Fallen Angels 05 - Possession (6 page)

Okay, she didn’t know the answer to the “what” on that one.

“Hey, did you know you’re missing an earring,” Teresa said.

“Oh, yeah. I think it happened at the hair salon—”

“Here he is,” Teresa hissed as she sat up straighter.

Cait glanced over her shoulder. And did a little spine stretching of her own.

Yup, it was the one she’d just seen by the bike … and if the guy had been an eye-catcher from the back, the front view was even better: His face was a stunning composite of strong lines, enhanced not only by that holy-crap hair of his, but a goatee and a pair of hooded eyes that had bedroom all over them. Long and lean, he was wearing just a muscle shirt now, his arms covered in flowing black and gray tattoos marked with lettering in a foreign language.

As he sat down on a pine stool, he drew a hand through that hair, pushing it over his shoulder—and it refused to stay put, copper highlights flashing in the stage illumination as it rebelled back into place.

His smile was easy as a summer breeze, and as he tapped the mic to make sure it was working, Cait found herself wondering what his voice sounded like—

“Hey,” he said, deeply, softly. “How you doin’ tonight?”

The line was anything but cheesy coming from him, especially as the tenor of the words floated down from the ceiling like a caress.

“So I wanted to share a new song with you, something I just wrote.” He looked around as he spoke, and even though Cait was sure he didn’t focus on her, it felt like he was speaking to her and only her.

“It’s about living forever,” he intoned. “And I wish I could use my guitar, but there’s been a technical difficulty there—so you’re just going to have to put up with my voice all by itself.”

The clapping was quick and fervent, suggesting that there were a whole lot of Teresas in the crowd. In fact … this was why there were just women here tonight, wasn’t it.

He was even waving at a couple of them, like they were friends.

As he cleared his throat and took a deep breath, Cait found herself turning her chair around to face the stage.

“Told you,” she heard Teresa say with satisfaction.

The demon Devina took form in front of the nondescript, almost-modern headquarters of Integrated Human Resources, Inc. Located in one of Caldwell’s countless professional services complexes, the “firm” had no clients, no employees and was neither a resource for humans, integrated, or incorporated. It was, however, the perfect, protective shell for her collections, and the name was a nice play on what she did.

She was good at integrating herself into humans.

Had just come out of a rather accommodating vessel, as a matter of fact.

Loved
those black jeans.

Striding to the door, she passed through the locked steel panels and emerged into the empty, shadowy interior. Inside, there were no desks, no phones, no computers, no coffee machines or watercoolers—and even M-F, eight a.m. to five p.m., there were no meetings being held, interviews set up, or business being conducted. If she had to, however, she could conjure that illusion out of the air at the drop of a hat.

After her last hideout had been infiltrated by Jim and his angel buddies, she’d had to relocate, and so far, so good.

“Hi, honey, I’m home,” she said to the newest sacrificial virgin who was hanging upside down over a tin tub by the elevator.

He didn’t answer her, natch.

In his previous life, before he’d become something important, he’d been a computer geek—God, with the chronic shortage of virgins in contemporary America, she’d never been so grateful for technology; all she had to do was search the yellow pages under IT.

And yet, even with him serving as a metaphysical ADT system, creeping tension made her walk faster and faster toward the elevator doors. There were two choices for other floors: “2” and “LL,” and when she got inside, she hit the latter. Silence accompanied the drop in height as she proceeded down to the windowless, open space of the basement. Her breath trapped in her lungs as the doors parted…

“Oh, thank fuck,” she said with a laugh.

Everything was there. All her clocks, which responded to her presence by resuming their count of minutes and hours; her many bureaus full of things that had just re-lined themselves up, their pulls still clapping from the return to proper position; her countless knives that were now once again facing point-first to the south; and her most important possession—the most priceless thing of all, in spite of its ugly state of decay—her mirror, was right where she had left it in the far corner.

Well, and then there was also the fun stuff in her “bedroom” area, the king-size bed, the vanity with all her makeup, her racks and racks of clothes, her shelves of shoes, her cupboards of bags.

Whenever she left, her possessions discorded, the orientation of the vast space becoming jumbled and confused. When she returned? Order was reestablished.

The same way a magnet would pull metal shavings together.

And just as her objects orbited around her, she too was drawn to them. Her greatest fear, at least on Earth, was that someday she would come back here and something would be gone. Or all of it would be. Or just a part.

As her heart rate regulated and she took off her fur coat, she walked down the aisles created by the bureaus. Stopping randomly, she pulled open the top drawer of a Hepplewhite she’d purchased from its maker back in 1801. Inside, there were eyeglasses from the period, thin wires curling around, circles of aged glass glinting. As she touched them, the energy of their past owners surged into her fingertips and connected her with the souls she had claimed and now held in her prison.

She knew each and every one of the sinners, her children, the beloved chosen who she nurtured through eternal pain and humiliation in her wall down below.

Fucking Jim Heron.

That goddamn “savior” might well be the death of her—literally. And that was not supposed to be the way shit went. In the beginning of this seven-round war, she’d had such hope for him, had been convinced that his bad side, cultivated in his professional pursuits for so long, would serve her well. Instead? That cocksucker was playing for the other team.

And
winning
.

If he pulled off one more victory?

Overwhelmed, Devina surveyed her collections, tears spearing into her eyes.

If that savior won for Team Angel, all of this was gone, all of her things no longer existed—worse, all of her souls were history as well. Everything she had spent eons amassing? Up in smoke.

Her, too.

Fucking Jim Heron.

Marching over to her vanity, she tossed the mink onto the bed, pulled out the dainty chair, and sat down. As she stared at herself in the oval mirror, she approved of the way she looked—and hated the way she felt.

First off, she despised the fact that there was a female who Jim wanted badly enough to give a win up for. And then there was her personal rock and a hard place—give up something she owned?

When was the last time she’d let anything go?

Well … hell, she’d have to go Taylor Swift on that one: never, ever,
ever
…

Man, OCD sucked on a good day. Faced with losing all the shit in this basement? It was enough to give her a fucking heart attack—

Bracing herself on the vanity, she had to open her mouth to breathe. “You’re immortal … you’re immortal … you don’t have to call nine-one-one…”

’Cuz for fuck’s sake, you couldn’t resuscitate someone who didn’t exist in the crash-cart kind of way.

Good logic. Except as high-octane panic roared through her veins, and knocked out her higher reasoning, that little slice of rational got kicked in the can. With a trembling hand, she brushed her dark hair out of her face and tried to remember the cognitive behaviorial therapy she’d been doing.

Not going to kill her. Just physical sensations. Not about the things, Devina—it’s about trying to exert control over …

Bullshit it wasn’t about the things. And even immortals could in fact die—she’d proved that when she’d killed Adrian’s precious little buddy Eddie in the round before last.

“Oh, God,” she moaned as a sense of disconnection separated her from her environment, her eyesight going funhouse, her balance destabilizing.

Winning the war meant that she had dominion over the Earth and all the souls on it. Awesome. Totally. But losing?

Just the thought made her want to throw up.

The stakes could not be higher.

Fucking Jim Heron—

“Can’t … breathe…”

Great. Looked like this was going to be another three-appointment week with her therapist. Maybe four.

Forcing herself to focus, she tried breathing in deep with her belly. Tightened her thigh muscles repeatedly. Told herself she’d been in this pounding place of adrenaline overload a million times before and survived it every single time. Thought about the new season at LV and what she was going to buy in New York at the mother ship on Fifth…

In the end, what brought her back was an earring she wouldn’t have worn even if there’d been a crystal knife at her throat.

Seashell? Really. How fucking Cape Cod.

The woman who’d worn it had probably gotten the damn thing from some boyfriend or another after a long weekend spent walking on the beach, holding hands, and doing it missionary position in a B & B.

Snore.

Taking the pathetic fourteen-karat trinket out, Devina bypassed a lineup of five bottles of Coco by Chanel and pulled forward a shallow plate made of a shiny silver composite. The earring bounced as she dropped it, and for a split second, she wanted to crush the thing to dust … just because she could. Instead, she began to speak in her mother tongue, her voice distorting, the Ss prolonging like a snake’s hiss. When it was time, she closed her eyes and extended her palm, the spell gathering in intensity, heat brewing up.

Images began to lift from the object, the movie of its owner channeling into her, the narrative and visuals locking into Devina’s CPU for future use. Oh, yes, metal objects were so handy, the energy of their possessors forever trapped in between the molecules, just waiting to be absorbed by something else.

Before she ended the session, she gave in to temptation and added a little something else to the mix, a minor chaser, just an itty-bitty push in her own direction. Nothing like she had done in previous rounds, nothing even close.

Just a little artificially manufactured law of attraction.

That was all.

Cracking her lids, she stared into the white-hot maelstrom that was spinning like a tornado above the flat plane of the plate—and then it was done, the energy exchange complete, the interaction between objects over.

No big deal. And if the Maker wanted to split hairs to this degree? He needed her therapist, too.

Devina sat back, the presence of her objects something she felt, the essences of the souls down below intermixing, and yet retaining their individual characteristics.

Just as things were in her wall.

Fuck Jim Heron.

And fuck the game, too, by the way. The Maker needed her. She was the balance in His world—without her? Heaven would lose its significance altogether; no need for it if Earth was a utopia.

Evil was required.

Unfortunately … however true that was, this war was going to determine the future.

She was down by so much: four rounds, and she had only won one.

Grabbing her iPhone, she went into her contacts, hit a number, and while the call was going through, she deliberately stared out over her things, reminding herself of how much she had—and how much there was to lose.

“You’ve reached the voice mail of Veronica Sibling-Crout, licensed social worker. Please leave your name and message, as well as a number where I can reach you, repeated twice. Have a lovely day.”

Beep.

“Hi, Veronica, this is Devina. I’m wondering if you have any sessions available ASAP? I’m going—” Her voice cracked. “I’m going to make a difficult decision right now, and I need some support. My number is…”

After she rattled off the digits, repeating them twice even though the woman no doubt had her on speed dial at this point, she hung up, closed her eyes and gathered her strength.

This was going to be the hardest thing she had ever done.

Other than fucking Jim Heron, of course.

Because like the war and the position she was in, it was difficult to admit … that she truly had fallen in love with him.

And that was another reason this hurt so badly.

At nine fifty-one, Duke left the Iron Mask’s front door, getting in his truck and hitting the Northway. Two exits later, he got off at a cluster of apartment developments that were conveniently located right off the highway. With names like Lantern Village, which had an old Colonial theme, and Swisse Chalets, which was some Albany architect’s version of Gsaatd, these were well maintained but densely packed stables for young professionals just starting their double-income, no-kids lives.

He should know. He’d lived here once.

Turning in at the signage marked Hunterbred Farms, he was on autopilot as his truck wound around the various horse breed–referenced streets, passing identical stacked buildings that were painted dark green and gold and had central staircases open to the air.