
Even as he was about to take it.
As he started down the hall, behind him on the main staircase, that fucking grandfather clock started chiming, the gonging noises timed perfectly with each footfall he planted.
Like the damn thing was following him.
Stopping, he turned around, put his palm out, and before he knew what he was doing, created a wall of molecules. Worked perfectly. Whatever that clock was up to, he couldn't hear it anymore.
The door to Sissy's bedroom was the same as all the others on the second floor: seven and a half feet tall, four feet wide, with two sets of raised panels that were larger on the top, smaller on the bottom. The knob was crystal and cut in a sunburst pattern, and as he watched his hand reach out for it, he thought of that old movie The Sixth Sense--the knobs that had mattered had all been red.
On that theory, this one should have been made out of a big, fat Burmese ruby.
He didn't knock. Just opened the way in and slipped inside, and in the darkness, the first thing he smelled was shampoo. It was different from the stuff he and Adrian shared, and he was willing to bet it had come from that Target trip.
"Sissy?"
When she didn't immediately answer, an injection of pure panic went right into his cerebral cortex, but then he heard rustling from in between the sheets. Going across to where she lay, he put out his palm for a second time.
Willing a soft glow to emanate from his hand, he found her curled on her side facing him, her blond hair splayed out across her pillow, her eyelids down, her lips parted slightly.
For the longest time he stood there, watching her sleep. Funny, seeing her at rest, being there to protect her . . . turned out to be just as good as the prospect of sex. Felt more right, actually.
After all, people had a way of making bad decisions after life-and-death drama. It didn't mean they were weak--quite the contrary. It meant they had survived and were glad to be alive.
He'd done a lot of that kind of thinking in the past himself.
And hell, if she wanted to use him? He was more than willing to do whatever she needed, be whoever she wanted him to.
Except in the light of the morning, she might well have a different take on shit. And who could blame her if she did.
So, yeah, a little breather to recharge and realign was probably a good thing . . . but he didn't go back to his own room. He walked around the foot of the bed, lifted up the sheets and the blankets, and slid in beside her. He intended to just lie there and listen to her even breathing, but almost immediately, she turned to him like she knew he was there, and snuggled up close.
Holy shit, she was extremely naked.
But that didn't change his plan.
Arranging her in his arms, he tucked her head under his newly shaved chin and closed his own eyes.
He was asleep on the next heartbeat.
Chapter
Eighteen
Sissy woke up to one hell of an alarm clock: warm, broad male hands were caressing her hip, her waist . . . moving up and around to her--