Worth Dying for (A Dying for a Living Novel Book 5) (7 page)

“Fine. But what’s up with the MIB?” I’m pleased he isn’t yelling at me for using my power this time.

“They had American accents, so let’s cross off the long list of international agencies who are hunting me. That leaves us with CIA, FBI, the Secret Service, Caldwell’s lackeys, or perhaps the underling of some minor lord or another that I’ve offended. Perhaps even a businessman I’ve swindled or a drug boss with a particularly beautiful daughter.”

I glare.

“I see those brown eyes smoldering in their sockets.” Gideon flashes a tight smile. “I never claimed to be a saint, my love. In fact, I’ve often protested the notion.”

“Your point?”

“I have no idea who they were and what they want. They could want only me, or they could be after all of us. They knew your name and that is my only clue.”

We round another corner, and I realize we are only a few blocks from the hotel.

I place a hand on his arm. “We can’t go straight to the hotel.”

“You’re right,” he says and casts a look around.

A sharp pinch hits me in the middle of my back. “Ow!”

I stumble forward and Gideon grabs one of my arms. “Are you all right?”

“I got bit by a really big bee.” I try to turn and see what got me.

“Hold still.” Gideon’s fingers smooth over my coat. “Fuck.”

The drug hits me. My limbs thicken and mind slows. “Gideon—”

I stagger.

Gideon hoists me up and ducks into the nearest building. “Fight it, Rachel.”

“I’m trying,” I slur. “I really am trying.” Gideon tries to carry me somewhere, but he doesn’t get far.

More men in black—at least seven or eight—rush us. Gideon is forced to lay me down on the frosty ground and raise his hands over his head as they order. All I can make out are the dark shapes swelling and swallowing him whole. He’s being arrested, carted away, and I’m just laying here like an absolute twat.

“No,” I murmur. I try to flick my wrist, to break Gideon free, but nothing happens. “No.”

Someone bends down, peering into my face but I don’t recognize him. The room grows darker, falls quiet and I am helpless to resist.

“Sweet dreams, Ms. Wright,” a pitiless voice says. “Sweet dreams.”

Jesse

“
A
nything?” I ask Ally as she comes into the lounge, her laptop under her arm.

I’ve been laying on the stiff sofa contemplating my life since she left me to make the phone call. I’m doing my best to examine my options but I’m not getting very far.

“Gideon is in custody, but Gloria doesn’t seem worried about that. She thinks he’ll be free soon. Rachel is M.I.A. Caldwell is busy.”

“Busy with what?”

“I don’t know. She only said he was busy and that we need to come to Louisiana now while we have the opportunity, and get there as fast as we can. Nikki said she’ll fly us.”

“Can’t we drive?”

Sure we don’t have a car, but there are cars everywhere. We can borrow one. Okay, I have no intention of bringing it back, but someone would find it. Eventually.

“It’s a twenty-hour drive. Do you really want to be in the car with Winston for that long?”

“How long does it take to fly?”

“Just under three hours.”

Shit. “Fine. She can fly us as long as she leaves us the hell alone after that.”

Ally bites her lip.

“Oh god, what? You married her? I turn my back for five minutes and—”

Her face pinches with anger. “Don’t be insane.”

“Too late.”

“I don’t think she’s simply going to go away.”

“She will if I burn all that pretty blond hair off her head.”

“She can’t. Jeremiah has ordered her to track us and offer assistance if needed. She won’t go against his orders.”

Convenient. I bet she begged Jeremiah for these orders. Follow my ex around like a lovesick puppy? Yes, please! “She will if her life depends on it.”

“Jess, come on. I know it’s not ideal, but I could use the help. I’m still trying to find the seventh partis.”

“I help!”

“I’m not saying—”

I leap up from the stiff couch and slap the fake plant’s leaves. Dust billows into the air. I whirl away trying to breathe fresh air. I guess no one has time around here for dusting. “How the hell did Nikki track us? Gideon’s fancy gadgets were supposed to make us invisible.”

Sasquatch appears in the doorway. “Rachel was going out alone.”

I rub my irritated nose. “Bullshit.”

I’m about to lay into Nikki for lying, for trying to stir up grief and chaos at the worst possible time. I flash Ally an angry look but stop. Her face is crumpled with concern. “You
believe
her?”

Ally licks her lips. “I saw Rachel leave the apartment one night, alone. I’d gotten up to get a drink of water. I was standing in the kitchen nook, in the dark, because I didn’t want to turn on the lights and wake everyone. She crept right past me and slipped out of the suite. I didn’t think too much about it. I confronted her later telling her that I realize she’s probably sick of all of us, but she can’t go out alone. It’s not safe.” Ally shrugs. “She promised not to do it again.”

“That doesn’t prove anything. Even I can understand wanting to get away from someone for five minutes.” I shoot a pointed look at Nikki.

“She’s going to kill you,” Nikki says, leaning against the frame.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?”

“No.”

“Because you want to do it yourself?”

Nikki says nothing.

“She has a point,” Ally says. She lays her laptop on the sofa and stands.

“Which is what?”

“Rachel’s angel could be telling her to kill you. You told me once that Gabriel—”

“Al!” I exclaim. “Are we really going to do that here?” I jab a hand at Nikki. “In front of
her
?”

Ally presses her lips together. “Regardless of why she’s been doing it, the fact remains that Rachel has been sneaking around, and because of that, we’ve been detected. It’s careless.”

Careless. Reckless. I’ve noticed the uptick in these two words lately. Why does everyone think Rachel and I are acting so unhinged? I think I’m holding it together pretty well, actually.

Why did she sneak out?
My mind races with the possibilities. Maybe she did want to talk to her angel. I get a little antsy when I feel like I should talk to Gabriel, but can’t. Or maybe this has to do with Brinkley, our dead handler. Before he died, he asked Rachel to escape the asylum and team up with me against Caldwell. Maybe that isn’t the only thing he asked her to do. Maybe she’s on some secret mission he tasked her with. Who knows! I’m not going to let this soldier Barbie come in here and try to convince me that one of my oldest and closest friends is secretly plotting to cut my head off.

Ally steps closer to me and takes my hand. She lowers her voice. “Jess, you told me once that Gabriel wants you to kill Rachel, right? These angels—whoever or whatever they are—they seem pretty determined that only one of you will survive. Coupled with the fact that Rachel lost her mind once already—”

“You can’t hold that against her.” I swallow, trying to check my anger. I don’t want to lash out at Ally, especially not in front of Nikki. But I also don’t want to listen to either of them questioning Rachel’s loyalty. She wouldn’t betray me. She
wouldn’t
. “If anyone is a murderer it’s me. As far as I know, Rachel has never killed anyone. What about me? How much blood is on my hands?”

Ally’s eyes fall to the floor. She gives my hands a gentle squeeze and then she lets go.

Probably because what I’m saying is absolutely true. More people have died at my hands than Rachel’s. I killed Eddie, my stepfather. Granted, that bastard deserved it. I killed three of Jeremiah’s men in a firebomb. Okay, that was accidental but still my fault, and the alley firebomb brings my total to twelve people.

Thirteen if we count Eve’s little girl who got killed by Caldwell’s goons because I escaped. Fourteen if we count the boy who raised his gun at me in the old abandoned house the night Brinkley died. He was about to blow my brains out but Gabriel whipped out my firebomb power and saved the day. And Brinkley…

My heart feels like someone is squeezing it.

A flash of Rachel, naked and bloody in the living room, floods my memory. She stood there, looking like a creature who’d crawled out of hell, clutching a knife. Bloody fingerprints smeared across her dark cheek, drying like the circle crusted into the carpet at her feet. That was when she charged me. Brinkley came to the rescue that time.

No.

That was different. I understand why Rachel lost it so long ago. The whole angel power thing, it’s overwhelming and we didn’t know what the hell it was. She can’t be blamed for that.

“I’m the monster, not her,” I insist. “I even got you killed.”

Ally wraps her arms around me and Nikki’s gaze slides away. She looks suddenly very interested in the recently abused houseplant.

She looks me in the eyes. “You’re not a monster.”

Gabriel appears in the corner of the room, surveying us. I look at him, but say nothing. Both Nikki and Ally follow my gaze, but if they want to ask the question I never get tired of hearing—
are you seeing him now?
—at least they don’t.

Is she betraying me?
I ask him without saying it aloud.

He doesn’t answer.

Is she going to show up and stab me in the back? She couldn’t manage it the first time.

“She isn’t as strong as you.” He doesn’t have to speak directly into my mind since no one can hear him.

“She’s strong,” I hiss.

“Which is why you should consider her a threat,” Nikki says. Ally says nothing because unlike Nikki, she noticed that I’m yelling at the corner like a big weirdo and not actually talking to anyone in the room.

“Rachel wouldn’t hurt me.” And I really believe this to be true. Not Rachel. Not my sassy mentor who was so good to me those first years after I learned what I was. She taught me all about my condition, about death-replacing, but more importantly, about how to stomach a shitty past.

Something fucked up happened to you
, she’s said one night. We were sitting in the floor of our apartment, crossed legged and shoveling takeout into our mouths.

I’d shrugged.
Fucked up things happen to everyone.

She’d arched an eyebrow at that and had given a little nod of her head. “True enough, but you’re still carrying it around.”

“No I’m not.”

She looked me up and down. “Oh, it’s written all over you. It’s like you’ve got this suitcase, blood seeping from its seams, and you’re dragging it around everywhere. Leaking all over the place.”

“No comprendo,” I said, dodging her insinuations, though I understood exactly what she meant. Killing Eddie was too fresh in my mind.

“Listen carefully Jessup.”

God how I’d loved that nickname. Not at first. It sounded too much like ketchup and therefore was vaguely insulting, but after about a month, it’d grown on me.

“A shitty past is like a leech. It’ll follow you around. It’ll suck all the life out of you unless you cut that thing off. Cut it off or you’ll never get the chance to be happy again.”

“What would you know about shitty pasts?” I’d asked her. I was reeling from the shame and anger at the impossible task she’d given me. How the hell was I going to forget that I’d killed someone? How the hell was I going to “cut off” all the horrible things that Eddie had done to me?

It was her face that’d given me hope. She’d put her take out box down and looked out the window. The St. Louis skyline stretched before us. The river glimmering and copper-colored in the sunset.

“I know,” she said. And it was the look in her face that struck me. I didn’t dare ask another question. Because I had a clear feeling that whatever horrible thing had happened to her was maybe even worse than the horrible things that had happened to me. “You can get past it, Jessup.”

And I was able to put mine behind me. My father’s abandonment. Eddie’s pervert bullshit. My mother’s rejection. Rachel helped me push through it all. For the most part anyway.

Cut it off, Jessup. Or it’ll kill you.

“She wouldn’t betray me.” The present moment comes into sharp focus around me. Ally, still holding on to me, searches my face. “You don’t know her like I do.”

Nikki meets my gaze at last, eyebrow arched. “You better hope you’re right about that.”

Rachel

I
wake up on a park bench. Still wearing these god awful potato sacks for clothes, I look like I should be here. My head throbs and my fingertips are frozen. It hurts even to bend them. I open and close my fists hoping to improve circulation.

Several crows walk along the pale dead grass a few feet away from my bench, searching for food. Every few steps, one pecks the ground half-heartedly. A man in a long tan coat, one arm wrapped around himself, smokes a cigarette like it might be his last, blowing his smoke straight up into the sky. I haven’t seen anyone relish anything so whole-heartedly since Jessup went to town on an éclair from a delicatessen a couple of weeks ago.

I reach up and feel the scarf around my face. Why would they take Gideon but leave me bundled on a park bench? They must not be with Caldwell—and yet, they knew about my power and they used the tranquilizer dart on me. Caldwell used similar darts on Jesse before. Or perhaps that’s a ridiculous conjecture. Maybe every jerk gets a box of sedation darts in their Asshole-of-the-Day starter kit.

My head is clouded. It’s like my hangover came back with a vengeance. My whole body aches as I push myself up off of the bench and onto my feet. I start walking, my head clearing with every step.

At first I wander toward the hotel. The bench where I was dumped is surprisingly close to the giant Art Deco building. I guess they couldn’t be bothered moving me far.

As I stand in the adjacent park, trying to decide if I should return to the hotel, or proceed with the plan, my decision is made for me.

The hotel is swarming with uniformed officers filing in and out of the lobby like honeybee drones. The alleyways on both sides of the building are completely taped off and cars are turned at an angle, working as barricades.

There is no way I’m going in.

I don’t see Jessup, Ally, or the kid. If they were taken into custody, I don’t know where they’d hold them. If they got away, they’ll be on their way to Gloria.

And that is bad for a whole other reason. What has she seen about me so far? Of my schemes and intentions? It’s probably best to move quickly and execute the plan. Jessup is a big girl. She can take care of herself.

I turn and creep away from the hotel. I walk for a long time before I recognize Centre Street. I’m careful to match the frantic pace around me. Another New Yorker here, rushing off to do some important errand, eat a slice of pizza, or sleep with someone’s husband. You know. New York things.

I rehearse my murder plan. I imagine being attacked, my possible defense moves. I wish I had Jesse’s fancy shield. It compliments my telekinesis perfectly.

Kill her and you’ll have her shield and so much more,
a sweet voice says. It slides down my neck like a caress. The small hairs covering my body stand on end.

Shut up, Uriel.
I cut my eyes to the angel beside me. It’s the first time he’s chosen to fully materialize today. He’s about twice my size, at least, with his chest puffed up and hair flowing around his head like a lion’s mane. A gold belt cinches his waist as he takes one monstrous step after another beside me. I tell him all the time that he looks like Lion-O from the Saturday morning Thundercats cartoon I loved as a child. He never appreciates this.

“You’re wasting too much time.”

“You’re not the boss of me.” My voice is muffled by the scarf. “You’re
my
bitch.”

A Chinese man carrying a brown sack of vegetables stops at the sound of my voice and then gives me the finger.

“Smite him,” Uriel says.

“No. No smiting. This one doesn’t concern us.” I use Uriel’s proud tone in jest. I’m still looking at the Chinese man who shakes his head and scurries away from me.

“You need to kill the girl soon. You’re wasting too much time.”

“Sorry I got sedated and wasted the morning. How pathetic of me.”

I know better than to argue with Uriel Lion-O. He’s been relentless ever since I caught up to Jesse. Kill her, take her power. Confront Caldwell. Kill him. It’s like he’s a Dalek or something.
Exterminate! Exterminate!
If only he could be more like The Doctor. Charming. Lovable. Resourceful. My mission would be much more pleasant. But this isn’t a television show I watched reruns of in the asylum while eating copious amounts of banana pudding.

Uriel scowls at me again. That’s the problem with telepathy. A bitch can’t have a few hateful thoughts for herself.

“Do you know where they took Gideon or not?”

“He told you to go on without him.”

He did say that, standing inside the hallway outside the apartment door on 72
nd
street.
Now whatever happens, don’t fret your pretty head over me.

Then who will save you?
I’d asked.

There won’t be a need to save me. Besides, haven’t you got your own schemes?

That’s certainly true. I have plans. But the run-in with the men in the suits has me questioning my next move. If they let me go then they must not want me. But that doesn’t eliminate Caldwell as a threat. Or another partis for that matter. It might be best to enact my plans with Gideon’s help, but what to do about Gloria? If Gloria sees my schemes beforehand, she’ll most certainly warn Jesse.

“You do not need his help to kill her,”
Uriel says.

“Thank you for your vote of confidence.”
I burrow deeper into my coat to escape the biting chill. The farther I walk, the less groggy I feel. Hopefully the dart will wear off entirely soon.

Stepping off of Centre Street and hooking a left onto Grand, I hurry past the open shop windows with the smell of pancakes and fried foods hanging in the air. A television flashing the news catches my eye, causing me to stop in front of an electronics store window. The newscast from the night before plays again: Caldwell’s wet cheeks, Georgia desolated, and then the four faces I know so well flashing up on the screen one after another.

I search Jesse’s flat eyes. Face twice removed—once by a photograph, again by the television—

doesn’t look anything like the funny but broken girl I met so long ago. They’ve taken the representation of such a lively girl and simplified, dehumanized her. It isn’t a person they are hunting, but an idea. A concept. Simply another monster. And that is what I have to do if I hope to succeed in my plan.

She’s
not a person
, I think.
It’s not murder. It’s only a task that has to be done.

“Yes. There’s no time to waste,” Uriel says.

“I can do what needs to be done,” I murmur to the glass, my breath warm behind the scarf and one finger on Jesse Sullivan’s cheek.