Crave fa-2

by J. R. Ward

  Stillness was a killer.

  And it turned the Crown Victoria into a coffin—

  His phone rang and he knew who it was before he checked. And no, it wasn’t going to be the people he’d just spoken with. He’d finished his business with them.

  Matthias answered on the third ring, just before voice mail kicked in. “Alistair Childe. What a surprise.”

  The shocked silence was so satisfying. “How did you know it was me?”

  “You don’t honestly think I would let just anyone get through to this phone.” As Matthias stared through the windshield at the funeral home, he found it ironic that the pair of them were talking in front of the thing—given that he’d put the man’s son in one. “Everything’s on my terms. Everything.”

  “So you know why I’ve spent all day trying to find you.”

  Yes, he did. And he’d deliberately made himself hard to reach for the guy: He firmly believed that people were like pieces of meat; the longer they stewed, the softer they became.

  The tastier, too.

  “Oh, Albie, of course I’m aware of your situation.” A soft rain started to fall, the drops dappling the glass. “You’re worried about the man who stayed with your daughter last evening.” Another shot of quiet. “You didn’t know that he’d been there at your house all night? Well, children don’t always tell their parents everything, do they.”

  “She’s not involved. I promise you, she knows nothing—”

  “She didn’t tell you she had a guest during the dark hours. How can you really trust her?”

  “You can’t have her.” The man’s voice cracked. “You took my son. . . . You cannot have her.”

  “I can have anyone. And I can take anyone. You know that now, don’t you.”

  Abruptly, Matthias became aware of a strange sensation in his left arm. Glancing down, he saw his fist had cranked on the steering wheel so hard his biceps were doing the shimmy.

  He willed the grip to release . . . but it didn’t.

  Bored with his body’s little spasms and tics, he ignored this newest one. “Here’s what you have to do if you want to be certain about your daughter. Give me Isaac Rothe and I go away. It’s just that simple. Get me what I want, and I leave your girl alone.”

  At that moment, the entire block went dark—courtesy of his little phone call.

  “You know I mean every word,” Matthias said, going for his cane. “Don’t make me kill another Childe.”

  He hung up and put the phone back in his coat.

  Swinging his door wide, he groaned as he got out, and chose to stick to the concrete sidewalk as opposed to the lawn, even though it was a less direct route to the back. His body ambulating over grass? Not a good thing.

  After picking the dead bolt on the rear door—which proved that even though he was the boss, he hadn’t lost his nuts-and-bolts training—he sipped inside the funeral home and set about finding the body of the soldier who had saved him.

  Confirming the identity of Jim Heron’s “corpse” felt as necessary as drawing his next breath.

  Back in Boston, in that defense attorney’s rear garden, Jim braced himself for the fight that was coming, literally, on the wind.

  “It’s just like killing a human,” Eddie shouted over the gale. “Go for the center of the chest—watch out for the blood, though.”

  “The bitches are sloppy as shit.” Adrian’s grin had an edge of madness to it, his eyes sparkling with unholy light. “It’s why we wear leather.”

  As the brick house’s kitchen door slammed shut, and the lights went out, Jim prayed that Isaac kept himself and that woman in there.

  Because the enemy had arrived.

  From the midst of the shoving gusts, black shadows rippled over the ground and boiled up, forming shapes that became solid. No faces, no hands, no feet—no clothes, duh. But they did have arms and legs and a head, which he guessed ran the program God, the stink. They smelled like rotten garbage, a combination of sulfurous egg and sweaty, spoiled meat, and they growled as wolves did when hunting in a coordinated pack.

  This was evil up and moving, darkness in tangible form, a four-set of nasty, festering infection that made him want to take a bath in bleach.

  Just as he settled into his fighting stance, the back of his neck went off, that ringing alarm he’d felt the night before tweaking its way into the base of his brain. His eyes shot up to the house in a fuck-no . . . except he was certain that wasn’t the source.

  Whatever—he needed his game head on big-time.

  As one of the shadows rolled up into his space, Jim didn’t wait for the first strike—not his style. He swung wide with his crystal knife and kept going as he ducked under a blow that snapped out farther than he’d expected.

  Got some elastic in ’em evidently.

  Jim did make contact, though, nicking something that caused a spray of liquid to shoot in his direction. In midair, the splash morphed into buckshot pellets that then dissolved when they hit him. The sting was instant and intense.

  “Fuck!” He shook off his hand, momentarily distracted by the smoke rising from his exposed skin.

  The blow landed on the side of his face and made his head ring like a bell—proving that he might be an angel and all that shit, but his nervous system was still decidedly human. He immediately went on the offensive, outing a second knife and double-blading the bastard, forcing the thing into the bushes while he ducked those punches.

  As they engaged, the back of his neck continued to holler, but he couldn’t afford to be distracted.

  Fight what was in front of you first. Then deal with what came next.

  Jim was the first one to get a kill in. He lunged when his opponent arched forward, his crystal dagger going in at the gut level. As a rainbow explosion of light flared, he twisted away, covering his face with his arm to block the deadly spray, his leather-covered shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. The splattering of shit steamed and stunk like battery acid—burned like it, too, as the blood of the demon ate through the cowhide and headed for his skin.

  He immediately fell back into fighting stance, but the other three oilers were covered: Adrian was handling a pair and Eddie was all over his guy . . . demon . . . whatever the fuck it was.

  With a curse, Jim reached up and rubbed his nape. The sensation had graduated from tingle to roar, and he bowed under the agony now that his adrenaline ebbed a little. God, it just got worse . . . to the point where he couldn’t handle it and sank down on his knees.

  Putting his palm on the ground and bracing himself, it dawned on him what was doing. In a case of perfectly bad timing, Matthias had acted on the spell he’d put on his corpse back in Caldwell—

  “Go!” Eddie hissed as he slashed and retracted. “We’ve got this! You get to Matthias.”

  At that moment, Adrian offed one of his pair, his crystal dagger going deep into the thing’s chest before he jumped up onto the stoop to avoid the spray. The sprinkle of buckshot hit the other demon he was fighting—

  Oh, shit. The black oily bastard absorbed the spray—and doubled in size.

  Jim glanced back Eddie, but the angel barked, “Go! I’m telling—” Eddie dodged a strike and threw one of his own with his free fist. “You can’t fight like this!”

  Jim didn’t want to leave them, but he was quickly becoming worse than useless—his buddies were going to have to defend him if this ringy-ding-ding got any more acute.

  “Go!” Eddie shouted.

  Jim cursed, but stood up, unfurled his wings, and took off in a shimmer . . .

  Caldwell, New York, was more than two hundred miles west—assuming you were a human on foot, bike, horse-back, or in a car. Angel Airlines covered the distance in the blink of an eye.

  As he touched down on the front lawn of McCready’s joint, he saw the unmarked parked at the curb . . . and the fact that an entire block was without electricity . . . and knew he was right.

  Matthias had come calling.

  Just the man’s sty
le.

  Jim headed across the grass, and felt like he was going back in time . . . to that night in the desert that had changed everything for him and Matthias.

  Yeah, his summoning spell had worked.

  The question was what to do with his prey.

  CHAPTER 24

  Standing in Grier’s kitchen, Isaac totally approved of the way she took care of business. In the midst of the chaos, she was calm as she worked the phone and the security system: A quick one, two, three, and she had cut off the fire alarm, called in a false report, and reset the system. And she did it all crouched behind the counters, protected and hidden.

  Definitely his kind of woman.

  With her on top of things, he was free to try to figure out what the hell was doing in her backyard. Twisting around so that his body remained tucked away, he searched through the glass . . . but all he got was just the wind and a whole lot of shadows.

  Yet his instincts were screaming.

  What was Jimmy doing back there with his buddies? Who had shown up? Matthias’s crew usually rolled up in unlicensed unmarkeds. They didn’t hop on broomsticks and dive-bomb from out of a stormy sky. Besides, there was no one out there anymore that he could see.

  As time dragged and a whole lot of nothing-but-wind went on, he thought maybe he’d lost his mind altogether.

  “You okay?” he whispered without turning around.

  There was a rustling and then Grier was shoulder-to-shoulder beside him on the floor. “What’s going on? Can you see anything?”

  He noted she didn’t answer the question—but come on, like she had to? “It’s nothing we need to be a part of.”

  Nothing, period, it seemed. Although . . . well, actually, if he squinted, the shadows did seem to form patterns consistent with fighters engaging in hand-to-hand combat. Except, of course, there was nobody out there—and he was seeing logic to the way things moved. To get the effect he was seeing, a legion of lights would have had to be shining in from all different directions to get even close to the optics.

  “This doesn’t feel right to me,” Grier said.

  “I agree.” He looked over at her. “But I’m going to take care of you.”

  “I thought you were going to leave.”

  “I didn’t.” The couldn’t part was something he kept to himself. “I’m not going to let anything hurt you.”

  Her head tilted to the side as she stared at him. “You know . . . I believe you.”

  “You can bet your life on it.”

  In a quick move, he put his mouth to hers on a hard kiss to seal the deal. And then just as he was pulling back, the wind stopped—sure as if the industrial fan causing all the blowing had been unplugged: In the back forty, there was nothing but utter silence.

  What the hell was going on?

  “Stay here,” he said as he stood up.

  Naturally, she didn’t take the order, but rose to her feet, her hands resting on his shoulder as if she were prepared to tail him. He didn’t like it, but he knew arguing wasn’t going to get him anywhere—the best he could do was keep his chest and shoulders front and center to block any shot at her.

  He inched forward until he could see outside better. The shadows had disappeared and the tree limbs and bushes were still. Distant sounds of traffic and the far-off wail of an ambulance were once again an ambient city song playing like Muzak all around the neighborhood.

  He glanced over at her. “I’m going out there. Can you handle a firearm?” When she nodded, he took out one of his two guns. “Have this.”

  She didn’t hesitate, but man, he hated the sight of her pale, elegant hands on his weapon.

  He nodded down at the thing. “Point and shoot using both palms. Safety’s off. We clear?”

  When she nodded, he kissed her again because he just had to; then he moved her back into position in the shelter of the floor cabinets. From that vantage point, she could see anyone coming in from the front or the rear, but also cover the interior door that he had a feeling led to the basement stairs.

  Palming his other gun, he exited in a quick shift—

  His first breath brought an unholy stench into his sinuses and down the back of his throat. What the . . . ? It was like a chemical spill—

  From out of nowhere, one of the pair who’d been with Jim appeared. It was the guy with the braid and he looked like he’d been spray-painted with WD-40—and had dry ice shoved in all his pockets: Tendrils of smoke were steaming up from his leather jacket, and shit . . . the smell.

  Before Isaac could what-the-fuck him, Jim’s boy cut the question off. “Do us a favor and stay put. Coast is clear for now, though. If you understand what I’m saying.”

  As Isaac met the man’s eyes, there was no question that even though they were strangers, they spoke the same language: The guy was a soldier.

  “You want to tell me what the hell just happened out here?”

  “Nope. But I wouldn’t mind some white vinegar if she has it?”

  Isaac frowned. “No offense, but I think making salad dressing is the least of your concerns, buddy. Your jacket needs a hose-down.”

  “I’ve got burns to take care of.”

  Sure enough, on the side of his neck and on his hands there were raw, red patches on his skin. As if he’d been hit with some kind of acid.

  Hard to argue with the steaming bastard, considering he was injured. “Give me a sec.”

  Ducking back in the house, Isaac cleared his throat. “Ah . . . do you have any white vinegar?”

  Grier blinked and then pointed with the gun muzzle to the sink. “I use it to clean the hardwood. But why?”

  “Damned if I know.” He headed for the sink and found a huge jug with a Heinz label on it. “But they want some.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Friends of a friend.”

  “Are they okay?”

  “Yeah.” Assuming the definition of okay included a section for roasty-toasted.

  Outside, he handed over the stuff, which was promptly thrown around like cool water on a sweaty football player. It did kill the smoking and the stench, though, on both Braid Guy and the pincushion.

  “What about the neighbors,” Isaac said, glancing around. The brick-to-window ratio on the backs of the buildings worked in their favor, but the noise . . . the smell.

  “We’ll take care of them,” Braid Guy answered. Like it was no biggie and something they’d done before.

  What kind of war were they fighting? Isaac thought. Was there another organization past XOps? He’d always assumed Matthias was the shadiest of the shady. But maybe here was another level. Maybe that was how Jim had gotten out.

  “Where’s Heron?” he asked them.

  “He’ll be back.” The one with the piercings returned the vinegar. “You just stay where you are and take care of her. We got you.”

  Isaac waved his gun back and forth. “Who the hell are you?”

  Mr. Braid, who seemed the leveler of the pair, said, “Just part of Jim’s little group.”

  At least that made some sense. Even though they’d clearly been in a rough-and-tumble, neither seemed bothered at all. No wonder Jim worked with them.

  And Isaac had a feeling he knew what they were doing—Jim might just be after Matthias. Which would certainly explain the guy’s desire to get involved and play Orbitz with the plane tickets.

  “You need another soldier?” Isaac asked, only half-joking.

  The two glanced at each other and then back to him. “Not our call,” they said in unison.

  “Jim’s?”

  “Mostly,” Mr. Braid replied. “And you’ve got to be dying to get in—”

  “Isaac? Who are you talking to?”

  As Grier walked out of the kitchen, he wished like hell she’d stay inside. “No one. Let’s head back into the house.”

  Turning to good-bye Jim’s boys, he froze. Nobody was around. Heron’s wingmen were gone.

  Yup, whoever and whatever they were, they were definitely his k
ind of soldiers.

  Isaac went up to Grier and walked them both back inside. As he threw the lock and turned on one track of lighting waaaaaay across the room, he grimaced. Man, the kitchen didn’t smell much better than those two out back had: burned egg, charred bacon, and blackened butter were not a party for the ol’ sniffer.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, even though once again the answer was self-evident.

  “Are you?”

  He ran his eyes down her from head to foot. She was alive and he was with her and they were safe in this fortress of a house. “I’m better.”

  “What’s in the backyard.”

  “Friends.” He took his gun back. “Who want both of us to be safe.”

  To keep himself from dragging her into his arms, he sheathed both guns in his windbreaker and picked the pan off the stove. Dumping the remains of her almost-dinner in the sink, he washed the thing out.

  “Before you ask,” he murmured, “I don’t know anything more than you do.”

  Which was essentially true. Sure, he had a leg up on her when it came to certain things—but as for the shit in the backyard? Fucking. Clueless.

  He popped a dish towel off a hook and . . . realized she hadn’t said anything for a while.

  Pivoting around, he saw that she had taken a seat on one of the stools and wrapped her arms around herself. She was utterly self-contained, having retreated into her skin and turned to stone.

  “I’m trying . . .” She cleared her throat. “I’m really trying to understand all this.”

  He brought the pan back over to the stove and braced himself on his arms, thinking here it was again, the great divide between the civilian and the soldier. This chaos and scramble and deadly danger? To him, it was business as usual.

  Except it was killing her.

  Like a complete lame-ass, he said, “You want to give dinner another shot?”

  Grier shook her head. “Being in a parallel universe where everything looks like your life, but is actually something else entirely is an appetite killer.”

  “Been there.” He nodded. “Done that.”