Crave (Fallen Angels 2)

He hung up and put the phone back in his coat.

Swinging his door wide, he groaned as he got out, and chose to stick to the concrete sidewalk as opposed to the lawn, even though it was a less direct route to the back. His body ambulating over grass? Not a good thing.

After picking the dead bolt on the rear door--which proved that even though he was the boss, he hadn't lost his nuts-and-bolts training--he sipped inside the funeral home and set about finding the body of the soldier who had saved him.

Confirming the identity of Jim Heron's "corpse" felt as necessary as drawing his next breath.

Back in Boston, in that defense attorney's rear garden, Jim braced himself for the fight that was coming, literally, on the wind.

"It's just like killing a human," Eddie shouted over the gale. "Go for the center of the chest--watch out for the blood, though."

"The bitches are sloppy as shit." Adrian's grin had an edge of madness to it, his eyes sparkling with unholy light. "It's why we wear leather."

As the brick house's kitchen door slammed shut, and the lights went out, Jim prayed that Isaac kept himself and that woman in there.

Because the enemy had arrived.

From the midst of the shoving gusts, black shadows rippled over the ground and boiled up, forming shapes that became solid. No faces, no hands, no feet--no clothes, duh. But they did have arms and legs and a head, which he guessed ran the program God, the stink. They smelled like rotten garbage, a combination of sulfurous egg and sweaty, spoiled meat, and they growled as wolves did when hunting in a coordinated pack.

This was evil up and moving, darkness in tangible form, a four-set of nasty, festering infection that made him want to take a bath in bleach.

Just as he settled into his fighting stance, the back of his neck went off, that ringing alarm he'd felt the night before tweaking its way into the base of his brain. His eyes shot up to the house in a f**k-no . . . except he was certain that wasn't the source.

Whatever--he needed his game head on big-time.

As one of the shadows rolled up into his space, Jim didn't wait for the first strike--not his style. He swung wide with his crystal knife and kept going as he ducked under a blow that snapped out farther than he'd expected.

Got some elastic in 'em evidently.

Jim did make contact, though, nicking something that caused a spray of liquid to shoot in his direction. In midair, the splash morphed into buckshot pellets that then dissolved when they hit him. The sting was instant and intense.

"Fuck!" He shook off his hand, momentarily distracted by the smoke rising from his exposed skin.

The blow landed on the side of his face and made his head ring like a bell--proving that he might be an angel and all that shit, but his nervous system was still decidedly human. He immediately went on the offensive, outing a second knife and double-blading the bastard, forcing the thing into the bushes while he ducked those punches.

As they engaged, the back of his neck continued to holler, but he couldn't afford to be distracted.

Fight what was in front of you first. Then deal with what came next.

Jim was the first one to get a kill in. He lunged when his opponent arched forward, his crystal dagger going in at the gut level. As a rainbow explosion of light flared, he twisted away, covering his face with his arm to block the deadly spray, his leather-covered shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. The splattering of shit steamed and stunk like battery acid--burned like it, too, as the blood of the demon ate through the cowhide and headed for his skin.

He immediately fell back into fighting stance, but the other three oilers were covered: Adrian was handling a pair and Eddie was all over his guy . . . demon . . . whatever the f**k it was.

With a curse, Jim reached up and rubbed his nape. The sensation had graduated from tingle to roar, and he bowed under the agony now that his adrenaline ebbed a little. God, it just got worse . . . to the point where he couldn't handle it and sank down on his knees.

Putting his palm on the ground and bracing himself, it dawned on him what was doing. In a case of perfectly bad timing, Matthias had acted on the spell he'd put on his corpse back in Caldwell--

"Go!" Eddie hissed as he slashed and retracted. "We've got this! You get to Matthias."

At that moment, Adrian offed one of his pair, his crystal dagger going deep into the thing's chest before he jumped up onto the stoop to avoid the spray. The sprinkle of buckshot hit the other demon he was fighting--

Oh, shit. The black oily bastard absorbed the spray--and doubled in size.

Jim glanced back Eddie, but the angel barked, "Go! I'm telling--" Eddie dodged a strike and threw one of his own with his free fist. "You can't fight like this!"

Jim didn't want to leave them, but he was quickly becoming worse than useless--his buddies were going to have to defend him if this ringy-ding-ding got any more acute.

"Go!" Eddie shouted.

Jim cursed, but stood up, unfurled his wings, and took off in a shimmer . . .

Caldwell, New York, was more than two hundred miles west--assuming you were a human on foot, bike, horse-back, or in a car. Angel Airlines covered the distance in the blink of an eye.

As he touched down on the front lawn of McCready's joint, he saw the unmarked parked at the curb . . . and the fact that an entire block was without electricity . . . and knew he was right.

Matthias had come calling.

Just the man's style.

Jim headed across the grass, and felt like he was going back in time . . . to that night in the desert that had changed everything for him and Matthias.

Yeah, his summoning spell had worked.

The question was what to do with his prey.

Chapter Twenty-four

Standing in Grier's kitchen, Isaac totally approved of the way she took care of business. In the midst of the chaos, she was calm as she worked the phone and the security system: A quick one, two, three, and she had cut off the fire alarm, called in a false report, and reset the system. And she did it all crouched behind the counters, protected and hidden.

Definitely his kind of woman.

With her on top of things, he was free to try to figure out what the hell was doing in her backyard. Twisting around so that his body remained tucked away, he searched through the glass . . . but all he got was just the wind and a whole lot of shadows.

Yet his instincts were screaming.

What was Jimmy doing back there with his buddies? Who had shown up? Matthias's crew usually rolled up in unlicensed unmarkeds. They didn't hop on broomsticks and pe-bomb from out of a stormy sky. Besides, there was no one out there anymore that he could see.

As time dragged and a whole lot of nothing-but-wind went on, he thought maybe he'd lost his mind altogether.

"You okay?" he whispered without turning around.

There was a rustling and then Grier was shoulder-to-shoulder beside him on the floor. "What's going on? Can you see anything?"

He noted she didn't answer the question--but come on, like she had to? "It's nothing we need to be a part of."

Nothing, period, it seemed. Although . . . well, actually, if he squinted, the shadows did seem to form patterns consistent with fighters engaging in hand- to-hand combat. Except, of course, there was nobody out there--and he was seeing logic to the way things moved. To get the effect he was seeing, a legion of lights would have had to be shining in from all different directions to get even close to the optics.

"This doesn't feel right to me," Grier said.

"I agree." He looked over at her. "But I'm going to take care of you."

"I thought you were going to leave."

"I didn't." The couldn't part was something he kept to himself. "I'm not going to let anything hurt you."

Her head tilted to the side as she stared at him. "You know . . . I believe you."

"You can bet your life on it."

In a quick move, he put his mouth to hers on a hard kiss to seal the deal. And then just as he was pulling back, the wind stopped--sure as if the industrial fan causing all the blowing had been unplugged: In the back forty, there was nothing but utter silence.

What the hell was going on?

"Stay here," he said as he stood up.

Naturally, she didn't take the order, but rose to her feet, her hands resting on his shoulder as if she were prepared to tail him. He didn't like it, but he knew arguing wasn't going to get him anywhere--the best he could do was keep his chest and shoulders front and center to block any shot at her.

He inched forward until he could see outside better. The shadows had disappeared and the tree limbs and bushes were still. Distant sounds of traffic and the far-off wail of an ambulance were once again an ambient city song playing like Muzak all around the neighborhood.