Crave (Fallen Angels 2)

The former working only slightly better than the latter over the connection.

As her omelet sizzled softly and she took a sip from her wineglass, a gust of wind hit the back of the house, whistling through the shutters, and fondling the wind chimes by the door. Frowning, she looked over her shoulder. Hell of a breeze, she thought, the subtle music of the clay pieces for once not calming her.

Which was what happened when you were being paranoid. Everything went creepy, even the--

A huge shape jumped up to the back door and filled the glass panes. As she let out a scream and leaped for the panic button on the security system remote, Isaac's face was illuminated out of the darkness by the motion-activated light he triggered.

He started pounding with his fist, but he didn't do that for long. He wheeled around to face the backyard, flattening against the house as if something were coming at him.

As she rushed over, she disarmed the system, and he all but fell into the kitchen when she opened up. He was the one who slammed them in together, locking the dead bolt and then putting his body against the panels as if someone were going to try to get in.

Between breaths, he commanded, "The system . . . put it back on. . . ."

She did so without hesitation--

Everything went dark.

Except for the blue glow of the flame under the pan on the stove and the yellow halo of the light over the stoop, the kitchen went utterly black--and it took her brain a second to catch up to the fact that he'd canned the lights.

The gun he brought up by his chest didn't throw much reflection or shadow, but she knew exactly what was in his palm as he shifted over and settled against the wall by the door. He didn't point the weapon anywhere near her--he wasn't even looking at her. His eyes were trained on the rear garden.

When she tried to come over to look, he put his heavy arm out and held her back. "Stay away from the glass."

"What's going on?"

A blast of wind hit the house, the chimes going haywire to the point where they were twisting around on their strings, all but screaming in pain.

And then a strange creaking noise beat out the racket.

Bracing herself on the counter, she looked up to the ceiling and realized it was the whole house. . . . Her family's brick house, which had stood without budging on its solid foundation for two hundred years, was groaning as if it were about to be torn off from its hold on the ground.

Her eyes went to the glass wall. She couldn't see anything but shadows moving because of the wind . . . except they weren't right. They didn't . . . move right.

Transfixed by the sight of dark patterns shifting around over the ground like thick oil, she felt her mind bend as it tried to form an explanation for what her eyes were taking in.

"What is . . . that?" she breathed.

"Get down behind the counter." Isaac glanced up to the ceiling as the house let out another curse. "Come on, baby, hold your own." Falling to her knees, she looked at the old mirror across the way. On its wavy plane, she could see out the windows into the garden and watch those all- wrongs wending around.

"Isaac, get away from the door--"

A pealing scream filled the air, and Grier let out a shout and covered her ears. Isaac didn't even flinch, however--and she took strength from him.

"Fire alarm," he yelled. "It's the fire alarm!"

He lunged for the cooktop and shoved the smoking omelet to the side, canning the flame on the burner with a quick twist. "Do what you have to," he barked. "But make sure the fire department doesn't show up!"

Chapter Twenty-three

Matthias drove the last leg of the trip himself. He'd been flown into this town from his little detour over in Boston because although he could pilot a number of different aircrafts, he'd been stripped of his wings since his injuries.

But at least he was still able to drive, goddamn it.

The flight from Beantown to Caldwell had been short and sweet, and the Caldwell International Airport was a breeze--although when you had his level of clearance, the TSA types never got anywhere near you or your bags.

Not that he'd brought any luggage with him--other than that which he carried around in his brain.

His car was yet another black-on-black unmarked with armor plating and glass thick enough to give any bullet a concussion. It was just like the one he'd had when he'd paid Grier Childe a visit . . . and just like the one he'd have in any city he went to, at home or abroad.

He'd told nobody but his number two where he was going--and even his most trusted didn't know the why behind it. There were no problems with the secrecy, however: The good thing with being the darkest shadow among a legion of them was that when you up and disappeared, it was part of your f**king job and no one asked any questions.

And the truth was, this trip was beneath him, the kind of thing he'd ordinarily have assigned to his right-hand man--and yet he had to do this himself.

It felt like a pilgrimage.

Although if that was what he was on, things had better get inspiring pretty frickin' quick. The road he was currently following was just a generic stretch of boutique shops and Walgreens and gas stations that could have been any city, anywhere. Traffic was light and of the pass-through variety; everything was shut up for the night, so you were here only if you were going somewhere else.

For most of the people, that was. Unlike the rest of them, his destination was . . . right here as a matter of fact.

Easing off on the accelerator, he pulled over to the side and parked parallel to the curb. Across a shallow lawn, the McCready Funeral Home was dark inside, but there were exterior lights on all over the place.

Not a problem.

Matthias placed a call and was routed around from person to person, skipping like a stone through the phones of others until he found the decision maker who could get him what he wanted.

And then he sat and waited.

He hated the silence and the darkness in the car--but not because he was worried that there was someone in his backseat or that somebody was about to go click-click, bang-bang from the shadows outside. He liked to keep moving. As long as he was in motion, he could outrun the twitchies that inevitably T-boned his adrenal glands when he was at rest.

Stillness was a killer.

And it turned the Crown Victoria into a coffin--

His phone rang and he knew who it was before he checked. And no, it wasn't going to be the people he'd just spoken with. He'd finished his business with them.

Matthias answered on the third ring, just before voice mail kicked in. "Alistair Childe. What a surprise."

The shocked silence was so satisfying. "How did you know it was me?"

"You don't honestly think I would let just anyone get through to this phone." As Matthias stared through the windshield at the funeral home, he found it ironic that the pair of them were talking in front of the thing--given that he'd put the man's son in one. "Everything's on my terms. Everything."

"So you know why I've spent all day trying to find you."

Yes, he did. And he'd deliberately made himself hard to reach for the guy: He firmly believed that people were like pieces of meat; the longer they stewed, the softer they became.

The tastier, too.

"Oh, Albie, of course I'm aware of your situation." A soft rain started to fall, the drops dappling the glass. "You're worried about the man who stayed with your daughter last evening." Another shot of quiet. "You didn't know that he'd been there at your house all night? Well, children don't always tell their parents everything, do they."

"She's not involved. I promise you, she knows nothing--"

"She didn't tell you she had a guest during the dark hours. How can you really trust her?"

"You can't have her." The man's voice cracked. "You took my son. . . . You cannot have her."

"I can have anyone. And I can take anyone. You know that now, don't you."

Abruptly, Matthias became aware of a strange sensation in his left arm. Glancing down, he saw his fist had cranked on the steering wheel so hard his biceps were doing the shimmy.

He willed the grip to release . . . but it didn't.

Bored with his body's little spasms and tics, he ignored this newest one. "Here's what you have to do if you want to be certain about your daughter. Give me Isaac Rothe and I go away. It's just that simple. Get me what I want, and I leave your girl alone."

At that moment, the entire block went dark--courtesy of his little phone call.

"You know I mean every word," Matthias said, going for his cane. "Don't make me kill another Childe."