Fallen Angels 03 - Envy (43 page)

Goddamn it, Jim hated this waiting around. “By the way, we’re staying with you tonight.”

“I figured. I only have one bed, but I got a couch.”

“I’m mostly interested in some version of a 7-Eleven.” He flipped open the box of Marlboros. “Running low.”

“There’s a Stewart’s close to my house.”

“Cool.”

Veck reached into his pocket and took out his cel phone. “Might as wel turn this back on.”

While Jim seethed in frustration, he looked out the side window at the highway’s dark shoulder, wondering when in the hel things were going to—

“What the hel ,” Veck muttered. “My damn phone blew up.”

As Jim slowly cranked his head around, he thought,
Waiting’s over; here we go.
. . .

U
p in Heaven, Nigel was playing with himself.

Chess, that was.

In truth, it was a bit boring, even though he found his opponent smashingly dressed and incredibly astute: Fel ow had al the same moves he did, so the lack of surprise presented no chal enge a’tal , real y—in spite of the flamboyantly bril iant strategies.

“Checkmate,” he said out loud to the silence of his private quarters.

When there was no cursing, no accusations of unfair practice, no stamping about and demands for a rematch, he was reminded again as to why playing with Colin was much more gratifying.

Rising to his feet, he stepped away from the table and left the pieces as they were, with only two on the board, a white queen and a black king.

The urge to leaveis tent and go wandering across the lawn toward the castle, toward the river, toward where Colin slept, was such a compel ing impulse, it went beyond the mental to border upon the physical.

But he had lowered himself to that fol y once, and been spared embarrassment. He would not do so again.

Distracted by the ache in his chest, he went ’round the bed and into the bath and then came back out once more. In truth, he hadn’t properly focused in .

. . wel , since that horrid meal . . . when Colin’s honesty had fired a shot directly at Nigel’s arrogant, pissy little ego.

Strange the way one’s position changed, wasn’t it. As time had drifted by like a lazy current in a vast and largely stil stream, his initial hotheaded, defensive reaction had faded into a more moderated response . . . one that might even make him prepared to apologize, provided an apology was tendered in return.

Which was proof positive that miracles could happen.

Unfortunately, he was entirely unsure what he would receive in reply, and knowing himself, as wel as the other archangel, he recognized that another round of arguing would benefit neither of them.

Stil , Colin could be the one to offer the olive branch.

In fact, although Nigel would admit it to no one, he had been skipping the last several meals, and passing time herein, in hopes of that archangel coming forward. This was wearing thin, however. Such passivity was not in his nature, and patience was a virtue he had little of—

“Nigel ?” came a voice from the far side of the flaps.

Nigel gritted his teeth, but kept his curse to himself as he double-checked his cravat. The last thing he needed was a visitor of the non-Colin variety. It was hardly proper to punish a wel -intended innocent, however.

“Byron, old boy,” he muttered, heading for the entrance, “how fare thee—”

The moment he drew back the satin weight and saw the other archangel’s face, he stopped dead. “Tel me.”

“Is . . . Colin herein?”

“No.”

“We cannae find him.” Byron fiddled with the brass buttons on the sleeves of his club jacket. “When he did not present himself for the evening meal, we assumed he was studying and left him be. But afore I was going to turn in, I went to search him out with some provisions. He was not in his tent. Not at the water’s edge. Not in the castle . . . and not here, either, apparently.”

Nigel shook his head at the same time he stretched out his senses—and found no sign of the angel. Indeed, if he had not been so preoccupied with himself, he would have recognized previously what he noted clearly now: Colin was not on the premises.

There was a brief urge to give in to panic, but Nigel control ed the emotional response. And considering things logical y, he knew there was but one place the sod would go.

Why had he not seen this coming?

“Worry not,” Nigel said grimly. “I shal go and retrieve him.”

“Would you care for aid in this?”

“No.” For he was not going to be responsible for the ass-lashing he gave the archangel. Personality conflict was one thing; rank insubordination was another altogether. And the latter was not going to be indulged in any fashiond dead. /div> Upon his wil , his robing and monogrammed slippers morphed into a suit of dove gray, a shirt of bright white, a pale tartan tie, and a pair of wingtips.

“Go forth and comfort Bertie and Tarquin,” he told the other archangel. “Undoubtedly, they shal be worried. And know that I shan’t be long.”

“Wherever wil you go?”

“Where he is.”

With that Nigel was off, traveling through the barrier to the world down below. And when he resumed his corporeal form, it was before a two-story garage of modest distinction set within farmland country.

He thought of Edward resting therein.

How common a marker for such an extraordinary soul.

With grim focus, Nigel surmounted the narrow exterior staircase and passed through the door as if it were naught but a veil of fog.

No reason to be throwing the panels open; he had announced himself sure enough.

And Colin did not seem shocked at the intrusion. The archangel was sitting on a ragtag sofa beneath a picture window, lounging with one arm running across the top of the cushions and his legs crossed knee to ankle.

Nigel recommitted to memory every angle and line of the male’s harsh, handsome face. And then recast them with a black eye and a fat lip of his doing.

“Did you not think your absence would be noted?”

“Do I appear surprised at your arrival?”

“The proper course of these things is to ask permission before taking your leave.”

“Perhaps for Byron and Bertie. But not I.”

“I would not have denied you.”

“How could I have known that.”

Nigel frowned, his anger abruptly abating, exhaustion taking its place. How did humans stand this emotional turmoil ? And why ever had he al owed it into his heart?

This was no good. Moreover, this could not go on.

When he next addressed the archangel, it was with composure. “Colin, it would appear that you and I have reached our own crossroads. As much as I was prepared to recognize certain . . . errors of judgment on my part . . . I fear that wil be insufficient for you, as water shal not do when blood is sought.

Further, I believe that in your thrust to embrace a logical stance, you have missed the truth about yourself. Your passions rule you far more than you realize, and they take you in directions that jeopardize our col ective interests.”

Colin’s eyes shifted away.

“Therefore, I say unto you, let us put into the past any assignations that may have occurred, and move forward into a proper distance. Mayhap over time, we shal work together in harmony anew. However, until that occurs, I expect you to behave appropriately or I shal remove you from any influence over these proceedings.”

When there was no immediate reply, Nigel walked over to a gal ey kitchen and stood before a short, squat door. Behind the flimsy barrier, Edward lay in state, neither breathing nor in decay, the angel’s body a vase sporting the scent of flowers that were not there.

Colin was wise to be here, he thought. With Jim and Adrian engaged in heated warring with Devina, this vessel was not safe—and if it were broken or cpromised, there was no restoring the seat of Edward’s soul.

Although even if it remained pristine, there was no way of knowing whether he would return. Things of this nature were within the purview of the Creator alone.

Moreover, it would be an unprecedented occurrence.

But stil , Colin should have—

“I should have told you where I was going,” the archangel said brusquely. “You are correct in that.”

Nigel turned about. The angel was stil on the couch, stil sprawled, but those eyes were focused upward, meeting his own.

“Is that an apology,” Nigel said.

“Take it as you wil .”

Nigel shook his head and thought to himself, Not good enough, old friend. ’Tis just not good enough, I’m afraid.

Tugging at the sleeves of his shirt, he pul ed down upon his gold cuff links, and stated once again, “I am endeavoring to win this vital contest the best way I know how—and that is within the bounds of proper gamesmanship. I cannot subscribe to the tenet that two wrongs make a right. I wil not.”

“Do not kid yourself,” Colin murmured as he lifted his palm and flexed his fingers. “Clean hands, as you say.”

“And look at how that turned out. Edward is dead.”

“You are not to blame for this.”

“I am.” Nigel shook his head. “That is what you do not understand. Al of this is my responsibility. You can have your opinions and your contrariness and your anger, but at the end of it, your shoulders shal not bear the burden of defeat if that is what arises. That is for me, and me alone. So whilst you despise my control, you view things from the advantaged position of commentary without consequence.”

On that note, Nigel walked over to the door. “I’m glad you are here, and I know you wil guard wel what is precious.”

“Nigel.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Colin.”

There was a long moment of silence.

When nothing further appeared to be forthcoming, Nigel looked over to the kitchen, and thought of the nature of loss: Some you chose—and could unchoose. Some was forced upon one. And . . . some was permanent.

“I shal see you anon,” Nigel said, before he ended things by walking out.

T
he next morning, Reil y went into work from her parents’ house on a ful stomach: fresh orange juice, two homemade cinnamon buns, a cup of coffee, and a strip and a half of bacon that she had purloined from her father’s plate.

As she parked her car in the lot behind HQ, every ounce of the yummy-yummy turned to lead: Veck’s motorcycle was angled in against the building.

He’d obviously turned himself in and was being questioned.

Looking up the ugly rear flank of where she worked, she was tempted to turn the unmarked’s engine back on and head off to . . . anywhere.

But she did not run. Never had. Never would.

Getting out, she blinked in the bright sunlight, and wished that God would hit the dimmer switch: Instead of lifting her mood, the cheery-spring thing drove it down even farther into the sewer.

“Beautiful day, ain’t it,” someone cal ed out.

Glancing over her shoulder, she said, “Morning, Bails.”

The detective was wending his way through the cars and trucks and SUVs, and as she watched him, she squinted, the light abruptly going glare on her.

Maybe she was getting a migraine.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Not even close. You?”

As he came up, he took off his sunglasses. “Same boat.” He nodded over at the bike. “So he’s here.”

Reil y rubbed her eyes. “Yes, he is.”

“Where are your lenses?” he said, tapping his aviators. “Summer’s coming, and so are cataracts.”

As he put his darks back on, she tilted her head and looked up at him. The light was so bright around the guy, it seemed as if he were made of chrome.

Okay, she was losing her mind, going total gaga. Next thing she knew, she’d be wearing meat to work.

“I said . . . are you going to watch the interrogation?”

Shaking herself, she murmured, “God, no. And sorry, I’m just off today.”

He put his arm around her shoulders as a friend would, nothing more. “I get that. Come on, let’s go in and try to pretend we’re working.”

“Good plan.”

They walked in together, headed out to the lobby and hit the stairs. On the second-floor landing, the admin pool was not at their desks, but over in the back corner, clustered together. As soon as one of them saw Reil y, al of them looked over.

Ducking her head, she muttered a see-you-later and hurried off to her department. In Internal Affairs, she had more eyes on her, but at least here her col eagues came over, said good morning, and acknowledged the situation: awkward, but better than hushed whispers—and folks were supportive.

Then again, most people at one time or another had gotten snowed. It was an occupational hazard of breathing.

When the chat-ups dwindled, she sat down at her desk, logged into her computer and lasted about . . . a minute and a half.

Out of her department. Down the hal . Into Homicide.

And as if it were supposed to happen, the first person she ran into was de la Cruz.

“I was wondering if you’d show,” he said, coming forward and offering his hand.

Shaking his palm, she cleared her throat. “How’s it going.”

“They’re just getting started. You want to watch?”

“Yes,” she said hoarsely.

“Come with me.” As he led her past the desks, he lifted up his coffee cup. “I just made a caffeine run, you want some?”

“I’m jittery enough—thanks, though.”

The interrogation rooms ran down a narrow corridor that was entered through its own doorway, but there was a cut-through at the rear of the department, and de la Cruz held the back door open for her./font>

“There’s a monitor in here.”

The tiny conference room had old carpet, but a new round table—on which was a screen showing black-and-white feed from a ten-foot-by-fifteen-foot room. The camera was trained on Veck, who was sitting in a chair against the corner, and she felt a physical shock at seeing him. Man, he was big, especial y looking as coldly aggressive as he was: his arms were crossed over his chest, and his eyes were narrowed and focused on the detective who was questioning him.

Kind of like the guy was a dartboard.

Reil y pul ed out a chair and sat down, her legs feeling unreliable.