by J. R. Ward
The angel’s lids slowly started shutting. “Eddie! Fucking Eddie! Don’t you fucking die on me! Fuck you!”
As the echoes of the outburst faded, Eddie’s breathing got more labored, his mouth stretching wide as if his jaw hoped that would help. And in the terrifying, silent moments that followed, Ad’s heart hammered faster and faster, sure as if his boy’s were slowing down.
Edward Lucifer Blackhawk died two breaths later.
It wasn’t the abrupt lack of movement in the ribs or the way the body went lax or the fact that the hand in his lost what little grip it had had.
It was the scent of spring blooms that wafted up into the still air of the bank.
Adrian locked a grip on the front of Jim’s shirt. “You can bring him back. Bring him back—for fuck’s sake—put your . . . hands . . . back on him—”
For some reason, he couldn’t speak anymore after that.
And then he couldn’t see.
Momentarily confused, he looked around, thinking a choking, stinging fog had rolled in.
Oh, wait.
He was sobbing like a little bitch.
Not even pretending to give a shit, he grabbed Eddie around the chest and hauled him up, cradling to his heart the fallen angel who had been with him every step of the way on earth and in purgatory for centuries. And as he held him, the weight grew lighter in his arms, even as the vacated body’s inches and feet stayed the same.
The essence of Eddie had moved on.
Adrian burrowed his face into that thick neck and rocked them back and forth, back and forth . . . back and forth. . . .
“Don’t leave me . . . don’t . . . oh, God, Eddie . . .” Adrian wasn’t sure how many minutes or hours passed, except even in his distraught state, he became aware that something had changed.
Glancing up over Eddie’s head, he saw the savior . . . and had to blink a couple of times to make sure the picture made sense.
Jim Heron was in a crouch, teeth bared, huge body straining. His eyes were locked on Adrian and Eddie, and an unholy black glow emanated out of them, the buffering waves of evil pulsating through the bouqueted air.
It was vengeance and wrath and rage upright and walking. It was the promise of hell on earth. It was everything that Devina was . . . in the form and feature of the savior.
Adrian was strangely soothed by the show. Calmed. Centered.
He was not alone in feeling violated and stolen from.
He was not by himself as he went forward.
The path he would wear out in getting that demon for this would have two sets of footprints, not one—
At that moment, Jim opened his mouth and let out a roar that was louder than an airplane taking off, and the ripping sound was followed by a great explosion:
The glass windows of the bank lobby, all hundred feet of them, blew out at once, showering the street in front with a glittering snowfall of glass shards.
CHAPTER 25
Up in heaven, Nigel bolted out of his bed of satins and silks. He hadn’t been at rest—he couldn’t seem to close his eyes without Colin beside him—but waking or slumbering, the vision that came to him would have shocked him into alert no matter the circumstance.
With shaking hands, he drew his robe on over his nakedness. Edward—oh, dearest, stoic Edward.
He had been lost. Just now and down below.
Oh, this was a terrible turn of events. An awful destabilization.
How could this have happened?
Indeed, the conception that one of those two warriors could take a fall was something he had not contemplated in any of his planning: He’d sent the fallen angels to help Jim because they were hard and reslatnt and so very proficient at defending the good that they so often downplayed in themselves. And out of the two of them, Eddie was supposed to survive: he was the prudent and smart one, who balanced his electric, eclectic, out-of-control comrade.
But destiny had corkscrewed on all of them.
“Damn it, damn it . . . damn it . . .”
And there was no bringing Edward back—at least not in any fashion that Nigel could affect: Resurrection was up to the Creator, and the last time an angel had been returned had been . . . never.
Nigel patted his face with a linen handkerchief. He had wagered both Edward and Adrian, thrown them like dice—and now Adrian, the volatile one, was shipwrecked without his compass, his anchor, his captain. And Jim, who already had a distraction, was worse than on his own. He was going to have to look after the other angel.
This was ruinous.
And a fine maneuver on the demon’s part—and yet how had it happened? Edward was always aware. What could have distracted him from his instincts?
Going over to his tea bar, Nigel set about warming the kettle. His hands were shaking as he thought about what he had wrought. Edward had been safely living in the nonsequestered part of this place that Nigel o’ersaw—he’d been waiting to be used, true, and thrilled to have been finally forgiven for breaking the rules and saving Adrian all those years ago. But still.
A fine male. Now he was gone.
It was not to have been thus.
You are not so powerful as you think, Nigel.
Bracing his hands on the marble-topped bombé chest, he could hardly bear the weight on his heart. If he had not sprung them both from their respective purgatories, this would not have happened.
And he had been so arrogantly certain of his choice.
What had he done . . . ?
Standing there, with no one behind him and no one in front of him, alone with his bad thoughts and the burden of his deeds lying heavily within his ribs, he thought of Adrian. Alone. In pain. In the war.
As Nigel struggled for breath he did not need, there was only one entity to turn to in this god-awful solitude. And the fact that Colin was not here, and sadder, that Nigel could not go to the other archangel, made him mourn the state Adrian was in. To have lost your other half was worse than death.
It was torture. Although it was instructive . . .
In the passing course of all Nigel’s faux days and faux nights, in the endless rotation of his pretend meals and his fake croquet games, within the construct of all this self-imposed structure that he engineered to keep him and his archangels from going mad in the infinity they existed in, he had never bent to another’s will. It was not in his nature do to so.
And yet Colin had a part of him.
And unlike Adrian, he could go to his other half, seeking succor in the midst of this fear and loneliness and regret.
Adrian would never have that again: Barring a miracle that would be impossible to grant, he would be separate e’ermore from that other part of himself.
You are not so powerful as you think, Nigel.
When the shrill whistle of the pot broke through the tent, he left the water to carry on, his feet fleet as he took off out of his private quarters and crossed the grounds in a streak of robe.
Per the cycles he set and commanded, night had fallen like a cape of velvet o’er the landscape. Up ahead, flamed torches burned along the battlements and turrets of the castle, and it was toward the flickering glow that he ran over the grass.
Edward was lost.
Colin was here.
And there was too much lawn between them.
Following the manse’s walls, he came to the western-most corner of the fortification and looped to the right. Off in the distance, Colin’s tent was set against the tree line, the squat, low-hung fixture made from heavy woolen tarps supported by squat poles. Unlike Nigel’s private sanctuary, it was small and modest. No silks. No satins. No luxurious accoutrements. The archangel bathed in the rushing stream behind and slept not on a bedding platform, but a cot. One blanket. No pillows. Only books for amusement.
All of this was why Nigel had insisted that they share his quarters, the other archangel having essentially moved in ages ago.
In fact, as he came up to the tent, Nigel realized he had never spent a “night” herein. It had al
ways been Colin who transplanted himself.
When had he even been here last? Nigel wondered.
No jamb upon which to knock.
“Colin?” he said quietly.
When there was no reply, he repeated the name. And did it once more.
There appeared to be no light glowing within, so Nigel summoned a beacon upon his palm, calling up a glow for his eyes. Reaching out, he pulled the tarp aside and led with his hand, the illumination penetrating the dark interior.
Empty.
And indeed, if one didn’t know better, one would think there had been a robbery. There was so little inside. Yes, yes . . . just that field cot with a steamer trunk at its foot. Some leather-bound books. An oil lamp. For the floor, there was not even a woven rug, but merely the grass of the lawn.
Bertie’s and Byron’s quarters, which were on the opposite end of the wall, were as luxurious as Nigel’s own, just kitted out to their individual tastes. And Colin could have had more than this.
Colin could have had the world.
Turning away, Nigel left the tent and went around to the stream. There were towels hanging from tree branches and a set of footprints on the sandy shore.
“Colin . . .” he whispered.
The sound of his own mournful voice was what pulled him up short.
Abruptly, his desperation shocked him and recast his decision to come here in light of the reality of the war: he thought of Jim and Adrian and their weaknesses, weaknesses that were being exposed and exploited by the other side.
He himself was weak when it came to Colin. Which meant he had an unprotected flank.
On a burst of speed, Nigel wheeled about and rushed away, his feet carrying him through the night as he pulled his robes and pride back about him.
The destination of his own quarters was one he must not stray from again.
He was not Adrian. He would not be lost . . . as Adrian was. And he would not be compromised by his emotions as Jim was.
Duty called for such isolation and strength.
And heaven could afford nothing less.
CHAPTER 26
The following morning, Veck sat at his desk, and stared over his Starbucks mug at Bails. The guy’s mouth was moving at a fast clip, his face animated, his hands motioning in circles.
“—the whole goddamn thing blew out.” Bails paused and then waved in Veck’s face. “Hello? Did you hear me?”
“Sorry, what?”
“The entire first floor of Caldwell Bank and Trust at Trade and Thirteenth is in the fucking street.”
Veck shook himself into focus. “What do you mean, ‘in the street’?”
“All the glass of the lobby windows was blown out. There isn’t anything left but the steel frames. Happened sometime before midnight.”
“Was it a bomb?”
“Damnedest bomb anyone’s ever seen. No damage in the lobby—well, some of the waiting area’s chairs had been blown back, but there’s no evidence of a detonation—no ring of impact. There was some weird paint on the lobby floor, sparkly shit that looked like fingernail polish, and the place smelled like a florist’s. But other than that, nothing.”
“Officers on scene check the security tapes?”
“You better believe it, and guess what? The system flickered off at about eleven and stayed that way.”
Veck frowned. “It just went dead?”
“Dead. Even though no power surge in the neighborhood was reported. The lobby lights appear to have been fritzed as well, although no other electricals, or systems, were affected in the place—including their alarm and their computer network. It’s just too fucking weird. How do you lose your vid and nothing else?”
Veck’s nape went tingly on him. For chrissakes, where had he heard that before . . .
“So yeah, it’s weird.”
“That’s one word for it.”
Bails tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “Hey, are you okay?”
Veck turned to his computer and called up his e-mail. “Never been better.”
“If you say so.” There was a pause. “Guess your partner’s going in with Kroner.”
Veck jerked around. “She is?”
“You didn’t know?” Bails shrugged. “De la Cruz texted me late last night. I wanted to go back in there again today, but IA is getting the next crack at him—no doubt to tie you up in a pretty bow of not-the-perp ribbon.”
Fucking hell. The idea of Reilly anywhere near that monster made his blood run cold. “When?”
“Now, I guess.”
And what do you know, his first instinct was to get over to St. Francis at a dead run. Which was no doubt why she hadn’t stopped in this morning and told him where she was going.
“Anyway, I’ll see you. Gotta get back to work.”
instinct, Veck grabbed his phone and checked it. Sure enough there was a text that he hadn’t heard come in and it was from Reilly: I’ll be in late today. R.
“Fuck.”
He looked around, like that was going to do any good. Then he tried to focus on the screen in front of him.
Damn it . . . no way in hell he could sit on his ass stewing while she interviewed a madman.
And, actually . . . this was an opportunity, wasn’t it.
Taking his coffee with him, he walked out of Homicide, hung a louie, and headed for the emergency exit. In the concrete stairwell, he went up two steps at a time, punched through the steel door, and beelined for the evidence room.
Inside, he checked in with the receptionist, did a little small talk—like this was all just routine—and then after an appropriate chat-up, he was inside the stacks.
As a beat cop down in Manhattan, he’d spent a good deal of time handling evidence like bags of drugs, cell phones, and impounded cash—things that were used. Now that he was in Homicide, it was more about bloodied clothes, weapons, and personal effects—things that were left behind.
Heading down the long rows of shelving, he zeroed in on the back of the huge facility where the tables were.
“Hey, Joe,” he said, as he came around a six-foot-tall partition.
The veteran crime scene investigator looked up from a microscope. “Hey.”
“How’s it going?”
“Workin’ our way through.”
As the guy lifted his arms over his head and stretched hard, Veck leaned against the workstation, all casual. “How you holding up?”
“The night shift is easier than the day. Of course, after this week, both suck.”
“There much longer till you’re through it all?”
“Maybe forty-eight hours. There’s a trio of us. We’ve been going around the clock except for last evening.”
Veck looked over the collection of things that had been cataloged and sealed up, as well as the massive tray of preliminarily logged items that were still to be examined and properly bagged.
The investigator used tweezers to take what turned out to be a hair tie from underneath the magnifying sight. After he placed the black twist in a plastic bag, he took a long, thin neon yellow sticker, and went up and over the opening. Then he made a notation with a blue pen on it, signed his initials, and tapped on a laptop’s keyboard. Final step was to pass the bag’s bar code over a reader, the beep signifying that the object was now officially in the system.
Veck took a sip of his coffee. “So I’m working a missing persons case. Young girl.”
“You want to take a gander at what we got?”
“Would you mind?”
“Nope. Just don’t take anything out of here.”
Veck started at the far end of the low-slung shelving that had been temporarily set up. None of the collection had been given a permanent home yet, because everyone from CPDers to the FBI were going to be all over the objects.
Skipping the jars of skin samples—because Cecilia Barten hadn’t had any tattoos—he focused on the multitude of rings, bracelets, barrettes, necklaces. . . .
Where are you, Sissy? he thought to himse
lf.
Bending down, he picked up a clear plastic bag that was sealed with the signature of one of the other investigators. Inside, there was a stained leather wristband that had a skull’s head for a “charm.” Not Cecilia’s style.
He moved on, picking up a silver hoop that had been logged in. In all the pictures at the Bartens’ house, the girl had been wearing gold.
Where are you, Sissy . . . where the hell are you?
Over at St. Francis Hospital, Reilly was all business as she strode down one of the hospital’s thousands of corridors. As she marched along, she passed white coats and blue orderlies and green nurses and casually dressed patients and families.
The ICU she was looking for was all the way down to the right, and she took her badge out as she approached the nurses’ station. A quick conversation later and she was directed down farther, to the left. As she turned the final corner, the guard by the glass cage got to his feet.
“Officer Reilly?” he said.
“That’s me.” She showed him her badge. “How’s he doing?”
The man shook his head. “Just had breakfast.” The clipped answer dripped with disapproval—as if the guard wished the suspect would go on a hunger strike. Or maybe be starved to death. “Guess they’re moving him out of here soon because he’s doing so well. Do you want me in there with you?”
Reilly smiled as she put her badge away and took out a small pad. “I can handle him.”
The private security officer seemed to measure her, but then he nodded. “Yeah, you look like you can.”
“It’s just not appearances. Trust me.”
She opened the glass door, pushed back the pale green curtain—and froze at the sight of a nurse leaning over Kroner. “Oh, I’m sorry—”
The brunette looked over and smiled. “Please come in, Officer Reilly.”
As Reilly stared into eyes that were so black, they appeared to have no iris at all, she felt an irrational bolt of terror: Every instinct in her body told her to run. Fast as she could go. As far away as she could get. Except Kroner was the one she needed to be wary of—not some woman who was just doing her job.
“Ah . . . why don’t I come back,” Reilly said.