Crave (Fallen Angels 2)

If anyone breached the blood seal into the room where her most prized possession was, she'd find out in a heartbeat. It was how she had known the instant when Jim and his angel buddies had violated her space. How she'd saved her things.

Virgins were a pain the ass to find these days, though. With everyone having sex so much, what had once been a piece of cake to get was now becoming rarer and rarer. She never killed children; that was just wrong--it would be like someone taking one of her souls away from her. But try finding someone over eighteen who hadn't been in the sack. You could be at it for days.

Long live the abstinence movement, was all she could say.

"Wait, building?" the therapist said. "You're not staying in some building, are you?"

"Oh, no. I'm at a hotel for the time being. Work is taking me out of town. Up to Boston, actually." Because it was time for the second battle with her nemesis.

And goddamn it, she was going to win this one.

"Devina, this is such good work." The therapist clapped her hand on her knee and smiled. "You're living apart from your things. You've made a breakthrough."

Not really, considering that she could be anywhere in the blink of an eye.

"Now tell me, how's work? I know last week was rough."

Devina's hand found her bag and she stroked the soft leather. "It's going to get better. I'm going to make it better."

"Your new coworker. How are things going with him? I know there'd been some initial friction." Friction? Yeah, you could say that.

She thought of her and Jim Heron in the parking lot of the Iron Mask, him buried deep inside of her, her riding him hard. In spite of the fact that she hated him with a passion, she wouldn't mind a little more private time with him.

Devina straightened her spine. "He's not going get the vice presidency. I don't care what I have to do, but I've worked too long and hard to have some guy barge in and take what's mine."

Seven souls. Seven chances for good or evil to win. And the first one had gone to the other side. Three more went in favor of Jim Heron and she was not only out of a "job," but the angels took over the Earth and each and every one of her souls were redeemed.

All her work for nothing: Her collections gone. Her army gone. Herself . . . gone.

She stared at her therapist. "I will not let him win."

The woman nodded. "Do you have a plan?"

Devina patted her bag. "I do. I absolutely do."

After the session, Devina took herself north and east, casting herself into the air as a dark shadow and winging her way through the night. She coalesced on Boylston Street, across from the Boston Public Garden, where the weeping willows over the pond were just greening up.

The demure brick box of the Four Seasons Hotel took up nearly the entire block, between its entrance, porte cochere, and windowed restaurants. Although the exterior was quite plain, the interior was all warm wood and elegant brocade, and there were always fresh flowers.

She could have just flashed up to her room, but what a waste of an outfit: her Escada lizard-print pants and Chanel blouse were stunners, to say nothing of her Stella McCartney trench.

And what do you know, only her second night here and already the doormen and front-desk staff called out greetings as she swept into the lobby, her Louboutins clipping on the marble.

Which served to remind her of what she already knew: Of all the suits of illusioned flesh she had ever worn, this one--of a brunette woman with legs that didn't quit and a set of br**sts that made human men trip over their own tongues--was the one that fit her best. Even though technically she was a sexless "it," experience had proven that her arsenal of weapons was best wielded by a manicured hand.

Plus she liked the clothes for women better.

The f**king, too.

Her suite on the top floor had a magnificent view of the garden and the Boston Common, and a lot of grand rooms--as well as excellent room service. The bouquet of roses was a nice touch and supplied gratis.

Which was what you got when you paid thousands and thousands and thousands of dollars for digs.

She walked through the sitting room and the master bedroom to the marble bath. On the counter between the two sinks, she put down her bag and took out the sweatshirt she'd taken from that MMA octagon. The hoodie was the color of fog and a size double-XL. Found at any Wal-Mart or Target, it was one of those anonymous garments that could have been worn by any man, something that was easy to find, easy to afford. Nothing special.

Except this one was unique. Especially given the bloodstains.

Thank God those cops had shown up when they had. Otherwise, she would have missed the appointment with her therapist altogether.

Quickly shedding her clothes, she tried to leave them in a wrinkly mess . . . and lasted about a minute and a half. The disorder made her head hum and she had to gather them up, stride for the closet, and hang everything where it needed to be. She'd worn a bra, so that got put in the bureau. No panties to worry about.

She was decidedly calmer as she went back to work at the bathroom counter.

Taking out a pair of golden shears from her makeup case, she cut a circle into the sweatshirt over where the heart of the man who wore it would have been. Then she diced up the fabric, the cotton fibers giving way easily and falling to the smooth marble in a little pile.

She used one side of the scissors to slice into her palm, and her blood ran dirty gray as it dropped onto the nest she'd made.

For a moment, she was transfixed with disappointment. She wished her blood ran red--so much more attractive.

Truth be told, Devina hated the way she really looked. Far better this body. And the others.

Picking up the sweatshirt's clippings and grinding them into the tainted blood on her palm, she pictured the man who had had the fabric against his flesh, seeing his hard face and the brush cut that was growing out and the tattoos on his body.

Still milling her hand and keeping an image of Isaac Rothe in her head, Devina walked naked into the bedroom and sat on the duvet. On the side table, she opened a squat ebony box and took out a hand-carved chess piece, the depiction of the queen not nearly as beautiful as her suit of flesh. She hadn't seen Jim Heron whittle the grand lady, but he had and she pictured him doing so in her mind, imagining him curled around a sharp knife, his sure hands wielding a steel edge to reveal the object within the wood. Pressing what he had made into her bleeding palm, along with the fibers from the sweatshirt, she melded them, integrated them. Then she leaned over and picked up a candle, which lit at her will. Lying down, she blew across the flame, the mingling essences of all three of them flowing over the flame.

The purple glow that emanated on the far side covered her, enveloping her in phosphorescence . . . calling the owners of the things together . . . calling them to her.

Jim Heron wasn't going to know what hit him this time. He might have won the first round, but that wasn't happening again.

Chapter Four

When you worked in central processing at the Suffolk County jail in downtown Boston, you saw a lot of shit. And some of it was the kind of thing that put you off your coffee and doughnuts.

Other kinds . . . were just frickin' bizarre.

Billy McCray had been a beat cop in Southie first, serving alongside his brothers and his cousins and his old man. After he'd been shot on duty about fifteen years ago, Sergeant had arranged for him to have this desk job--and it had turned out that not only did his wheelchair fit just fine under the lip of the counter, he was damn good at pushing paper. He'd started booking arrests and taking mug shots, but now he was in charge of everything.

Nobody so much as blew his nose in this place but that Billy didn't tell 'em it was okay to take a Kleenex.

And he loved what he did, even if it got wicked weird sometimes.

Like first thing this morning. Six a.m. He'd booked a white female who'd been wearing a pair of Coke cans as pasties, the two aluminum numbers glued at the bottoms to her boobs and sticking straight out. He had a feeling that mug shot was going to end up on The Smoking Gun.com and she was probably going to enjoy the exposure: Before he'd taken her picture, he'd offered to get her a shirt or something, but nah, she wanted to show off her . . . well, cans.

People. Honestly.

Turned out the rubber cement was easy to get off, but they were serving her drinks in a single paper cup just in case she got another bright idea--

As the steel door opened down at the end of the hall, Billy sat up a little straighter in his chair.

The woman who came in was a sight to see, all right, but not for the reason most of the freaks here were. She was about ten feet tall and had blond hair that was always up in a twist on her head. Wearing a perfectly fitted suit and a long, formal coat, he knew without asking that her purse and her briefcase were worth more than he had in his 401(k).