Crave (Fallen Angels 2)

As much as he wanted to do the right thing, his old boss had him by the short hairs: There was no sacrifice too great to ensure Grier's safety. Even Isaac's own salvation. Even Matthias's downfall.

A throat being cleared discreetly had him looking up. In the glass over the sink, he saw her father standing just inside the kitchen--and out of respect for the man's daughter, Isaac stepped back. "Coffee, Father?" Grier said evenly as she leaned to the side and got two mugs from the cupboard.

"Yes, thank you."

Isaac could feel the guy's eyes going back and forth, but he sure as hell wasn't answering any of those questions.

And neither was Grier, evidently. "Are we all set?" she asked.

Instead of replying, the man cleared his throat again. No doubt because he was choking on all the stay-away-fromhims and the don't-touch-my- daughters.

But he didn't need to worry. He was too late on the latter, but the former . . . was going to be taken care of.

"Father? Are we all set?"

"Everyone will arrive tomorrow morning--"

"Tomorrow morning?"

"This is a delicate situation. Excuses had to be made--these men and women can't just duck out for no good reason without questions being raised."

Isaac could feel Grier staring at him like she was looking for some backup on the hell-no front, but as it was, he disagreed with her. Tomorrow morning was just perfect.

He'd be gone by then.

Out at the Framingham Comfort Inn & Suites, Jim woke up in his dimly lit room and felt like he'd been in a car accident. With a semi. And he hadn't had his seat belt on.

He was on the bed he'd been sleeping in and curled on his side, his busted-up body having carved out a section of the mattress and settled in like a dog waiting to die in the woods. But he was immortal now . . . and what that apparently meant was no matter how much damage was done, he healed from it.

Yeah, except this was no Samantha-the-witch nose-twitch kind of job, where everything was cleaned up on a oner. He felt very human with the aches and pains, with the inhales that made his ribs burn, with the skips of his heart as it beat the same way a drunk walked. But the worst part of it wasn't physical. It was in his head.

That he had left Sissy behind in Devina's realm killed him.

Opening his eyes, he realized it was morning; over the top of Dog's fuzzy head, the alarm glowed with red numbers. 7:52.

Rise and shine, he thought as he gingerly rolled over onto his back. On the other side of him, Adrian was out like a light, the angel breathing deeply, his eyes jogging behind his closed lids.

Given the glower on his face, he clearly wasn't having a good time in dreamland.

God, what a night, Jim thought. After Colin had left him, he'd assumed it was just going to be him and Dog. But then someone had come through the other room, and he'd assumed it was Eddie--the nursey-nurse shit was clearly more up his alley.

But no. Adrian had been the one to come in . . . and stay.

At the moment, Jim didn't have the strength to deal with how any sympathy was going to make him feel, so he carefully pulled a blanket around himself and quietly stood up on legs that were about as strong as pencils. Limping over to the laptop, he was dizzy as all get out, and he just barely made it to the chair in time--although, f**kin' A, that ass-plant hurt like a bitch.

In spite of the fact that he had to piss like a racehorse, he fired up the Dell and waited impatiently for the Internet browser to get rolling. To pass the time, he took a gander at the ligature marks around his wrists. The pair of them were a pattern of brilliant red, twisted lines that were shiny and raw, and the tangible reminder of where he'd been and what had been done to him tantalized his mind with a field trip into PTSD. Except that was one permission slip he refused to sign.

Dragging himself into focus, he started to type, although because his fingers were numb, it took forever to get to the Caldwell Courier Journal 's site and put in a search for Cecilia Barten. . . .

Up came an article from some two weeks prior, and Sissy's picture brought a sheen to his eyes. She was smiling into the camera while standing in the center of a bunch of kids her own age. There was no telling how long it had been between when the photo was snapped and when she'd been taken by Devina--but the fact that she'd had no idea what was around the corner for her made his unreliable heart get even flakier on the job.

Probably good that she hadn't known.

And he was so going to get Devina for this.

The only other article was one that reported she remained missing a week later--and the two together made him realize why his first search of the database had failed. He'd only told the computer to look for murdered or dead blond girls. Not ones who were MIA.

Stupid f**king mistake.

And the details were as she had told him: She was a fresh-man at Union College in Albany, and home on spring break in Caldwell. The last anyone had seen of her was when she'd left at nine p.m. to go to the local Hannaford for groceries.

No pictures of her parents. He was going to find them, however.

"Did you see her," Adrian said in a voice that was mostly gravel.

"Yeah." Jim stared at the picture of his girl smiling with her friends. Then he blinked and saw that blond hair matted with blood. "How do I get her out of the wall?"

The other angel's exhale was the kind you made when there was no good news to be had. Anywhere. And you were aching from that. "You can't."

"Unacceptable. There has to be a way."

"Not that I've found." There was a curse and then a creaking of the mattress and a variety of cracks, as if Ad was stretching. "I'll be right back."

As heavy footsteps headed for the other bedroom, Jim didn't acknowledge the guy's exit. But when Dog's muzzle nudged against his bare leg, he looked down.

Big brown eyes stared up out of a face of strawlike fur. "Do you know how to get her out? She doesn't belong there. She shouldn't have ended up there. "

Jim took the little whimper to mean the animal agreed--and also needed to go out to use the facilities.

"Two secs," Jim said, bracing himself to get to his feet. "I need a shower."

Heaving his deadweight up from the chair, he let the blanket fall from him and went into the modestly sized bathroom. Closing himself in, he flicked on the light, stood over the toilet and wondered whether his c**k still worked on any level.

The pink stream he pissed out answered that one. And also suggested that his kidneys had been damaged.

After he was finished, he grunted as he leaned over to hit the flusher and then twisted to the left to turn on the shower. Soap. He needed more soap than the half-used bar that was in there--

Jim froze as he saw himself in the mirror.

Bad. Very bad.

Much worse than he'd thought.

His mouth was purple and swollen from all the shit that had been shoved into it, and his chest and abs were nothing but raw meat. As for his c**k . . . The damn thing was hanging off his hips like it had lost the will to live. And he didn't want to know what the backside of him looked like.

Used and abused was the term.

And his only thought, his only . . . anything . . . was that he hated that Sissy had seen him like this. As his stomach flopped around in his pelvic girdle, he remembered the horrified expression on her face as she had looked at him. That poor girl . . . He'd been trained for this shit. He'd been through it before--well, not exactly what Devina had done to him, but he'd certainly been worked over a couple of times with fists and knives. Even a bullet or two. But Sissy . . .

He barely made it back to the toilet in time.

As his body clenched up and nothing but bile came out of his mouth, his eyes watered from the strain.

Damn it, Sissy had seen him like this. Sexually violated, bloody, beaten--

More vomiting.

He wasn't sure exactly when Adrian came in, because round three of heaving hopped up the bunny trail when it dawned on him that he didn't know whether she was safe from what had been done to him. After all, she was captured. She was stuck there in that hellhole. And Devina had plenty of things that were male-like.

"Here," Adrian said, passing over a cold washcloth.

Jim couldn't wipe his face because it hurt too much, so he patted at it, feeling the cool dampness like a balm against his flaming cheeks and burning lips.

Hanging his head, he noticed that he'd left fresh bloodstains on the creamy tile from the wounds that had reopened on his knees.

Yeah, immortal didn't mean embalmed; that was for sure.

Adrian sat down next to him, his face far too pale as he stared across the toilet seat. "You want me to get you into the shower? That's what helps me when she . . ."