Crave (Fallen Angels 2)

He was out of the hotel and back to Beacon Hill in the work of a moment, landing in the rear garden. The incantation he'd thrown remained in place, the outside of the town house still glowing, and now that he was in range, he knew he'd been right to come.

Devina was here. He could sense her evil, parasitic presence.

And yet everything appeared quiet: Through the plate-glass windows in the back, the kitchen was dark, with nothing but a distant hall light throwing illumination. No shadows moving, no alarm screeching, no guns going off, no screaming.

With a great beat of his wings, he levitated up to the third-floor terrace and landed in silence. Walking over to the French doors, he kept himself invisible to the human eye and peered in. The blond attorney was in her bed, lying on her side facing a little TV, apparently sleeping.

She seemed just fine.

Matter of fact, everything appeared just fine. Yeah, sure, he could sense that ghost hovering around--but it wasn't a threat to her or Isaac. . . .

The vibrating alarm in his spinal cord was still going strong, however, and he was inclined to listen to it rather than go with this illusion of A-OK. On a blink, he walked through the glass door and stood in the center of her room, braced for action.

Which appeared to be a waste of muscle tension.

Again, there was nothing out of place, no sounds. . . .

Frowning, he walked past the bed and through the closed door across the way. On the landing at the head of the stairs, he paused, and the ant farm on his back went crazy, the tickle so intense it turned his whole body into a tuning fork. Jogging downward, he knew he was headed in the right direction as the sensation got even worse--and then he ghosted into the room Isaac was using.

And there was the disturbance.

His fellow soldier was on the bed, twisting and turning in the sheets, his body contorting, his face screwed up tight in a mask of agony. As his big hands gripped the duvet, his arms strained, and that heavy chest of his pumped air hard.

Devina was here, all right, but she was in the man, not around him: The demon had sucked Isaac into a nightmare and trapped him in some kind of torture. And the result was a torment all the more real for its unreality, Jim imagined, because the bitch could custom-fit the abuse to Isaac's weaknesses, whatever they were.

At least there was a simple solution: Wake the poor bastard up.

Jim rushed forward--

Nigel, his new boss, appeared in the corner of the room and held his hand up like a crossing guard. "If you rouse him, she'll get into more than just his mind."

Jim pulled out of the lunge, yanking his weight back onto his heels and confronting the English lordship-type who was his CO Tonight, the archangel was dressed in a 1920s-era tuxedo, and sporting a cigarette in a holder in his right hand and a martini glass in the other. But this wasn't a party to him: In spite of his Gatsby duds and his 007 drink, his face and his voice were death's-door grim.

Jim pointed to the bed. "So I was right. Isaac is my next assignment."

Nigel took a draw on his coffin nail and exhaled--which made Jim realize they actually had something in common. Although given that they were both immortal, guess it wasn't a bad habit anymore.

"Indeed, saving his life is the answer," was the eventual reply.

"But I can't leave him like this," Jim said as Isaac let out a groan. "Even if he'll live through it, it's cruel."

"You cannot wake him, however. You relate to humans through their souls. That is your conduit--the way you touch them when you interact with them. Right now, his mind is contaminated by her--if you open the door by disturbing him, she shall waltz right on your heels."

Hardly the kind of assist he was looking to provide the enemy.

And yet as Jim stared at the thrashing man, he worried whether the experience would actually kill the sorry SOB. He looked as if someone were ripping his arms and legs off. "I'm not going to let him suffer like this."

"Use the tools you have. There are many." Damn it, he should have brought Eddie and Adrian with him. "Tell me."

"I cannot. I shouldn't be here a'tall. If I provide too much guidance, I risk affecting the outcome and thus having the round disqualified--or worse."

Down on the bed, Isaac let out a rippling scream.

"Shit, what do I do?"

When there was no answer, Jim looked over to the corner and saw nothing except a fading curl of smoke left by the archangel's cigarette. His boss had disappeared the same way he'd arrived: quickly and in silence.

"Fucking hell, Nigel . . ."

Standing there all by his little lonesome, while his back screamed in alarm and Isaac suffered, Jim took out his phone and tried Eddie. Adrian. Eddie again. He was about to go back to the hotel and drag them out of bed--naked if he had to--when the solution came to him.

Chapter Eighteen

Bolting up off the pillows, Grier grabbed her chest and felt her heart pound against her palm as she woke on a gasp. With her free hand, she pushed her hair out of her face and looked around. Her room was all in shadow, nothing but the floating DVD logo on the TV screen shedding any light.

"Isaac?" she asked, her voice cracking.

No answer. And no footsteps coming up the stairs.

As disappointment slowed her heartbeat, she corrected herself: It was relief. Relief .

"Daniel?" she said softly. When her brother didn't make himself known, she figured she'd come awake because her nerves were shot--

Grier froze. There was a man in her room. A huge man who was standing in front of the French doors, just outside the light of the TV. He was utterly still, like a photograph, and the only reason she knew he was there was the silhouette he cut through the ambient glow of the city.

Opening her mouth to scream, she . . . stopped herself.

He had wings.

Great wings that lifted above his shoulders and shimmered like moonlight over water, hypnotizing her eyes.

He was an angel, she thought. And as an odd, disassociated peacefulness eased over her, she decided this had to be a dream. Right? Had to be . . .

"Why are you here?" she asked, her voice sounding far, far away.

As he took a step forward, his face emerged from shadow and she was struck by how hard he looked. No cherubim sweetness. No airy-fairy, beneficent-messenger expression. No robes, either--he was dressed in a tight black shirt and . . . blue jeans?

This was a warrior.

And he reminded her of Isaac.

"Why are you here?" she asked again, unsure whether she'd just thought the words the first time.

Looking straight into her eyes, he pointed to the door that led out into the hall.

Isaac, she thought--or perhaps heard in her mind.

Grier shot out of bed and ran for the stairwell, urgency driving her feet deep into the carpet, her hand barely catching the banister as she skidded around and tore down the stairs.

At the door to the guest room, there were the sounds of some kind of struggle. Oh, God . . .

Bursting in, she couldn't see much in the darkness and called out, "Isaac? Are you okay--"

It happened so fast she couldn't track the movement. One second she was just inside the doorjambs; the next she was wrenched around, shoved onto the ground, and totally incapacitated, her arms pulled behind her back and held there hard.

A cold piece of metal pushed into her temple as a heavy weight sat on her hips.

Fear choked the air right out of her lungs, even as she was sure it was Isaac, because he smelled like her soap. "P-p-please . . ." She dragged in a breath. "It's me . . . Grier."

He didn't move. Just started to pant like he was struggling.

Tears slicked over her eyes. "Is . . . aac . . ."

"Oh, f**k." In a flash, he was off her and the gun disappeared.

As she tried to catch her breath, he bent down to her and croaked, "I'm so sorry--"

She jerked away and leaped to her feet, moving back until she slammed into the wall. Putting shaking hands to her face, she tried to inhale nice and slow, but her lungs were jamming up against her ribs, and her throat was so tight she felt like she was being choked.

Isaac gave her plenty of space and didn't say another word. He just stood where he was, in the slice of light that cut in from the hall fixture. As the roar between her ears dimmed, she realized he was naked, that sweatshirt of his held over his privates, his pecs and his stomach muscles standing out in stark relief.

No doubt he'd traded the gun for modesty.

"I didn't know it was you," he said. "I swear."

In her head, she heard him telling her not to come in until he answered.