by J. R. Ward
And yet suddenly, and from out of nowhere, he had an image of her…one so familiar, so vivid, so achingly real, it was as if a piece of the past had been implanted into his brain: She was cooking him eggs over the old stove in their ancient kitchen. Her grip on the iron pan handle was strong, her back straight, her dark hair cut short. She'd started out as the wife of a farmer and ended up as the farmer herself, her body as wiry and tough as her smile had been soft and kind.
He'd loved his mother. And although she had given him eggs every morning, he remembered that particular breakfast. It was the last she'd ever made—not just for him, but for anybody.
She'd been murdered come nightfall.
“How do you know…about her,” Jim asked with a voice that cracked.
“We have a vast knowledge of your life.” Colin cocked an eyebrow. “But that begs the question. What say you, Jim? Are you prepared to relegate everything she did and everything she was to—as you would put it so bluntly—shit?”
Jim didn't like Colin very much.
“That's all right,” Nigel murmured. “We don't care for him ourselves.”
“Untrue,” Bertie piped up. “I adore Colin. He hides behind his gruffness, but he is a wonderful—” Colin's voice sliced through the compliment. “You are such a fairy.”
“I'm an angel, not a fairy, and so are you.” Bertie glanced over at Jim and resumed playing with Tarquin's ear. “I know you're going to do the right thing, because you loved your mother too much not to. Do you recall how she used to wake you up when you were small?”
Jim closed his eyes hard. “Yeah.”
His bed growing up had been a small twin in one of the farmhouse's drafty upstairs rooms. He'd slept in his clothes most nights, either because he was too exhausted from working out in the cornfields to change or because it was too cold to lie down without multiple layers.
On school days, his mother had come in singing to him…
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…You make me happy when skies are gray…You'll never know, dear, how much I love you…Please don't take my sunshine away.”
Except he wasn't the one who had left her, and when she had gone away, it hadn't been voluntarily. She had fought like a wildcat to stay with him, and he'd never forget the look in her eyes right before she'd passed. She'd stared out of her beaten face and spoken to him with her blue eyes and her bloody lips, because she'd had no more air left in her lungs to carry her voice.
I love you forever, she had mouthed. But run. Get out of the house. Run. They're upstairs.
He had left her where she lay, half-naked, bloody, and violated. Ducking out the back door, he'd raced to the truck he wasn't old enough to drive, and his feet had barely touched the pedals as he'd started the thing.
They had come after him, and to this day, he had no idea how he'd managed to get that old truck to go that fast down that dusty dirt road.
Bertie spoke up quietly. “You must accept this as both reality and your destiny. For her sake if for no one else's.”
Jim opened his eyes and looked at Nigel. “Is there a Heaven?”
“We are on the edge of it right now.” Nigel nodded over his shoulder at the castle wall, which ran off into the distance. “On the far side of our gracious manse, the souls of the good tally in fields of flowers and trees, their hours spent in sunshine and warmth, their cares and worries no more, their pain forgotten.”
Jim stared at the footbridge over the moat and the double doors that were each the size of an RV. “Is she there?”
“Yes. And if you do not prevail, she will be ever gone as if she never was.”
“I want to see her.” He took a step forward. “I have to see her first.”
“You may not enter. The quick are not welcome therein, only the dead.”
“Fuck that and fuck you.” Jim walked and then ran for the bridge, his boots thundering across the grass, then echoing on the wooden planks over the quicksilver river. When he got to the doors, he grabbed onto the great iron pulls, yanking so hard his back muscles screamed.
Fisting up one of his hands, he pounded at the oak, then pulled again. “Let me through! Let me through, you son of a bitch!”
He needed to know for himself that she wasn't hurt anymore and that she didn't suffer and that she was okay. Needed that reassurance so badly, he felt like he was shattering as he fought to get past the barrier, his battering fists driven by the memory of his beloved mother on the linoleum in the kitchen, the stab wounds in her chest and her neck bleeding out onto the floor, her legs spread, her mouth gaping open, her eyes terrified and imploring him to save himself, save himself, save himself…
The demon in him came out.
Everything went white as rage took over. He knew he was hitting something hard, that his body was going wild, that when someone put a hand on his shoulder he took them down to the ground and pummeled them.
But he heard nothing and saw nothing.
The past always unwrapped him, which was why he made a point of never, ever thinking about it.
* * *
When Jim regained consciousness for the second time, he was in the same position he'd been in for the first coming-around: flat on his back, grass beneath his palms, eyes closed. Except this time there was something wet on his face.
Popping his lids, he found Colin's face right above his own, and as the guy's blood dripped onto Jim's cheeks, the “rain” was explained.
“Ah, you're awake, well-done.” Colin pulled back a fist and cracked Jim right in the puss.
As pain exploded, Bertie let out a cry, Tarquin whimpered, and Byron rushed over.
“Right, now we're even.” Colin hopped off and shook out his hand. “You know, taking human form has its benefits, indeed. That felt rather nice.”
Nigel shook his head. “This is not going well.”
Jim had to agree as he sat up and accepted the handkerchief Byron held out. While he stemmed the bleeding from his nose, he couldn't believe he'd exploded like that at those castle doors, but then he was always shocked afterward.
Nigel eased down on his haunches. “You want to know why you were chosen, and I believe you have a right to know.”
Jim spat out the blood in his mouth. “Now there's an idea.”
Nigel reached over and took the bloody handkerchief. The instant the cloth made contact with his hands, the stain disappeared, the white fibers as pristine as they had been before they'd been used to stop a red geyser.
He gave it back for further use. “You are the two halves together, Jim. The good and the bad in equal measure, capable of great reserves of kindness and profound depths of depravity. Thusly, both sides found you acceptable. We and…the other…both believe that when you are presented with the seven opportunities, you will influence the course of events according to our values. We for the good, they for the evil—with the outcome determining the fate of humanity.”
Jim stopped mopping up his face and focused on the Englishman. He could dispute nothing of what had been said about his character, and yet his brain remained scrambled. Or maybe he had a concussion, thanks to Colin, the knuckle-cracking motherfucker.
“So do you accept your destiny?” Nigel said. “Or does all end here?”
Jim cleared his throat. Begging wasn't something he was used to. “Please…just let me see my mother. I…I need to know she's okay.”
“I'm so sorry, but as I said, only the dead may pass to the other side.” Nigel's hand came to rest on Jim's shoulder. “What say you, man?”
Byron came in close. “You can do it. You're a carpenter. You build things and you rebuild things. Lives are constructions just the same.”
Jim looked at the castle and felt his heartbeat in his busted nose.
If he took everything at face value, if everything were true, if he were some kind of savior, then…if he walked away, the only peace his mother knew was gone. And as attractive as he might find the emptiness and timelessness of nonexistence, that was a cold exchange for
where she was now.
“How does it work?” he asked. “What do I do?”
Nigel smiled. “Seven deadly sins. Seven souls swayed by these sins. Seven people at a crossroads with a choice that must be made. You enter their lives and affect their path. If they choose righteousness over sin, we prevail.”
“And if they don't…”
“The other side wins.”
“What is the other side?”
“The opposite of what we are.”
Jim glanced over at the table with its white linens and sparkling silver. “So…we're talking about a bunch of ass-scratchers sitting on Barcaloungers watching Girls Gone Wild and drinking beer.”
Colin laughed. “Not hardly, mate. Although that is an image, indeed.”
Nigel glared at his buddy and then looked back at Jim. “The other side is evil. I shall let your mind summon the appropriate reference, but if you should want a place to start, you have but to think of what was done to your mother and know that those who hurt her enjoyed it.”
Jim's gut clenched so hard, he leaned to the side and dry-heaved. When a hand smoothed over his back, he had a feeling it was Bertie. And he was right.
Eventually, Jim's gag reflex cut the crap and he got his breath back. “What if I can't do this?”
Colin spoke up. “I shall not lie—it is not going to be easy. The other side is capable of everything. But you shall not be without resources.”
Jim frowned. “Wait, the other side thinks I'm going to be a bad influence? During the crossroads of these people?”
Nigel nodded. “They have the same faith in you that we have. But we had the advantage of reaching out to you.”
“How'd you manage that?”
“Coin toss.”
Jim blinked. Right, because…that's how they did it at the Super Bowl.
Focusing on the gates, he tried to see his mom not as how he'd left her on that kitchen floor, but as these princes said she was. Happy. Relieved of burden. Whole. “Who are the seven people?”
“For the identification of this first one, we shall give you a bit of help and make it obvious,” Nigel said, getting to his feet. “Good luck.”
“Hold on a minute—how will I know what to do?”
“Use your head,” Colin cut in.
“No,” Bertie said, cradling his wolfhound's face, “your heart.”
“Just believe in the future.” Byron pushed his tinted glasses up on his nose. “Hope is the best—”
Nigel rolled his eyes. “Just tell people what to do. It cuts down on the conversation, freeing up time for more worthwhile pursuits.”
“Such as cheating at croquet?” Colin muttered.
“Will I see you again?” Jim asked. “Can I come to you for help?”
He didn't get an answer. Instead, he got another jolt that sure as shit felt like two-forty…and abruptly found himself shooting through a long, white hallway, the light blinding him, the wind blasting him in the face.
He had no idea where he was going to end up this time. Maybe it was back in Caldwell. Maybe it was Disneyland.
With the way things appeared to be going, who the fuck knew.
Chapter 6
As night fell, Marie-Terese gripped the handle of the nonstick pan and slid a spatula around the edges of a perfectly round pancake. The thing was just ripe for the flipping, a pattern of little bubbles forming on its creamy surface.
“You ready?” she said.
Her son smiled from his supervisory stool on the other side of the countertop. “We're going to count, right?”
“Yup.”
Their voices joined together in the three, two…one. Then with a flick of the wrist, she sent the pancake flying and caught it dead in the center.
“You did it!” Robbie said as the sizzle rose up.
Marie-Terese smiled through a stinging sadness. Seven-year-olds were spectacular with approval, capable of making you feel like you were a miracle worker over the simplest of victories. If only she deserved the praise on the big stuff. “Would you get the syrup, please,” she said.
Robbie slid off the stool and padded over to the fridge in his slippers. He was wearing a Spider-Man T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and a Spider-Man hoodie. His bed had Spider-Man sheets and a Spider-Man duvet, and the lamp he read his Spider-Man comics by had a Spider-Man shade on it. His previous obsession had been SpongeBob, but back in October, as he'd prepared to leave six years old in the dust, he'd declared that he was a grown-up and that henceforth gifts should be of the webbed-crusader variety.
Right. Got it.
Robbie pulled open the fridge door and grabbed the squeeze bottle. “Do we always gots to do as much grammar as we did today?”
“That would be 'have to' and yes, clearly it's needed.”
“Can't we do more math?”
“Nope.”
“At least I gots pancakes for dinner.” As Marie-Terese glanced over at him, he smiled. “Have pancakes.”
“Thank you.”
Robbie hopped back on the stool and changed the channel on the little TV next to the toaster. The mini-Sony was allowed to be on during breaks from schooling, and the biggie Sony, which was in the living room, could be on Saturday and Sunday afternoons and nights after dinner until bedtime.
Sliding the pancake onto a plate, she fired up another one, pouring the Bisquick in with a ladle. The kitchen was too small for a table, so they used the overhang off the counter as one, tucking stools beneath it and sitting at the stretch of Formica for every meal.
“Ready to flip number two?”
“Yup!”
She and Robbie counted it down together, and she executed another Flying Wallenda with the pancake…and her beautiful angel of a son smiled up at her like she was the sun in his world again.
Marie-Terese delivered his plate to him and then took a seat in front of the salad she'd made herself earlier. As they ate, she glanced over at the stack of mail on the counter and knew without opening it what the bills would add up to. Two of them were big boys: She'd had to put both the private investigator she'd used to find Robbie and the law firm she'd hired to get a divorce on a payment plan, because $127,000 wasn't the kind of thing she could write a check for. Naturally, payment plans involved interest, and unlike credit cards, default wasn't an option: She was taking no chances that P.I. or those lawyers would try to find her. As long as she paid on time, there was no reason for her current location to come to light.
And she always sent money orders that were mailed from Manhattan.
After eighteen months, she was about three-quarters through what she owed, but at least Robbie was safe and with her, and that was all that mattered. “You are better than her.”
Marie-Terese refocused. “Excuse me?”
“That waitress just dropped all the food on her tray.” Robbie pointed to the little TV screen. “You would never do that.”
Marie-Terese looked over at an ad featuring a harried woman having a bad day working at a diner. Her hair was a frizz bomb, her uniform spackled with ketchup, her name tag off-kilter. “You're a better waitress, Mom. And cook.”
Abruptly, the scene changed so that Harried Waitress was now in a pink bathrobe on a white sofa, submerging her aching feet in a vibrating pool. The expression on her face was pure bliss, the product obviously relieving her aching soles.
“Thanks, baby,” Marie-Terese said roughly.
The commercial flipped into order-now mode, an eight-hundred number appearing under the price of $49.99 as an announcer said, “But wait! If you call now, it will cost you only $29.99!” While a red arrow started to flash next to the price, he demanded, “Isn't this a steal?” and the happy, relaxed waitress came back on and said, “Yes, it is!”
“Come on,” Marie-Terese cut in. “Time for a bath.”
Robbie slid off the stool and took his plate to the dishwasher. “I don't need help anymore, you know. I can take my own bath.”
“I know.” God, he was growing up fast. “Just
make sure you—”
“—do behind the ears. You tell me alia time.”
As Robbie hit the stairs, Marie-Terese turned the TV off and went to clean the pan and bowl. Thinking back on that ad, she wished like hell she were just a waitress…and that all it would take to make her stress go away was a tub you plugged into the wall.
That would be absolute heaven.
* * *
Three tries were a charm.
Finally, Jim woke up in a hospital bed: He was stretched out on white sheets, with a thin white blanket pulled up to his chest and little handrails jacked up on either side of him. And the room fit the bill, too, with bland walls, a bathroom in the corner and a TV mounted on the ceiling that was on, but muted.
Of course, the IV in his arm was the real giveaway.
He'd only been dreaming. That shit about those four dainty wing nuts and the castle and everything had just been a weird dream. Thank. God.
Jim lifted his hand to rub his eyes—and froze. There was a grass stain on his palm. And his face hurt like he'd been punched.
Abruptly, Nigel's aristocratic voice sounded in his head so clearly, it was more than a memory: Seven deadly sins. Seven souls swayed by these sins. Seven people at a crossroads with a choice that must be made. You enter their lives and affect their path. If they choose righteousness over sin, we prevail.
Jim took a deep breath and looked toward the window that had a gauze curtain pulled across it. Dark out. Perfect for nightmares. But as much as he wanted to go with the whole it's-only-a-dream thing, the shit was so vivid, so fresh…and men might get hairy palms if they were pumping themselves off, but grassy?
Besides it wasn't like he'd been master of his domain with any great frequency. Especially not the night before, thanks to that brunette. Hello.
Trouble was, if this was the new reality, if he'd been to a parallel universe where everyone was a cross between Simon Cowell and Tim Gunn, if he'd accepted some kind of mission…how the hell did he proceed—
“You're awake.”
Jim glanced over. Stepping up to the foot of the bed was none other than Vin diPietro, the general contractor from Hell…who was evidently the boyfriend of the woman Jim had…yeah. “How you feeling?”