by J. R. Ward
The land that the thing was on covered some twenty-five acres, a ragged meadow running out in all directions to a thin tree line.
Off in the distance, other mammoth houses could be dimly seen—none of which was in a decrepit condition.
Bet the neighbors loved this place.
“Does it have running water?” Ad asked.
“Yeah. And electricity.”
“Will miracles never cease.”
Jim walked over to the mailbox. When he went to open the flap door, the thing fell off the hinges into his hand. “Here’s the key.”
“You mean they bother to lock this POS up?”
When he’d made the call on the property during the police raid, the owner had seemed stunned, as if she’d never expected to rent the house out. While they’d talked, he’d been concerned that she’d ask for references and he might not be able to hypnotize her over the phone, but she hadn’t gone there. All she cared about was the security deposit, first and last month’s rent, and an electronic debit—and he’d been more than happy to fall in line with all that: An exchange of account details later, and she was going to leave the key in the mailbox. Which she had.
Boom. Done.
Jim walked up the flagstone path to the front entrance, his boots making no sound, as if the slate were eating up his footfalls. Dog didn’t follow him. Neither did the two men.
Scaredy-cats, all of them.
The key was not your humdrum Schlage variety—the thing was made of old brass and had a shaft thick as a finger. He expected to have to force it into the lock and then fight with the mechanism…but it went in like butter and opened smoothly.
Almost as if the house wanted him inside.
He expected the interior to be covered with cobwebs and dusty sheets, like an old-fashioned Abbott & Costello movie. Instead, the grand foyer was wilted, but clean, the scuffed floors and faded wallpaper and musty antiques testifying to a wealth that had been long lost.
Over to the left, there was a drawing room, and behind that, what looked like a living room. Dining room was to the right. Massive staircase straight ahead. And underneath the twin sets of steps, a solarium that opened out to the terraces behind the house.
Glancing upward, he thought, Yeah, this footprint could generate the eight bedrooms that had been advertised.
He twisted around, and looked through the open door. “Are you boys coming in? Or have you not finished pissing in your pants yet?”
Bitching. Whining. His name taken in vain.
Whatever.
“Bring some shit with you, wouldja,” he called out.
Clomping through to the back of the house, he found a kitchen that was out of the forties, and a backyard that went on forever.
Must have been some kind of mansion in its heyday—
As the slow, rhythmic gonging of a grandfather clock started to ring out, he wondered where the damn thing was.
One, two, three, four…
Idly, he counted the measure of hours as he went back out to the front and looked around for the big daddy in charge of keeping time.
Eight…nine…
Frowning, Jim headed over to the base of the stairs and ascended, thinking the clock had to be on the big flat landing, halfway between the floors.
It wasn’t.
Ten.
Just as his freak meter went off, Adrian and Matthias brought a load in, their voices echoing around the house.
Instead of going to help them, Jim went up farther on the steps, heading for the second story foyer.
Eleven.
He put his combat boot on the final step.
Twelve.
Not up there, either—at least, not that he could find. All he saw were open doors that framed the boxy space, the bedrooms clustered around an Oriental rug and sitting area the size of the garage’s entire studio apartment—
Thirteen.
Or had that one just been in his imagination?
Rubbing the back of his neck, he contemplated calling the whole thing off. But that was a bullshit, pussy move—and the clock had not struck one hour too much.
Period.
Shaking his head, he jogged back to the first floor. “I gotta go,” he told the guys.
Adrian didn’t reply, and didn’t look happy. Which suggested the angel might have guessed the destination. And what do you know, the guy muttered a quick, “Be careful.”
Matthias put down a laundry hamper full of dirty—no, wait, clean?—clothes. “I’m not going to be here for long.”
Jim felt a pull in the center of his chest, like someone had fisted his heart for a split second. “Yeah. Okay.”
“I’m not going to see you again, am I?”
“No, you’re not. That’s the way it works.”
“Just like an XOps operation, huh. You go in, do the job, get out.”
“Something like that.” Even now, after the round, Jim hadn’t told Matthias exactly how things worked—and the guy hadn’t asked, either. But his old boss wasn’t stupid.
The two of them stared at each other for the longest time, until Jim felt like he couldn’t stand the tension.
“Good luck with your girl,” Jim said.
“Back at you with…” The guy looked around. “Whatever the hell you’re doing here.”
“Thanks, man.”
Matthias cleared his throat. “I still owe you.”
“Nah. After last night, we’re even.”
Matthias stuck out his hand, and Jim clasped it tight. Funny, they had met on a handshake, back when they’d started XOps training together, neither of them having a clue what they were in for. Same thing now, except this was a goodbye, not a hello.
“If you need me—” Matthias started.
“Just take care of yourself.”
They embraced at that point, one of those hard-muscled, manly-man, chest-to-chest numbers that lasted only long enough for them to pound the crap out of each other’s shoulder. And then they separated.
Jim didn’t say good-bye. He just turned away…and disappeared himself.
* * *
Down below, in the depths of Hell, Devina sat upon her worktable, her rotting legs dangling off the end, her head down, her clawed hands gripping the edge of the wood so tightly, they sank in past the stained surface to the meat.
She had violated the rules—and lost.
She had tried to play by the rules—and lost.
One more win and Jim had wrapped up the game.
The embarrassment was nearly worse than the specter of not prevailing in the war: She had always prided herself on her ability to get under the skin of the Maker’s flawed creations—and Jim should have been no different. In fact, after they’d fucked at the boathouse, she’d been overjoyed, feeling like she was making progress with her man, and certain that she’d was going to win with Matthias.
Instead, that fucker had chosen badly. And for crissakes, who could have guessed that? The sorry bastard had been a good boy for so long, his penchant for calculated violence such an example to others. Then at the last minute, he pussied out? Because of a chick?
What. The. Fuck.
And the worst thing? Devina hadn’t been able to do a thing about it: She had gone to the final scene, concerned by his gesture to that reporter, ready to interject herself at the most critical juncture—only to find Nigel standing guard like some kind of morally justified mastiff.
There had been no way to get at the situation with that archangel in the cocksucking bushes. And Jim, damn him to hell, was continuing to betray her with the way he was influencing these souls.
At this rate, she was going to lose—
Devina lifted her head, a shot of energy ringing her internal bell.
Jim, she thought.
Uh-huh, yeah, right, she was letting him down here. The last thing she was in the mood for was him parading his win around.
Ignoring the signaling, she stayed where she was, even her OCD symptoms held at bay by a crushing sense
of defeat.
What was she going to do—
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She glared up at the distant circle of gloom at the very top of her well. “Will you give it a rest, Heron? I don’t want to see you.”
The signal only got louder, more insistent.
Maybe something was wrong?
How fun would that be.
Abruptly, she changed into her suit of flesh, the one that he had so enjoyed ejaculating into the other evening. Her hair was perfect, as always, but she checked it with her hands anyway.
Staying right where she was, she allowed him entrance, his presence electrifying her the moment he got in range and appeared in his physical form.
Interesting…there was no triumph in his face, no ha-ha!, no macho swagger thanks to his victory.
He stood before her, unbowed, but not shitting on her parade, either.
Devina narrowed her eyes. “You haven’t come to gloat?”
“I wouldn’t waste my time on that.”
No, he probably wouldn’t. She would have, though—guess that part of him took after Nigel’s side.
“So why are you here?” She hopped off the table and walked in a slow circle around him. “I’m not in the mood to fuck.”
“Neither am I.”
“So…?”
“I’m here to strike a deal.”
She laughed in his face—considered spitting in it, too, for that matter. “We’ve done that once already, and in case you haven’t forgotten, you didn’t keep your side of the bargain.”
“I will now.”
“How do I know that—and who says I’m interested.”
“You’re interested.”
She stopped in front of the table and put her hand on it in an effort to remind him of how she’d had him there. “I doubt it.”
The angel brought his arm out from behind his back, and in his hand, on a short pole…was a victory flag.
Devina’s brows lifted. “Taken up sewing, have you.”
He waved the thing idly. “I have something you need. You have something I want.”
The demon stopped breathing—even though she didn’t require the inhale/exhale thing to survive. Was he actually suggesting…he would give her one of his wins?
Well, it was in the rules, she thought. At least technically. That victory was his property…and she supposed that he could assign it to her, if he so chose.
“Does Nigel know what you’re doing?” she said softly.
“I’m not talking about him. This is between you and me.”
Ah, so the archangel had thrown a fit—or didn’t know yet.
And if this worked, it would make the score two to two, instead of one to three. Whole different ball game.
The demon started to smile. “Tell me, my love…just what is it you want?”
Even though she knew.
Well, well, well, wasn’t the game really going to get interesting now. And it looked as if her therapist had been right: It was possible, with enough exposure, to rewire one’s brain—or somebody else’s—to produce a given reaction.
All that hair color might have been worth it.
Just like the L’Oréal ad said.
Devina slinked her way over to her lover, her sex blooming in the tense quiet. “Tell me, Jim, and I’ll think about it. But I would like to hear you say the words.”
It was a while before he answered her.
And then he spoke, loud and clear. “I want Sissy.”
Epilogue
Three weeks later…
“Are you ready?”
As Mels nodded, she squinted into the noonday sun. Putting her hand up to shield her eyes, she said, “I can’t wait.”
Redd’s Garage & Service was the kind of place her father would have gone to, an auto-body repair and mechanics shop that was full of old-school types who had tattoos they’d gotten in the Army, grease on their faces, and wrenches instead of computers to do the work.
And unlike Caldwell Auto, they had seen Fi-Fi worth saving.
Mels’s old Civic was backed out to the kind of fanfare that West Coast Choppers revealed their masterpieces with.
Then again, Mels’s ancient set of wheels, back in working order, was a miracle: Somehow the team here had gotten her into shape again.
“Oh, look at her!” Mels walked over as the mechanic got out from behind the wheel. “It’s…well, it truly is a miracle.”
That was the only word that kept coming to her: Her steady and sure car had been resurrected out of its catastrophic injuries and was once more on the road.
Frankly, she felt a kinship with the Civic. She had been through a crash, had pulled herself back together, and was about to hit the road. With Fi-Fi’s help, of course.
“Thank you so much,” she murmured, blinking fast.
A quick signature on some paperwork, and then she was sitting in the driver’s seat, running her hands around the wheel. Parts of the dash had had to be replaced because of the air bag deployment, and Fi-Fi smelled different—a little like clean oil. But she sounded the same and she felt the same.
Mels briefly closed her eyes as that familiar pain came back.
Then she opened them, reached over to her left hip, and drew the seat belt across her lap. After clicking the thing home, she put the engine in drive and eased out into traffic.
The previous three weeks had been…illuminating. Scary. Lonely. Affirming.
And her solace, apart from work, had been writing it all down… everything from stories about her father to details about the man she’d fallen in love with, to the aftermath.
Well, part of the aftermath, at least.
Hopping onto the highway, she allowed the other cars to set her speed as opposed to rushing around them impatiently. And she stopped at a deli on the way home, because it was a little past lunchtime and she was exhausted and starving from packing up her room and putting everything she owned into a little U-Haul trailer.
She wasn’t due in Manhattan until the following morning, so maybe when she got back to the house she’d take a nap in the sunroom.
Funny, she’d been doing that a lot lately, stretching out on that sofa that looked out over the garden, her head buttressed on a pillow, her legs crossed at the ankles, a throw blanket pulled up to her pelvis.
She had a lot of sleep to catch up on.
Right after Matthias had died in front of her, she hadn’t slept for days, her mind spinning with a ferocity that made her feel like she was going insane. She’d been obsessed with replaying the whole thing over and over, from the impact outside the cemetery to Matthias taking that bullet in front of the garage. From seeing him in the hospital to sharing his bed. From her suspicions rising to their falling once again.
To the SanDisk.
As she came to a slowdown around a stretch of construction, she glanced at the radio. Bracing herself, she leaned in and turned the knob—
“—explosive investigation conducted by the New York Times into a shadow organization that, for decades, has been operating under the nation’s radar, conducting assignments at home and abroad—”
She turned the thing off.
Staring out over her pristine new hood, she tightened her grip on the wheel.
After three days of not sleeping and thinking over her options, she’d put a call in to her contact at the Times and driven down to meet him face-to-face.
When she’d turned the flashdrive—and the name of Isaac Rothe—over to Peter Newcastle, her only caveats had been that he not ask her where she got it, and that he not attempt to follow up with her in any way—because she had nothing to add.
The story had finally broken the morning before, on the front page of a paper with the resources, the balls and the worldwide reach to do the information justice. And the fallout was already beginning, government agencies up in arms, senators and congressmen addressing cameras and microphones with outrage, the president scheduled to do a Q & A with Brian Williams at nine this evening.
&n
bsp; In the end, she’d decided to give the story of a lifetime to someone else for two reasons: one, she valued her own life too much to roll the dice that there wouldn’t be retaliation; and two, if she reported it under her own byline, that meant she’d used Matthias, that he hadn’t been anything more than a source to her, that she’d helped when she had not out of the goodness of her heart, but because she’d been following a story.
It was kind of in the same vein of his having given her the intel to prove he’d been truthful—she passed it on to someone else so nobody could ever say that she hadn’t loved him.
Not that anyone knew about him.
At all, as it were. There had been nothing in the paper about his death—or his body. And when she’d gone back to the garage in the middle of her seventy-two-hour period of crazy-crazies, all she’d walked into was a police scene that had turned hot again.
Gone, gone, gone. The vehicles, the personal affects, any signs of inhabitation.
Jim Heron, and his friend, had disappeared.
End of the trail.
It was strange—she had started sleeping again the night after she’d gotten back from the trip to Manhattan to meet with Peter. Which was how she’d known she’d done the right thing with the flashdrive…
She had not expected to hear from the man again.
Except then, three days prior to the big story’s release, he’d called to let her know the massive article was coming out—and to offer her a job. He’d said that wanted someone with her kind of tenacity and focus to come in at the junior level—and she’d stopped him right there, explaining that a source had given her the files as is; she’d done nothing to compile, organize, or format the information.
“But you got to the source, didn’t you.”
Well, yes. And had her heart broken in the process.
In the end, she’d accepted the offer. She wasn’t stupid—and she was ready to get back to hard work and start pulling long hours again. Maybe it would help with pain management….