Crave (Fallen Angels 2)

Matthias had gotten the picture.

The cold clarity that came upon Jim brought with it a kind of terror: He'd been trying to save the target . . . when all along, he should have been focused on the shooter.

Chapter Forty-two

Reflex, not reflection.

That was where Isaac was as he stood in Grier's hall with some kind of solution dripping off his nose and chin.

His brain could have spent a decade or two trying to figure out what the f**k he'd just seen, but that would have required time he didn't have. As much as he didn't understand--and that black hole was on a football-stadium scale--he was going to have to rely on what his eyes had shown him and leave it at that: He had witnessed a dead man get up; he had shot the bastard; and the only thing that had refloored the corpse had been some kind of glass or crystal knife. Then something had left the body and escaped out under the front door.

It was kind of like sKillerz, when you went into the paranormal-world part of the game. With a flick of the switch, the normal rules went into the shitter and you stepped into an alternate universe where people could disappear right in front of you and vampires lived in the shadows and pale men came after you instead of humans.

Of course, that was role play that you could turn off--and there was no pause button on this sitch. Which was why he wasn't going to waste a lot of energy figuring it all out. Yeah, sure, maybe after this was over he'd ask Jim what the hell had just happened . . . but that was only if there was an "afterward."

With the way things were going, some portion of the people standing in this hall might well be headed for an "afterlife."

"Where did it go?" he asked Jim. "Not that black thing--the picture."

As Jim looked up from the cell phone, the second in command's words came back: Matthias is not in charge. So that meant some other mastermind was engineering a certain result by hitting the levers and pulleys of various puppets and scenes.

"Who?" he repeated.

"Matthias got it," Heron said, getting to his feet.

"Is Matthias . . . one of those?" As Isaac pointed to the pop-up corpse, he thought it was just f**king great to be in a situation where there were no terms to describe anything.

"He wasn't when I saw him last night."

Well, maybe that explained why the guy's face had been used as a punching bag. And yup, if both of them lived through this, Jim so had some explaining to do.

"Are you one of them?" Isaac demanded.

Cue the Jeopardy theme as Jim looked over at his two buddies and then at Grier and her father. "After a fashion, yes. But we're on the other side."

Isaac shook his head and left all that for later. What was more important was the path that was being constructed by the series of events: "Matthias gets that picture and he'll think I killed . . . him . . . it . . . whatever."

And step two in the extrapolation? Matthias would really be gunning for him now.

"Who are you calling?" he asked as Jim put that phone up to his ear like he was making a call.

The guy mouthed, Matthias . . . and then the next thing that came out of his mouth was a curse. "Fucking voice mail."

As the others continued talking, Isaac pulled Heron aside. "I'm `not the one.' Tell me what it means."

"We don't have that kind of time--"

"We've got a minute and a half. I'll guarantee it."

"And that won't cover anything at all." Jim's eyes bored into Isaac's. "Do you remember what I told you when I first saw you? That I wasn't going to let anything happen to you? I still mean it. But I have to go."

Isaac squeezed the guy's arm, holding him in place. "Where?"

Jim glanced at his buddies. "I've got to get to Matthias. I think she's after him."

Who was she, Isaac wondered. And then it dawned on him.

"You don't have to go anywhere then. You want to see him?" He pulled out that Life Alert and let it dangle off its chain as he pointed to his own chest. "You have your bait right here."

In the end, it turned out Grier needed the suitcase she'd packed.

She was going to her father's to stay out in Lincoln for a couple of days--and Isaac and Jim were remaining behind here in her house to face that man, Matthias. Although it felt odd to be giving her family's home over to relative strangers, the reality was that the place offered ways of exit that would make things safer for the two men.

And regardless of what she thought of them, she wasn't going to be a party to their deaths if there was something she could do about it.

Tragically, there was no more talk about coming forward and her father had called off his contacts. Isaac wasn't going to say a word about anything and her father didn't know enough to do any real damage--so the risks, as balanced against the likely benefits, just couldn't be justified.

Which flat-out sucked. But that was the real world for you.

Staring at her suitcase, she decided leaving here actually had a lot of benefits. She didn't want to stick around during the removal of that body--no need to see that on a good day, much less with the way things had been going. Besides, she just plain needed a break. When this stuff with Isaac had started, it had been so familiar, all the keyed-up exhaustion, the block and tackle of events and crises. But she was tired . . . and determined to stick to her new conviction: Time to pull out, pull away, leave behind.

So she was heading for Lincoln with a heavy heart, but eyes that were wide open.

Grabbing the second season of Three's Company from her bookshelf, she unlatched her suitcase to put it in--

Grier stiffened and braced herself.

This time, for once, she knew that Isaac was standing in the doorway to her bedroom--even though he hadn't knocked.

Looking over her shoulder, she saw that his hair was curling up from whatever had been poured over his head and his stare was as intense as ever.

"I came to say good-bye," he murmured quietly, that delicious Southern drawl weaving through the deep, low words. "And to tell you that I'm sorry I lied to you."

As he took a step into her room, she turned back to the suitcase, slid the DVD inside, and shut the lid. "Are you."

"Yes."

She clicked both locks into place. "You know, the part I don't understand is why you bothered. If you never had any intention of going through with it, why did you talk to my father? Or was it to get at him? Figure out how much he knows and then warn your friends?" When he didn't answer, she pivoted around. "Was that it?"

His eyes roamed her face as if he were memorizing it. "I had another reason."

"Hope it was good enough to ruin the trust I had in you."

Isaac nodded slowly. "Yes. It was."

Well, didn't that make her feel used as hell. Grier grabbed the suitcase's handle and hefted the thing off her bed. "And you did it again."

"Did what?"

"Activated that damn Life Alert. Called that Matthias nightmare to you." She frowned. "I think you've got a death wish. Or some other agenda I can't begin to guess at. But in either event, it's not my business."

Staring up at his hard, beautiful face, she thought, God, this hurts.

"Anyway, good luck," she said, wondering whether, by the end of the night, he was going to be in the condition of that other soldier.

"I meant what I said, Grier. Down in the kitchen."

"Hard to tell what is real and what's a lie, isn't it."

Her heart was breaking even though that made no sense whatsoever, and in the face of the pain, all she wanted was to get away from the man who stood so still and powerful on the far side of her bedroom.

On the far side of her life, actually.

"Good-bye, Isaac Rothe," she murmured, heading for the door.

"Wait."

For a brief moment, some kind of odd, disastrous hope took flight in her chest. The flare didn't last, however. She was done with fantasies and fantastic excitement.

She did, however, let him approach as he held something out to her.

"Jim asked that I give this to you."

Grier took what was in his hand. It was a ring--no, a piercing, a little dark silver circle with a ball into which the free end screwed. She frowned as she looked at the tiny inscription that ran around the inside. It was in a language she wasn't familiar with, but she recognized the PT950 stamp. The hoop was made of platinum.

"It's Adrian's, actually," Isaac murmured. "They're giving it to you and they want you to wear it."