Possession

Page 43

With any luck, she’d be sleeping, so he decided it was better to leave her alone. Inside the bathroom, he cranked the hot water on, and was barely undressed when steam started to boil up out of the curtain.
Frowning, he reached inside. “Shit!”
Hot, very hot. As if the water heater had suddenly decided to start working properly for the first time since they’d moved in.
Miracles, miracles.
Readjusting the mix of H and C faucets, he got under the spray and cursed again—nothing like being reminded that he had two or three fairly major stab wounds that were still open. Sluicing the water back into his hair, he tilted his head and let the warmth run down his shoulders and torso. His body was beaten to shit, sore in every place that counted, but the good news, if there was any, was that in his previous life it would have taken him weeks in the hospital and months of rehab to get back on track.
Now a matter of hours would do it.
But he could be killed. Colin’s attack proved it. So did Nigel’s demise.
Man, out of all the deaths he thought he’d have on his conscience, that archangel’s was not one. And there was no doubting that Nigel may have put the dagger in his own chest, but Jim’s hand had been on the grip, too.
Out of the shower. Wrapped in a towel. Heading for his room with his bloodied clothes hanging from his arms like they were his internal organs.
Before shutting himself into the darkness, he stared in the direction of Sissy’s room again. God, he just wanted to go there, knock on the door, have her tell him to come in. And then, without a lot of talk, he could lie next to her and hold her body for a little while.
They would both sleep.
That was all he wanted, just rest, peace, a time to recharge. Because the message from the Maker had been clear: The war was going to continue regardless of the loss.
“Fucking hell.”
He’d never liked Nigel. He’d been frustrated with the guy’s need to follow the rules, and incensed by that superior English manner. But he hadn’t wanted the archangel dead—and oh, crap, Colin? File that under Fucking Batshit Pissed. Plus, there was no way of knowing where the other two archangels had been, and if they were half as angry as Nigel’s buddy? Jim might as well turn himself over to Devina now, before they ripped him limb from limb.
He passed through into his room and ditched the clothes right by the door. He’d burn them tomorrow—and yes, he was going to tell Adrian what was going on. He was also going to get an update from the guy as to where they stood with the soul.
Time to move on.
One of the lessons he had learned long ago was that you couldn’t go back. History was the only immutable thing anyone, mortals and immortals alike, had—and even that changed depending on what you knew of actual events at any given time. He couldn’t go back and fix what Nigel had decided to do. He could only go forward.
Man, he needed—
“Jim?”
The sound of Sissy’s voice stopped his body, but sped up his heart. “Sissy…?”
“I thought I would wait up for you. I fell asleep.”
He could just imagine what she looked like lying against his pillows, sitting up a little, eyes drowsy, hair slightly tangled.
“Can I join you?” he asked hoarsely.
“What happened? What’s wrong?”
When there was a rustling and something hit the floor, he said, “No, don’t bother turning on the light.”
He didn’t want her to see what kind of shape he was in. Maybe by morning … yeah, by morning, he would look back to normal.
More important, he would be back to normal: All roads led to Devina. Sissy and her family’s suffering. Nigel’s. Colin’s. Adrian’s. Those various dominoes had each fallen, thanks to one flick of the demon’s manicured finger.
She had to lose the war—stipulated. But that was not enough. She needed the kind of agony she forced others to feel—and that was only going to happen if he took away the one thing that mattered to her.
Her precious collection of crap.
One way or the other, before the end of the war, he was going to find the shit and torch it. Then she would know what it felt like to be on the receiving end of the pain she dished out.
Eye for an eye. And after that? He was going to beat her at this game and wish her one final fuck-off before she was dusted.
“So can I?” he said.
“You don’t sound right—I mean, yes, please.”
If he’d been a gentleman, he would have put some clothes on…
And what do you know, even as exhausted as he was, he went over and drew on some sweats and a muscle shirt before he got anywhere near the bed.
Stretching out took some effort, but then Sissy curled in against him.
Warm and soft, smelling like flowers from the shampoo and soap Adrian had gotten her. Heavenly woman…
“What did you say?” she whispered.
Shit. “Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “I’m glad you came in here.”
“Me, too.”
As her arm sneaked around his waist, it was with the gentlest of movements, as if she knew he was hurting. Or maybe that was her way.
It was so strange, he thought, but lying next to her, he felt like he was home. And after having been transient and unconnected for so long, the powerful peace was a shock and a weakness, but in this quiet darkness, it was also right—
Sissy moved even closer, and as she repositioned herself, her breast brushed up against his side, its soft cushion making him draw in a swift breath.
“Jim?” she said, her voice right next to his ear. “Are you okay?”
He moved his lower body further back. “Yeah.”
“You sound like you’re in pain.”
When he didn’t reply, she inhaled deeply, as if frustrated—and that breast moved again, stroking him, whatever thin shirt she was wearing no barrier at all.
He was very sure she did not have a bra on.
“Jim, you know what I’ve learned? Talking helps.”
Oh, God, she might as well be stretching him on a rack: His sex was waking up down below, in spite of the condition he was in, and the arousal felt like a torturous betrayal of her. Unfortunately, it wasn’t like he could stop the powerful urge to roll on top of her and take her beautiful face carefully in his rough, scarred hands, and—
“My boss died today.”
As Sissy stiffened, he thought, yup, the image of Nigel lying in a pool of silver blood wiped out his erection completely. And he hated that he was using the suicide to cure this kind of problem, but that wasn’t the only reason he’d brought up the nightmare. He did want to talk about it. With her.
“I don’t want to freak you out,” he muttered. “And you know, someday I’m going to have good news to tell you. Promise.”
Sissy sat up. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. I went up there to meet with him and … yeah, the place was shut up tight, no one was around, and when I went looking, I found him. Dead.”
“Jesus … Christ.”
“That was my reaction, too.” No reason to go into his feeling responsible for it. Sissy was tied up inextricably in all that, and God knew he was carrying around enough guilt for the both of them. “I’m a strategic thinker—and I never saw anything like that coming.”
“What about Colin…?”
Something niggled in the back of his brain. But then he shook off the sensation.
He also had no intention of going into the attack. “Not doing well. At all.”
Sissy eased back down beside him, somehow ending up mostly on his chest. And though it made his stab wounds ache, he was not going to ask her to move.
Instead, as her straight hair fell onto him, tickling his upper arm, he sneaked a stroke of it … and one was not enough. In fact, as he played with the silky, blunt-cut ends, he found himself wanting to do it for the rest of his unnatural life.
“And I was right about Dog,” he murmured.
“In what way?”
He shook his head, a wave of exhaustion coming over him, sapping his strength completely. “I’m really glad you were here when I walked in.”
Sissy put herself into the crook of his arm, and it was so goddamn right, the pair of them alone in a darkness that was not threatening, comforting each other.
Talk about virgins … “I’ve never done this before,” he heard himself say.
“Done what?”
“Lay like this with a woman.”
“What do you usually do—” She stopped short. “Never mind, don’t answer that.”
“It’s different with you.”
As Sissy stiffened again, he thought, Okay, time to shut up now. “Sorry.”
It was a long while before she shook her head against his biceps. “No, it’s okay. And I’m sorry about your boss.”
“Me, too. And thanks.”
“Death is never expected, is it. Even when you know it’s coming … it’s always a surprise.”
“Especially like that.”
“What do you mean?”
Jim closed his eyes against the darkness. “He killed himself.”
Lying beside Jim, clothed in the guise of his precious little girlfriend, Devina felt her heart skip a beat—again.
For a moment, all she could do was blink, reality receding as shock became the dominant emotion she felt—everything else left her, her aggression, her frustration, sexual and otherwise, her anger, her anxiety … the normal mix bleeding out like a color photograph left in the sun.
Nigel, gone.
It was unfathomable. The pair of them had been battling for so long, that ridiculous archangel had become a permanent stone in her stiletto, endlessly irritating, forcing her to limp when she’d rather run, wearing a hole in her flesh.
The only way she was going to get rid of him was by winning the war. That was the sole scenario under which his absence was supposed to happen.
At least, that had been her assumption.
The idea that he had committed suicide?
Fuck, f**k fuck—she needed to … go count lipsticks. Hangers in her closet. Shoes. Handbags. Maybe rifle through her drawers and make sure her lingerie was organized correctly by color.
She hated change, she really did.
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
She shook herself back to attention. “Oh, no … I’m glad you did.”
Okay, Devina, you need to think this through.
Focus on the positive—she had to listen to her therapist’s advice and focus on the positive. And there was some good news in all this: Just as there were four compass points, there had always been four guardians in Heaven, all with complementary virtues and abilities. You had to wonder, with one of them gone, did the table become three-legged, and therefore radically less stable?
Worth finding out … and exploiting.
What if she could get into the Manse of Souls?
An intense vibration of need hit her even harder than the shock had. Talk about a collection to be mined … for all her existence, that had always been her ultimate goal—to possess the souls of the “good” who were, by the Maker’s very design, destined to be out of her reach. The idea that she might be able to get up there and take them all? It was the supernova of shopping expeditions, like going to Saks Fifth Avenue with a U-Haul and a Centurion AmEx.
Just back the f**king truck up and load the shit.
She’d assumed that the war was the sole way to get that prize. In fact, that possibility had been the only reason to risk what she already had and accept the Maker’s challenge. Taking the chance of losing what had taken her millennia to obtain? Not going to happen … except if the prize was the Powerball of possessions.
That had been worth it…
Goddamn it, she’d had wanted to be the one to kill Nigel.
But instead, he had flamed out—and in the process, created a loophole that could have given her what she’d been after without her having to put her own collection on the table for the taking.
Fucking hell.
In fact, she’d never have guessed that there were any weakness in that psyche of his, a set of loose panels that she could have unscrewed even further, or a series of cracks in his foundation that she could have put a crowbar in and forced ever wider. She would have exploited anything like that if she’d known it was there—but he’d always seemed such a worthy opponent, custom-tailored to counter her at every turn.
Like the Maker had planned it that way.
The only opponent better than Nigel?
Jim Heron—
Wait a minute.
As Devina’s mind worked over the implications, a cold wash of dread ran all over her. Without Nigel in the picture? The implications of the war had just gotten even more dire.