by J. R. Ward
“Oh, man, Devina’s all over that one,” Ad muttered as he walked over to the remains.
“What the hell are you doing with that dagger?” Isaac demanded.
Well, matter of fact, he was going to do a quick exorcism. It was the only way to make sure that Devina was out of—
The first clue to the corpse’s reanimation was a twitching in the hands. And then in a rush, that godforsaken piece of meat picked itself off the ground and managed to focus the one eyeball that appeared to be working.
And didn’t that just remind him of Matthias.
Isaac let out a shout and fired his weapon, but that was like shooting a rubber band at a charging bull: The bull didn’t notice and you just lost what had held your newspaper together in a tidy roll.
Jim shoved the soldier out of the way and attacked in a lunge, his body tackling the zombie into the wall. The moment impact was made, the image of Devina’s face overlaid the decimated features of the man whose body she’d taken control of, the morphing reconfigurement smiling in satisfaction at him.
Like she’d won already.
Jim went for the stab in a quick, powerful jab, the crystal knife penetrating between the set of eyes that were corporeal as well as the pair that were metaphysical.
A screeching sound exploded from the zombie and a shaft of black smoke shot up in a vile stench, the dark fog coalescing, and then making a beeline for the front door. At the last second, it flashed under the wooden panels, sure as if it had been sucked out from the other side—and in its absence, the body of Matthias’s second in command crashed to the floor like the bag of bones it was, the source of its animation no longer held within the bounds of its flesh.
“Now it’s fucking dead,” Jim said as he breathed heavily.
In the shocked silence that followed, he looked over his shoulder at Isaac. The guy’s eyes could have given truck tires a run for the money in the diameter department, and water was dripping off of him, Adrian and Eddie having emptied the barrels of their crystal guns over his head to protect him.
Good move. Except . . . the evil hadn’t even tried to go for the soldier. It had taken off in the opposite direction.
Jim’s mental circuits went Las Vegas on him, his instincts screaming that this was wrong. All wrong. Second chance at getting to Isaac . . . and Devina had passed. Again.
Why had—
Like a curtain being wrenched back from a window, the landscape of the game suddenly became clear to him and what he saw rocked him to the core. Holy fucking shit . . .
Abruptly unsteady, he threw his hand out and caught himself on the wall.
“You are not the one,” he said bleakly to Rothe. “Oh, God save us all, you’re not the one.”
As Grier Childe burst into the archway in from the kitchen, Isaac spoke up. “We’re okay. Everyone’s okay.”
Which was only accurate to a point. Sure, Devina had apparently pulled an Elvis and left the building. And yeah, no one in the group glowed with an unholy shadow and Jim’s neck was no longer doing the OMGs. But they were far from hunky-dory.
The urgent question now became . . . who was that demon after? Which soul were they fighting over?
The cell phone, Jim thought.
As all kinds of people started talking and the air filled with voices, he put the noise out of his head and sunk down on his haunches. From beside the now twice-dead body, he picked the phone up off the floor and went into the sent box for texts.
He recognized the last number that had been hit immediately.
Matthias had gotten the picture.
The cold clarity that came upon Jim brought with it a kind of terror: He’d been trying to save the target . . . when all along, he should have been focused on the shooter.
CHAPTER 42
Reflex, not reflection.
That was where Isaac was as he stood in Grier’s hall with some kind of solution dripping off his nose and chin.
His brain could have spent a decade or two trying to figure out what the fuck he’d just seen, but that would have required time he didn’t have. As much as he didn’t understand—and that black hole was on a football-stadium scale—he was going to have to rely on what his eyes had shown him and leave it at that: He had witnessed a dead man get up; he had shot the bastard; and the only thing that had refloored the corpse had been some kind of glass or crystal knife. Then something had left the body and escaped out under the front door.
It was kind of like sKillerz, when you went into the paranormal-world part of the game. With a flick of the switch, the normal rules went into the shitter and you stepped into an alternate universe where people could disappear right in front of you and vampires lived in the shadows and pale men came after you instead of humans.
Of course, that was role play that you could turn off—and there was no pause button on this sitch. Which was why he wasn’t going to waste a lot of energy figuring it all out. Yeah, sure, maybe after this was over he’d ask Jim what the hell had just happened . . . but that was only if there was an “afterward.”
With the way things were going, some portion of the people standing in this hall might well be headed for an “afterlife.”
“Where did it go?” he asked Jim. “Not that black thing—the picture.”
As Jim looked up from the cell phone, the second in command’s words came back: Matthias is not in charge. So that meant some other mastermind was engineering a certain result by hitting the levers and pulleys of various puppets and scenes.
“Who?” he repeated.
“Matthias got it,” Heron said, getting to his feet.
“Is Matthias . . . one of those?” As Isaac pointed to the pop-up corpse, he thought it was just fucking great to be in a situation where there were no terms to describe anything.
“He wasn’t when I saw him last night.”
Well, maybe that explained why the guy’s face had been used as a punching bag. And yup, if both of them lived through this, Jim so had some explaining to do.
“Are you one of them?” Isaac demanded.
Cue the Jeopardy theme as Jim looked over at his two buddies and then at Grier and her father. “After a fashion, yes. But we’re on the other side.”
Isaac shook his head and left all that for later. What was more important was the path that was being constructed by the series of events: “Matthias gets that picture and he’ll think I killed . . . him . . . it . . . whatever.”
And step two in the extrapolation? Matthias would really be gunning for him now.
“Who are you calling?” he asked as Jim put that phone up to his ear like he was making a call.
The guy mouthed, Matthias . . . and then the next thing that came out of his mouth was a curse. “Fucking voice mail.”
As the others continued talking, Isaac pulled Heron aside. “I’m ‘not the one.’ Tell me what it means.”
“We don’t have that kind of time—”
“We’ve got a minute and a half. I’ll guarantee it.”
“And that won’t cover anything at all.” Jim’s eyes bored into Isaac’s. “Do you remember what I told you when I first saw you? That I wasn’t going to let anything happen to you? I still mean it. But I have to go.”
Isaac squeezed the guy’s arm, holding him in place. “Where?”
Jim glanced at his buddies. “I’ve got to get to Matthias. I think she’s after him.”
Who was she, Isaac wondered. And then it dawned on him.
“You don’t have to go anywhere then. You want to see him?” He pulled out that Life Alert and let it dangle off its chain as he pointed to his own chest. “You have your bait right here.”
In the end, it turned out Grier needed the suitcase she’d packed.
She was going to her father’s to stay out in Lincoln for a couple of days—and Isaac and Jim were remaining behind here in her house to face that man, Matthias. Although it felt odd to be giving her family’s home over to relative strangers, the reality was that the place offered way
s of exit that would make things safer for the two men.
And regardless of what she thought of them, she wasn’t going to be a party to their deaths if there was something she could do about it.
Tragically, there was no more talk about coming forward and her father had called off his contacts. Isaac wasn’t going to say a word about anything and her father didn’t know enough to do any real damage—so the risks, as balanced against the likely benefits, just couldn’t be justified.
Which flat-out sucked. But that was the real world for you.
Staring at her suitcase, she decided leaving here actually had a lot of benefits. She didn’t want to stick around during the removal of that body—no need to see that on a good day, much less with the way things had been going. Besides, she just plain needed a break. When this stuff with Isaac had started, it had been so familiar, all the keyed-up exhaustion, the block and tackle of events and crises. But she was tired . . . and determined to stick to her new conviction: Time to pull out, pull away, leave behind.
So she was heading for Lincoln with a heavy heart, but eyes that were wide open.
Grabbing the second season of Three’s Company from her bookshelf, she unlatched her suitcase to put it in—
Grier stiffened and braced herself.
This time, for once, she knew that Isaac was standing in the doorway to her bedroom—even though he hadn’t knocked.
Looking over her shoulder, she saw that his hair was curling up from whatever had been poured over his head and his stare was as intense as ever.
“I came to say good-bye,” he murmured quietly, that delicious Southern drawl weaving through the deep, low words. “And to tell you that I’m sorry I lied to you.”
As he took a step into her room, she turned back to the suitcase, slid the DVD inside, and shut the lid. “Are you.”
“Yes.”
She clicked both locks into place. “You know, the part I don’t understand is why you bothered. If you never had any intention of going through with it, why did you talk to my father? Or was it to get at him? Figure out how much he knows and then warn your friends?” When he didn’t answer, she pivoted around. “Was that it?”
His eyes roamed her face as if he were memorizing it. “I had another reason.”
“Hope it was good enough to ruin the trust I had in you.”
Isaac nodded slowly. “Yes. It was.”
Well, didn’t that make her feel used as hell.
Grier grabbed the suitcase’s handle and hefted the thing off her bed. “And you did it again.”
“Did what?”
“Activated that damn Life Alert. Called that Matthias nightmare to you.” She frowned. “I think you’ve got a death wish. Or some other agenda I can’t begin to guess at. But in either event, it’s not my business.”
Staring up at his hard, beautiful face, she thought, God, this hurts.
“Anyway, good luck,” she said, wondering whether, by the end of the night, he was going to be in the condition of that other soldier.
“I meant what I said, Grier. Down in the kitchen.”
“Hard to tell what is real and what’s a lie, isn’t it.”
Her heart was breaking even though that made no sense whatsoever, and in the face of the pain, all she wanted was to get away from the man who stood so still and powerful on the far side of her bedroom.
On the far side of her life, actually.
“Good-bye, Isaac Rothe,” she murmured, heading for the door.
“Wait.”
For a brief moment, some kind of odd, disastrous hope took flight in her chest. The flare didn’t last, however. She was done with fantasies and fantastic excitement.
She did, however, let him approach as he held something out to her.
“Jim asked that I give this to you.”
Grier took what was in his hand. It was a ring—no, a piercing, a little dark silver circle with a ball into which the free end screwed. She frowned as she looked at the tiny inscription that ran around the inside. It was in a language she wasn’t familiar with, but she recognized the PT950 stamp. The hoop was made of platinum.
“It’s Adrian’s, actually,” Isaac murmured. “They’re giving it to you and they want you to wear it.”
“Why?”
“To keep you safe. So they say.”
It was hard to imagine what the thing could do for her, but it did fit on her forefinger, and when Isaac took a deep, relieved breath, she was a little surprised.
“It’s just a ring,” she said softly.
“I’m not sure anything is a ‘just’ right now.”
She couldn’t disagree there. “How are you going to get that body out of here?”
“Move it.”
“Well, there you go.” She took one last look at him. The idea that he could be dead in a matter of hours was inescapable. And so was the reality that she was probably not going to know what happened to him. Or where he went next if he survived. Or whether he would ever sleep in a safe bed again.
Feeling herself slipping, she hiked up her suitcase, nodded at him and walked out, leaving him behind.
There was no other choice.
She had to take care of herself.
CHAPTER 43
The choice had to be the result of free will.
That was the problem with this whole contest thing: The soul in question had to choose their path of their own free will when they got to their crossroads.
As Devina stepped out of the shower in her suite at the Four Seasons, she thought about how much she hated the freewill bullshit. It was far more efficient for her to take possession and drive the bus, so to speak. The Creator, however, had limited the impact she was allowed to have under the rules.
Jim Heron was the only one who was supposed to set up the souls . . . the only one who was allowed to try to influence the choices made in any fashion.
Fucking Jim Heron.
Fucking bastard.
And fuck the Creator, too, for that matter.
She snapped a towel off a brass rod and dried off the beautiful brunette’s body, all the while thinking that this was such a better home than that snake-tatted soldier’s. But she didn’t have time to do the flesh-reunion justice. The final round with the current soul in play was not just approaching—it was here.
Time to close this match down and win it.
After vacating the familiar skin of Matthias’s second in command, she had taken to the air and extricated herself from that brick house. The spiteful side of her had wanted to park it inside that female attorney or in her father—just for kicks and giggles and the drama of it all. But with the way things were, she didn’t think that was a wise idea: everything was so perfectly arranged, the players’ predilections and proclivities ensuring how they would act.
It was the wardrobe equivalent of a perfect outfit.
And she needed to win this one for reasons more than the game: She wanted payback for Jim Heron’s performance in her private quarters. And not the one with her minions, the one when the pair of them had been alone.
She’d been utterly unprepared for his attack. Or the fact that he was so clearly much more than just another angel. Adrian or Eddie could not have pulled off something like that. She didn’t know anyone who could.
It just made no sense—Jim Heron had been chosen for a defined role and he was supposed to be a lackey who was neither good nor bad. Matter of fact, he’d been agreed upon by both sides because each team thought that he would influence things according to their values and take cues from a prescribed amount of “coaching.”
What utter bullshit that had turned out to be.
That first soul they’d battled over? Jim had done everything possible to push the man toward the good—proving that Devina’s faith in him had been misplaced. That son of a bitch was a savior in a sinner’s clothes, not one of her kind. Which was why she was going to have to get even more involved from this point on; there was no one on the field representing her interest
s, and manipulation of the situation was critical if she was going to prevail in any of these innings.
If she didn’t finesse things, she was going to lose after going oh-for-four.
And that was why she’d taken Jim down below to her realm when she had. She’d needed to get him away from Matthias—any contact between those two was a bad idea.
But at least her choice of soul seemed to have been the right one. She’d been nurturing the head of XOps for the last two years and by now, she all but owned him—so when Nigel and she had conferred over the next individual in play, she’d picked Martin O’Shay Thomas, aka Matthias.
Next round was back to Nigel’s choice, and undoubtedly he’d pick someone much more difficult for her.
Matthias . . . oh, dearest, corrupt Matthias. One last immoral act and he was hers for eternity—as well as her first win.
All he had to do was take the life of Isaac Rothe and ding-ding-ding! she could do a victory lap on Jim Heron’s ass.
Although . . . given what Heron had done to her, she feared he was not just a quarterback in this game, but an entity of another sort. And that was another reason she hadn’t stuck around in Beacon Hill. The exchange between her and him down below had drained her, and she wasn’t strong enough to face a full-on confrontation with the male so soon.
Especially given that underestimating her nemesis’s powers was clearly a mistake.
Wrapping herself up, she looked at the marble counter that ran around the sinks. Part of her therapist’s assignment from two weeks before had been to clean out her makeup collection, and she’d complied, throwing away countless Chanel compacts and lipsticks and eye shadows.
Now, as she stared at the emptiness of the space, she panicked at the lack of possessions. One Gucci bag of stuff was all she had. That was it.
With fumbling hands, she grabbed the little tote and tipped it over, black tubes and squares and pots going all over the place. Breathing through her mouth, she set about ordering the dozen or so containers, arranging them by size and shape, not utility.
It wasn’t enough. She needed more—