by J. R. Ward
Can't you see? She's in me--and she's taking over.
Fuck.
At least he had an outlet: The good thing about the garage was that it was all the way at the back of a farmhouse property--and the white main house with its porch and its redbrick chimney had been empty since he'd started renting here.
No one was going to see. But that wasn't good enough.
Shoving his free hand into his combats, he took out a suppressor. The silencer added ten ounces in weight to the autoloader and changed the balance, but he was used to the weapon like that.
Now, no one would hear, either.
Standing on the loose pea gravel of the drive, he took a drag of his cigarette and then held the thing in his left hand. Focusing on a branch that was thirty feet from the ground, he lifted his weapon and locked in on the one-inch-thick stretch of oak.
Breathing calmly, he closed his eyes and pictured Devina's face.
Crack!
Thanks to the suppressor, there was no noise from the gun, no pop, just the kick against his palm, and the impact on the wood.
Crack!
The trigger, like the grip and the barrel, was not only an extension of his arm, but his body, and he didn't need his eyes to readjust the trajectory. He knew exactly where the lead was going.
Crack!
Calm. Centered. Breathing in the belly, not the chest. Unmoving, except for his forefinger and then his forearm muscles as they absorbed the subtle recoil of the gun.
The impact of the final bullet was softer, but then again, there wasn't much wood left.
He opened his eyes just as the branch went into free fall, bouncing down through the arms of its brethren, delayed, but not stopped from the hard ground.
Putting his Marlboro back between his teeth, he crushed the fallen pine needles and the scratchy grass under his combat boots as he went over and picked the thing up. Clean cut, relatively speaking. Nothing like what a saw would have done, but considering the distance and the means, it was good enough--
"You are an excellent shot."
The haughty English accent coming from behind him made Jim want to keep squeezing off bullets. "Nigel."
"Have I caught you at an inopportune moment?"
"I still have seven bullets left. You decide."
"Devina has been reprimanded." As Jim spun around and narrowed his eyes on the aristocratic archangel, Nigel nodded. "I wanted you to know that. I thought it was rather important for you to know that."
"Worried that I'm going off the rails?"
"But of course."
Jim had to smile. "You can be a straight shooter when it suits you. So what's your Maker done to my enemy?"
"She's your opponent--"
"Enemy."
Nigel clasped his hands behind his back and went on a quaint little walkabout, his lean figure dressed in the kind of hand-tailored suit Jim was totally unfamiliar with, and fully prepared to stay that way.
"What's the matter, boss," Jim muttered. "Cat got your tongue?"
The archangel shot over a look that might have dropped him dead if he'd been alive in the conventional sense. "You are not the only one with a temper, and I should remind you to watch your tone and words with me."
Jim tucked the weapon into the small of his back. "Fine. Let's drop the small talk. What can I do for you?"
"Nothing. I simply thought it would ease you to know that the Maker has taken action. I told you to let the demon overstep the boundaries. I told you to wait for the response, and it has come."
"What did He do to her?"
"The wins and losses that you both have sustained are permanent. There is naught that He nor any of us can do about where the flags have gone--they are immutable. But He hath decreed that her actions cannot lay unaddressed--"
"Wait, I don't get it. If what Devina did affected the outcome of a round, then her win should be yanked."
"That is not how this contest is set up. The wins are..." The archangel looked to the heavens. "The parallel would be personal property, I suppose."
"Mine?"
"In a manner of speaking, I would say yes."
"So if she fucked off the rules, and it changed the result, the Maker should give me back what's rightfully mine. And while we're at it, I'd like to point out that if I'd known who the damn soul had been when it came to Matthias, I wouldn't have been focused on the wrong man."
"And that has been redressed."
"How?"
In the far distance, on the other side of the meadow, a car turned in from the main road and started on the lane that went past the farmhouse.
Shit. Visitors were so not welcome--and the yellow color suggested it was a cab.
The thing didn't stop at the main residence.
Nigel cocked a brow. "I believe it shall be self-evident."
On that oh-so-clear note, his boss disappeared.
"Thanks, buddy," Jim muttered. "Big help. As fucking usual."
Ducking around the corner, Jim nailed his shoulder blades to the aluminum siding. The gun didn't stay in his waistband. Once again in his hand, he was prepared to shoot.
The taxi rolled to a halt in front of the garage.
A moment later, a man he never expected to see again got out of the backseat...a nightmare who lived and breathed...a blast from the past that he'd just frickin' dealt with.
This was the solution for Devina's cheating on the rules?
"Mother...fucker..." Jim hissed.
As Matthias got out of the cab, he told the driver to wait. The garage ahead of him was two stories of utility, with a set of stairs that ran up to its second story on the left. The double doors on the ground level were closed; same with the one at the top landing. Curtains were drawn--
Upstairs in the picture window, thin drapes parted and a scruffy dog appeared, as if it were standing up with its paws on the sill.
Someone clearly lived here.
"Tell the cab to go."
Matthias's head ripped around to the right--and the man who stepped out from behind the lee of the building made him reach out for balance, his memory popping up an instant, vivid recognition.
Jim Heron. Back from the dead.
And from what Matthias's gut told him, the guy looked as he always had, that big, muscled body, the dark blond hair, the hard, cold face. There was no context, however, no running internal commentary on how he knew the man, or what they had done or seen together. One thing was clear, however...gun aside, it was obvious this was not the kind of guy you wanted to be around if you were unarmed and without an escape vehicle.
Matthias knocked on the window, gave a twenty to the cabbie, and sent the taxi packing.
As the thing K-turned and went off down the driveway, the sound of its tires crackling across the gravel seemed as loud as rounds of ammunition.
"Is that a gun by your leg or are you just glad to see me?" Matthias said dryly.
"It's a gun. And you want to tell me what you're doing here?"
"I would if I could. Maybe you can help me with that one?"
"What?" When Matthias didn't answer, Heron's cynical baby blues narrowed further. "You're serious. That's an honest question."
Matthias shrugged. "Interpret it as you will. And while you're stewing, I'd like to point out that you're supposed to be dead."
"How did you find me?"
"Information. In a manner of speaking."
As Heron came forward, Matthias noted that the position of that gun with its silencer changed so the barrel was pointing right at his own chest. And he was willing to bet what was left of his nuts that the trigger could be pulled in an instant. Which meant either this soldierlike man was paranoid...or for some reason, he thought Matthias was dangerous.
"I'm unarmed," Matthias announced.
"Not like you."
That forty didn't lower; that body didn't ease; those eyes didn't lose their warning look.
"You don't believe me," Matthias said.
"After everything we've been thr
ough? Not in the slightest, old friend."
"Were we friends?"
"No, you're right. We were a lot of things, but never that." Heron shook his head. "Goddamn, every time I don't expect to see you again, here you are."
Heron knew the answers, Matthias thought. The man right in front of him was the path to finding out who he was.
"Well," Matthias murmured, "considering you're still breathing, but I was at your grave about an hour ago, I'm not the only one pulling rabbits out of hats. You mind telling me the last time we saw each other?"
"Are you fucking serious?" When he nodded, Heron shook his head again. "You're saying you don't remember."
Matthias put out his hands, palms up. "I got nada."
Calculation was replaced by a brief surprise. "Jesus."
"I wouldn't know. My driver's license says 'Matthias.'"
The laughter that came back at him was chilly. "Mind if I pat you down?"
Matthias balanced his cane against his leg and lifted his arms. "Have at it."
Jim did the deed one-handed, and when he stepped back, there was curse. "Clearly you have lost your mind."
"No, only my memory. And I need you to tell me who I am."
There was a long silence, like Heron was trying to poke holes in the story in his head. Finally, the guy said, "We'll see about any information dump on your past. But I will help you. That, you can take to the bank."
"Not good enough. I need the intel. Now."
"Do you really feel like you're in a position to make demands?"
As Jim led his former boss, Matthias the Fucker, upstairs to the apartment, he was suffering from a serious case of the can't-believes. And yet no matter how much his brain cramped, it looked like pigs could fly, there was a snowball in Hell, and somewhere across town, a twelve-year-old dog was learning how to drive a goddamn car.
Was this what Nigel had been talking about? The redo for round two in the game?
You will recognize him as an old friend and an old foe who you have seen of late. The path could not be more obvious if it were spotlit.
Seemed like focusing on the wrong soul wasn't going to be a problem in this round--assuming Nigel's doublespeak was right and Matthias was, once again, the one on deck.
Which was not such a great way of penalizing Devina. Damn it.
Although the good news, if there was any in this particular back-from-beyond scenario, was the memory loss. The old Matthias would never have copped to a weakness like amnesia, so it was probably legit--and God knew that informational black hole was a leg up.
This way Jim only had to work against nature.
The nurture, on top of all that, had been...horrific.
Jim opened the door and stood aside. "Humble abode and all that."
As Matthias limped into the studio, Dog rushed over and wagged a greeting, paws skidding on the floorboards.
Given the happy/happy, it was obvious Devina wasn't inside the other man's suit of flesh. Nice tip.
Jim shut the door, and watched his former boss. Same limp. Same voice. Same face. Sunglasses weren't a big surprise given the condition the guy's eye was in. "I'd offer you some food, but I have to wait for my roommate to get back. You're welcome to my couch in the meantime."
Matthias groaned as he sat down. "Still a smoker," he said, nodding to the carton on the table.
"Thought you didn't remember shit."
"Some things...they come back."
Jim went over to the galley kitchen and parked it against the sink. For some reason, he wanted to be closer to Eddie. "So let's start with exactly what you do remember."
"I know I woke up on your grave."
"Dead is relative."
"So we're both miracles."
Jim lifted a brow. "At least one of us is. We'll have to see about the other. How'd you find me?"
"Information."
"This phone isn't under my name."
"You gave it to your last employer. I went to the library, reversed the number on the Internet and here you are. Not very good camouflage."
"I'm not hiding from anyone."
"Then why are you dead but living."
"Let's stay focused on you, shall we."
"Okay, so why are you afraid of me." As Jim gritted his molars, Matthias smiled in the way he always had, showing all his sharp white teeth. "That's not memory, by the way. It's the gun in your hand. We're in your humble, out of sight--if I weren't a threat, you'd put it down."
Fucker.
Motherfucker.
Even with amnesia, the guy was a bastard.
On that note, Jim walked over, keeping eye contact with the dark Ray-Bans the man had on. With the suppressed muzzle pointing at Matthias, he put the weapon on the coffee table and pushed it across the pitted wood.
"Help yourself."
"You're giving me a gun."
"Sure, why not. Think of it as a homecoming gift."
"Am I home?"
"Not in this particular place--you can't stay here, and haven't. Ever."
Matthias smiled a little. "Well, I don't want to stay at my house."
"Where's that exactly."
The guy reached into his pocket, took out a wallet, and flipped a driver's license onto the table by the forty.
Jim looked at the ID. It was well-done, with the proper holograms. Last name wasn't right, of course, but the first one and the picture were.
"What do you know about me?" the man demanded.
"Nice mug shot," Jim said as he eased back.
"Not asking you about my future as a model. And why are you avoiding my questions."
"I'm trying to decide how to play this."
"Are we in a game?"
"Yes, we are. And it's got stakes you can't begin to guess at." Jim decided to sit down beside his guest. "Like I said, why don't we start with what you remember."
Those sunglasses lowered as if the man were staring at the floor. Maybe his boots. The cane?
"I was hit by a car outside of Pine Grove Cemetery last night and woke up in the hospital with no clue who or where I was. Today, I backtracked as much as I could and found your grave." The Ray-Bans swung back up and around. "I knew your name the instant I saw it. Knew you as well, the second you stepped into sight."
Jim poker-faced it. "Not a surprise--the pair of us go way back. And that's why I'm going to help you."
"So tell me how I got..." Matthias's hand made an awkward sweep of himself. "All this."
"The injuries?"
"No, my tutu and ballet slippers. What the fuck do you think."
"Take off the glasses."
"Why."
"I want to look you in the eye when I answer."
The hand that lifted shook, but he was willing to bet it was a physical weakness, not a mental one. And what was revealed was exactly the way it had been.
"How did the injuries happen," his former boss repeated in a deep voice.
"You tried to kill yourself in front of me. You planted a bomb in the sand and stepped on the fucker right in front of me."
Matthias looked down at his legs, his brows going tight, like he was playing hunt-and-peck with his mental keyboard. "Why did I do that?"
How to answer that one without giving too much away. "You hated the man you were. You couldn't keep going anymore, and you set it up so you didn't have to."
"I didn't die, though."
"Not then, no." Jim got to his feet. "Roommate's back."
A split second later, the sound of a Harley percolated through the windows, getting louder until it rumbled to a halt below.
"You have a good sense of hearing," Matthias remarked.
Jim faced off at the man, wondering exactly how to make the situation work to his advantage. With a sly smile, he murmured, "It's the least of my tricks."
"You want me to do what?"
In reply, a L'Oreal box was thrown out of the shadows, and as the woman caught it, she thought...Yeah, wow, great start to the night. She was already tired, cranked of
f, and ready for it to be one a.m. with her shift over--and this "client" was some freak into hair color?
She was so done with this whore thing; she really was. She was sick of seedy, dark motel rooms, and ugly men with bright ideas--and don't get her started on her "manager."
"You want me to color my hair blond. For real."
A fan of five hundred dollars appeared from out of the corner, the light falling from the ceiling fixture making the bills glow in the dim room. It sure seemed like Benjis from heaven, baby--especially considering the dumb-ass had already paid that to be allowed to come here to this downtown rent-by-the-hour with her.
"Okay, fine." She walked over and snatched the bills. "Anything else?"
The deep voice was quiet. "I want you to blow it dry straight."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"No sex."
"I don't want you for that, no."
A shiver started at her tramp stamp and chillied up her spine to the nape of her neck. But there was nothing to worry about. There were girls in the rooms on either side of them, and her boss man was out in the parking lot no more than twelve feet away. Plus she carried Mace.
What was he going to do to her.
Muttering under her breath, she went into the bathroom and flicked on the light. In the mirror, she looked like she was forty, with bags under her eyes and hair the consistency of corn husks. The good news was that she did need to touch up her roots--there was a road map straight down her side part, mucky brunette showing at the scalp. But not because she was pulling a Marilyn Monroe.
She'd liked being a redhead. And damn, if her hair was already brittle as hell, this wasn't going to help--
Oh, look, it came with a conditioner. Sweet.
She laid out the squeeze bottle full of creamy shit, the tin tube of color, and the squat thing of postblond goo. Reading the directions took a little time, because she'd always sucked at the whole letter/word stuff, but this wasn't rocket science.
Through the open doorway, she saw that the client had sat down in that far corner, his boots planted widely apart, his hands resting on his knees instead of at his groin. Not much showed of him, the light from above reaching up only so far on his legs. Better that way--made him more anonymous.
Funny, she hadn't remembered these rooms being this dark.
Getting back to business, she punctured the top of the tube with the plastic cap, squeezed the stinky crap into the bottle with the pointy top, and then shook the mixture like she was giving someone a hand job. The plastic gloves were on the back of the directions, and she pushed her hands into them. Thank God they were big, because there was room at the top for her fake nails.