Immortal (20 page)

“May I help you.”

Not a question. And the attitude was more along the lines of, What are
you
doing here?

As Jim stopped on the shiny marble floor of the Freidmont Hotel's lobby, he looked across at Mr. Officious, who was manning the front desk. The guy was wearing a discreet black suit with a gold name tag, a bright white shirt, and a black tie—like he was the maître d' of a funeral home.

“The service entrance is around the back,” was the tack on.

Annnnnd this was why it was better to be invisi.

“I'm here to see a guest,” Jim muttered, and went to head for the elevators.

“Excuse me,” the man said as he busybodied his way out from behind the counter.

Jim put his palm out and whammied the little prick into silence. Then with a quick spin and a metaphysical shove, he sent the suit back to his station.

Jim took the elevators, not the stairs.

For one, it was because a set of those ornate doors opened on cue like the damn thing knew he needed a lift. Har-har. And two, the closer he got to the demon, the more worked up he was
becoming, and that limited his powers to the likes of the parlor trick he'd pulled on the front-desk guy.

Stepping in, he hit the button marked PH and looked up at the line of numbers over the doors. With a series of discreet dings, the progress up the middle of the old building was slow and steady.

His temper rose as well.

There were mirrors all over the inside of the elevator, and he avoided looking at himself. He didn't want to think about anything other than giving Devina a very clear message—and the sight of his face with the stubble and the exhaustion was too much a reminder of how close to the bone he was.

Shifting his eyes even higher, so he was looking at the ornate wood carvings on the ceiling, he muttered, “Nigel, you'd better come through for me.”

With one final ding, things bumped to a halt and the doors opened soundlessly. The hallway beyond was done in the same somber gold-and-maroon stuff as the lobby, the carpet all swirls, the walls striped, the fixtures crystal.

He could give a shit.

Down at the far end, he curled up a fist and banged on the door loudly.

With a click, the thing unlocked and opened on its own. The room beyond with its sleek furniture, built-in bar and view over the river was lit by candles that flickered. R & B bumped through hidden speakers and some kind of sultry, just-out-of-the-bath scent was thick in the air.

And there she was.

The demon was sitting in a chair completely naked, her legs pulling a Sharon Stone as she lounged back and felt up her own breasts.

“Miss me,” she drawled.

He kicked the door shut. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Waiting for you to come over here and give me a proper hello. Preferably with some penetration.” One of her hands drifted down between her legs. “I'm waiting.”

“You need to back the fuck off from Sissy.”

The demon exhaled a curse. “Her again. Look, Jim, there's no reason to pretend. It's not like Adrian's here. Or that little idiot girl.”

He stalked over to the evil, but didn't get too close. “You don't want to push me on this. Sissy is off-limits.”

Devina closed her knees. Then crossed her legs. “Is she. Since when do you set the rules.”

“You want to come at me, fine. But leave her alone.”

The demon burst up to her feet and paraded over to the bar, her sky-high red pumps clipping across the marble, going silent on the area rugs.

“You are a real asshole, Jim.” She made work out of pouring clear liquid from a silver shaker into a martini glass. The olive she tossed in was army green. “You think I'm evil? What do you call a man who's unfaithful right in front of his lover's face, huh?”

He laughed with a hard edge. “Like you and I are fucking dating.”

“We
are
in a relationship.”

“You're insane. I mean, like, really—you are frickin' crazy.”

Devina went quiet and wasted some time taking a long sip off the knife-edge-sharp rim of the glass. Her glittering black eyes stayed on him the whole time.

“I had other plans for us tonight,” she murmured, “but I guess we're going to have to do this the hard way.”

“If you're talking about sex, that ain't happening.”

“You've said that before.” Her tone was bored as she put her glass down and came around the bar. “I just want you to know that this is all your fault.”

“Excuse me? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“This is all on you.” Over at the silk-covered sofa, she bent down and started rifling through a big-ass black handbag. “Ah, yes, here it is.”

When she turned around to him, she was holding up . . . a Mercedes hood ornament and a kitchen knife.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he demanded.

“You don't recognize this?” She put the circle with its three-part division forward. “It's from my car.”

“So go give it to your mechanic. Why do I care?”

“You are seriously underwhelming right now, you know that.” She went back over to the bar and put the thing into an ashtray. “Don't you remember the other night?”

“Sorry. I've been busy trying to forget every second I've spent in your presence.”

She closed her eyes as if her chest hurt. But then she seemed to refocus. “You and I had one of our tiffs and I got a little aggressive with my car.”

“You tried to mow me over.”

“Yes, I did. And as it so happens, you were kind enough to leave me a little souvenir.”

Warning bells started ringing in his head as he put two and two together and came up with a whole lot of fuck-him.

But it was too late.

“And this has proved to be really handy already.”

Before he could react in any kind of proactive way, she poured some alcohol on top of the silver metal piece and spit a ball of flame at it.

Instantly, he was on fire. Even as his skin remained intact, he felt the burning down to his bones, the pain incapacitating him and sending him down onto the fake Oriental.

“You see, Jim, I'm not the one who made Sissy a part of this. The Creator did. So it's not my fault and it's nothing you can change.”

Writhing into a tight ball, he found no relief and so he straightened out, trying to ease the agony. In the end, all he could do was grit his teeth and try not to scream, especially as she came over, those two blood-colored stillies stopping right next to his face.

Kneeling down, she brushed some of her long hair back and put the ashtray on the floor next to him.

If he could only reach—

“Oh, no,” she said, pulling the fire out of range. “No, this is my toy. Just as you are.”

Like the sick bitch she was, she started to finger herself as she watched him suffer, going so far as to lie out beside him, her perfect breasts heaving, her body undulating as she masturbated on the rug while he grunted and cursed in pain. And then just before she orgasmed, she grabbed for his dick, stroking at him like that was going to turn him on or some shit. Weakened by the agony, dizzy from the pain, he couldn't make his arms and legs coordinated enough to get her off him.

As she came, she said his name at the top of her lungs—almost like she was pissing on a post and hoping Sissy would magically hear her.

And then there was a moment of her just easing on back and staring at him like he was dessert. Whatever, he was about to pass out as she put her arm over her face like she couldn't believe how fucking good that had been.

Shit, it was his only chance, and he jerked in the direction of the ashtray.

“Not for you,” she said with a smile. “No, no, that's mine.”

Puckering her lips, she leaned down to the flames . . . and blew them out on a oner.

The relief was instantaneous, the burning draining out of his body the second there was nothing but a tendril of smoke over
the Mercedes emblem. Except damage had been done. Even though his skin wasn't hanging in ribbons off of him, he was burn-victim out of it, his limbs jerking spastically, his vision going in and out of focus.

“Oh, Jim, I love you.”

The tone in her delusional fucking voice was as if he'd just given her a set of pearls and a mink coat—as opposed to having gone third-degree as she YouPorn'd herself.

He was dimly aware as she sat up and fluffed her hair back into place. “So this thing gives me a lot of control over you. It's how I made it into your bed at your house, you know. Such a shame the way that turned out—although I'm not sure I could have kept the lie up as you fucked Sissy's body. Anywho . . .” She picked up the ashtray and then looked around. “This is going to take care of everything.”

Stretching an arm out, she pulled a Kleenex free of a box on the coffee table.

“I know better than to think you're going to stand still for this, so I'm just going to take a little precaution here.” Bringing the tissue to her mouth, she spoke into the thing, then blew across the fibers once, twice . . . three times. “There we go.”

The instant she covered the hood ornament with the Kleenex, a huge weight settled over him, immobilizing his already weak body, keeping him down on the floor—even though ostensibly there was nothing on him.

Devina put the ashtray on the coffee table and looked down at him. “Where's your phone, Jim?”

There was no way of answering the question, as he couldn't open his mouth or use his tongue. The only thing he seemed capable of doing was breathing—that and having a pulse.

“I'll just have to pat you down.”

She straddled him in those high heels and bent over him, her
full breasts swaying as she ran her hands down his entire body—not just around the pockets of the jeans he'd changed into.

“No phone, damn it. But this . . . I think it's best that I take your little knife. Just in case.”

With a flourish, she unsheathed his crystal dagger from where he'd tucked it into the small of his back. Bringing the weapon up to his face, she smiled like a shark.

“Were you planning on using this against me? Shit, I should have kept my bra and panties on and you could have cut them off me. That would have been hot.”

All he could do was blink, but the hatred curling in his gut must have shown, because she pulled that bullcrap pout routine of hers. “Oh, come on, Jim—we have to keep things spicy in the bedroom. It makes couples closer. I read about it in an article that was forwarded around Facebook.”

Jesus fucking Christ, the bitch was—

“Okay, so no phone—any chance you left it with your girl? Because that would be so damned convenient, you have no idea.”

Straightening, she went back over to her bag and took out an iPhone. After dialing, she put the thing up to her ear.

When the call was answered, she said grimly, “Hello, Sissy.”

Her eyes locked on his as he tried to fight against the nonexistent bars that held him down.

“I think you need to come see me.”

Jim gritted his teeth and struggled so hard his bones hurt—and the only thing that happened was that the Kleenex in the ashtray moved ever so slightly.

“Penthouse. Freidmont Hotel downtown—I'll let the front-desk supervisor know you're expected up here. Why?” Her eyes narrowed. “Because Jim's about to arrive here any second, and I figure enough with the bullshit. You need to see this for yourself. And before you ask, no, it's not a trap. In fact, I'll bet you Jim already told
you he had to go somewhere tonight, didn't he. So get your ass down here—and be the strong female I know you want to be.”

Devina terminated the call and shook her head in something close to amazement. “You are so fucking pissed off right now, aren't you. But you can't say a thing, you can't do a thing about it. You know, I should have tried to run you over with my Benz weeks ago. This is
so
good for our relationship.”

She tossed her phone back in her purse and looked his body up and down. “And now for a change of clothes.”

With a wave of her hand, he was left naked, his threads dematerializing as cleanly as smoke cleared by a draft of fresh air.

And then something utterly horrific happened.

A surge of nausea hit him right in the gut, and it was followed by a strange vertigo, one that seemed to affect his head as well as his body.

“Holy . . . shit,” Devina breathed. “I am so fucking
hot
.”

It took a second to piece together what she was saying. Oh . . .
fuck
 . . .

“We're going to have to allow you a little movement, I don't want me to look dead.” She directed a stare at the ashtray . . . and suddenly he could, if he really tried, lift his head about an inch off the carpet. “Besides, I want you to admire my handiwork.”

Jesus Christ,
no
 . . .

He had become Devina. He had her naked body, with her breasts and her hair, her mile-long legs, those goddamned shoes.

No! he screamed without making a sound.

“And now for my costume.”

In the blink of an eye . . . she became him. Everything from his growing-out fade to his broad shoulders to his heavy legs.

“What do you think?” she asked in his voice. “We should totally remember this for Halloween, right?”

Adrian could not find out she was leaving, Sissy thought as she padded down the creaky stairs, sticking to the far edges where the nail heads were to cut the noise.

On the first floor, she moved through the shadows silently, zeroing in on the kitchen. It was physically painful to see the table and its four chairs, and pass by the counter Jim had cleared off to get at her. But the keys, oh, yes, the keys to the Ford Explorer were right where Ad had put them when he'd emptied his pockets of his wallet, the Home Depot receipt, and his own phone.

She slipped outside and carefully shut the door. When she hit the lawn, she looked up, way up, to the attic. No lights glowing there. Ad had to be asleep.

And he needed to stay that way.

This was something she needed to handle on her own. Because if she got down to that hotel and found Jim hooking up with the demon? She was not going to be responsible for what she did to him. If that was what he was doing, then Jim was pure evil—what the hell else would you call a man who could say what he'd said to her, do what he'd done to her . . . and then go out to some other woman's bed. Some demon's bed.

The SUV had been parked right at the head of the driveway so
that they could unload the plywood sheets, and fortunately, Ad had not locked the thing so she didn't have to worry about the chirp of the alarm deactivating. Once she was behind the wheel, she moved the seat up so she could reach the pedals . . . and prayed to God the sound of the engine starting didn't disturb the angel.

The headlights came on automatically, but the engine was relatively quiet—especially as she coasted out into the street, did a slow K-turn, and accelerated cautiously. In the rearview mirror, she double-checked the third floor.

Still no lights. And Ad was not a vampire who could see in the dark.

Thank God.

As she headed off, she knew where she was going. The hotel Devina was at was the super-fancy one downtown where the senior prom had been held. The trouble was, she wasn't sure which exit it was off the highway. There were, like, half a dozen that dumped out into those dense city blocks full of skyscrapers.

But she was going to frickin' find the thing.

Out of the neighborhood. Onto a surface road that took her to the Northway. And then she was speeding in the direction of Caldwell's twin bridges.

Curling her hands on the steering wheel, her head played tennis with itself, batting contradictions back and forth: The way he touched her. What Devina said. The look in his eyes as they'd had sex. What Devina said. The sense of belonging when they were together. What Devina said.

It was like having the Williams sisters on her mental court, the opposite sides slamming balls back and forth, neither giving an inch. On some level, she couldn't believe she was doing this, going downtown in the middle of a war for humanity's future, just to see whether her “boyfriend” or “fuck buddy” or whatever the hell they were to each other was cheating on her with someone else.

Then again, she'd wanted normal and this was it; this precise drama happened to regular people who hadn't done the sacrificial-virgin thing and ended up in Hell and been rescued only to go and watch their own funeral. There were millions of women across the globe who had to deal with this.

It was just . . . for frick's sake . . . why couldn't the “normal” she'd gotten have been more like a good steak dinner, or a night where, instead of worrying about life and death or goddamn portals to Purgatory, she watched reruns of
The Big Bang Theory
and ate Oreo ice cream out of the carton?

She got off I-87 one exit early and became trapped in the maze of one-ways. A few left turns later, however, and she was pulling up to the front of the hotel. Three flags waved above its grand entrance: an American, one for the state of New York, and a third with the place's logo in maroon and gold on it.

There were no valets out front, but, because it was . . . one sixteen in the morning . . . there was a metered space directly across from the revolving doors.

She got out, locked the Explorer, and straightened her clothes. Although, come on, like the sweatshirt and yoga pants were going to look any less schlubby? Or be any closer to the chain mail she wished she were wearing?

It was like she was about to go to war or something.

Jogging across the four-lane street, she took the red-carpeted stairs two at a time and shoved her way into the marble lobby. The first thing she saw was the biggest flower arrangement on the planet. The thing was nearly a full story high, and it was not made of silk: the lilies and roses released a delicate fragrance that reminded her of Eddie.

“Are you Miss Barten?”

Her sneaker let out a squeak as she pivoted toward the marble-topped bays where guests checked in. There was a lone man in a
black suit standing behind one of the computer stations, his hair slicked back from his forehead, his shirt so blindingly white it made her think of bleached teeth.

“Yes.”

“Please go right up.” He smiled at her like he was much, much older than she was—even though he had to be only in his mid-twenties. “The elevators are on the left. You can take any one of them.”

“Thanks.”

The ride all the way to the penthouse took a while, and she really could have done without the four walls of mirrors. The last thing she wanted to see was her face and wondered whether Jim avoided his reflection when he came here, too. Or had he no conscience? Well, whatever, she certainly wasn't enjoying her own view: She'd been under some delusion, as she'd made it out of the house apparently without waking Ad, and gotten down here okay, that she was in full-on handle-it mode. Instead, even in her peripheral vision, her eyes looked crazed in her pale face, and her hands were shaking so badly, the sleeves of her sweatshirt were vibrating.

Ding!

The doors slid open and she stepped out onto lush carpet. Crystal sconces shed gentle butter-yellow light over walls that had a sheen of wealth to them, and real paintings were hung at intervals in both directions. There were a couple of doors to choose from, and she went over and read one of the plaques. F
RAMINGHAM
L
OUNGE
. Another one farther down read, S
TAFF
O
NLY
.

She found the P
ENTHOUSE
sign all the way at the far end.

There was a little doorbell button under the sign—but before she went to push it, the door opened of its own volition, as if a draft or, more likely, some unseen hand was at work.

And there it was.

Exactly what she had come to see, but hoped not to.

In a seating arrangement in the center of a room with a lot of glass windows, in a chair that faced the view, Devina was buck-ass naked, her long brunette hair spilling down nearly to the floor . . . because her head was thrown back in ecstasy.

Bathed in candlelight, Jim was looming over her, his naked body poised above his bowed arms as he kissed her.

Sissy must have made a noise. A curse. A something—because he suddenly looked up at her. Instantly, the red-hot passion in his face was replaced with shock and then panic.

“Sissy!” he barked. And then he had the colossal nerve to leap back from the woman, demon, whatever she was like he hadn't just been caught red-handed.

He was fully aroused.

Between one blink and the next, the rage inside of her leaped free and she was no longer in control.

As she stepped over the threshold, Jim was holding his hands out like he wanted to stop her from coming into the penthouse. Then he was backing up as if looking for his clothes. The whole time, he was talking to her, his mouth moving.

She didn't hear a thing.

But her sight worked just fine: She saw everything about him and everything about Devina, too. For her part, the demon just sat back in that low-slung chair, her hands lying on the armrests, her hooded eyes following every move that Sissy made.

Then again, what was there to say, really.

There was, however, a knife. On the coffee table by the chair. With an eight-inch blade. Absently, she noted that it was like the fancy one her dad had gotten for Christmas two years ago, the one he treated like it was a work of art. Funny, the Henckels was
totally out of place in the room, looking like something that had been left behind by a caterer.

She went for it before she knew what she was doing.

Picking the blade up, she felt its weight in her right hand, and turned to Jim.

“—me get some clothes on, okay?” he was saying. “Sissy? Can you hear me? Let me just get dressed, all right?”

He wheeled around as if looking for a pair of pants.

Something registered in the back of her mind, but she didn't give it even one brain cell of thought. There were none to spare. That rage had taken over everything in her and around her.

“I can't believe you fucking lied,” she said. “You bastard.”

Jim put those hands in front of himself again and backed up even further—until there was a crash like he'd knocked over a lamp, although she didn't pay any attention to that.

“Sissy, you got this wrong—”

“You fucking bastard!”

All at once, everything that had happened to her since she'd gone out to that Hannaford supermarket came back to her—as she stalked Jim, all of the unjustness of each succeeding horror was made manifest in him. The pain and terror of death. The centuries of quasi-time suffering in Devina's well. The raw mourning of her family and her lost life.

It was the perfect storm that created the super-wave in the ocean.

And that wave was going to come crashing down on Jim Heron.

Right now.

As if destiny agreed with her, he took one final step back and came up against the bar. He was still talking to her, and he twisted around as if attempting to judge which side to try to get around.

That Grim Reaper tattoo of his was yet another reminder of why he needed to die.

The rage lifted her arm up, the blade flashing in the candlelight.

She was going to kill him. Even though he was bigger and stronger, she knew that if she made one stabbing motion . . . it was going to be game-over.

Her fury was that great.