Crave (Fallen Angels 2)

When she got to the first floor, she paused. Naturally, she couldn't hear a damn thing because of the sturdy, thick walls, but her father had added an iron vent that looked like just another part of the HVAC system. Actually, however, it served as a covert surveillance post.

Grier went up a step and bent to the side to get her eyes in line, bracing herself on a pair of bricks that stuck out more than the others.

As she squinted, her vision penetrated the slats and focused on the front hall. If she arched a little more and craned her neck, she could see down toward the kitchen--

Grier dropped the flashlight and clamped her hands over her mouth.

To keep from screaming.

Chapter Thirty-eight

After Isaac made sure Grier was safely out of the way, he padded out into her bedroom and gave a listen. When the lack of footsteps, scrambling, or gunshots gave him no information, he continued out into the hall. Another pause. Should he use the back stairs? The front ones?

Front. More likely that an infiltration would occur from the rear garden. More cover that way.

Shit, he hoped it was Jim Heron, but he didn't think the guy would just bust in. And Grier's father could disarm the system--he'd already proved that. So he obviously hadn't let whoever it was inside.

Goddamn it, if it was Matthias's boy, why hadn't the arrival been announced through the Life Alert? Then again, Isaac wouldn't have let them inside, and they no doubt knew that: Matthias may have demanded that Grier and her father stick around, but Isaac wasn't about to get himself killed in front of them.

She'd never recover from that.

Please, God, he thought. Let her stay where she was.

Back-flatting it against the wall, he went down the stairs, leading with his gun. Sounds . . . where were all the sounds? There was literally nothing moving in the house, and considering that Grier's father had been pacing like a caged lion, the all-quiet was not encouraging.

As soon as the wall broke away and the free-standing banister started, he pulled another swing-and-drop, and deliberately landed hard as a rock on the Oriental in the front hall.

Sometimes noise was a good directive, giving your opponent a target to come running for.

And what do you know. The boom of Isaac's feet hitting the floor drew their visitor out: From down in the kitchen, a man dressed in black stepped into full view.

Matthias's second in command.

And he had Grier's dad up as a human shield.

"Want to trade?" the guy said grimly.

The gun to Childe's head was a nasty-looking autoloader with a silencer. So not a surprise. It was identical to the one in Isaac's own palm.

Moving slowly, Isaac bent down and put his weapon to the floor. Then he kicked it away. "Let him go. Come and take me."

Childe's eyes went wide, but he held tight. Thank f**k.

Isaac turned to the wall, put his hands up on the plaster, and spread his ankles in a classic apprehension pose. Looking over his shoulder, he said, "I'm ready to go."

The second in command cracked a smile. "Check you out, all compliant and shit. Brings a tear to the eye."

With a slash, the operative lights-outed Grier's father with the butt of the gun, the elder Childe dropping to the ground like a bag of sand. Then it was saunter city as the second in command strolled toward Isaac, that gun trained on him and unwavering.

Just like the man's oddly matte, black eyes.

"Let's do this," Isaac said.

"Where's your other gun. I know you've got one."

"Come and get it."

"You really want to f**k with me?"

Isaac reached in and took out his other weapon. "Where do you want it?"

"Loaded question. On the floor and give it a kick."

As Isaac bent down, so did the other man. And it wasn't until they'd both righted themselves that Isaac realized his first gun, the one with the silencer, had been picked up by a black-gloved hand.

"So yeah," the second in command drawled, "Matthias has enjoyed the little convos you two have been having and he wants me to keep you in holding until he gets here." The shark-eyed bastard drew up close. "But here's the thing, Isaac. There are larger issues at play and this is one situation that your boss is not in charge of."

What was with the "your boss" thing, Isaac wondered.

And then he frowned as he realized that the guy's arm, the one that had been broken just a day and a half ago, seemed to be fully healed.

And that grin was wrong . . . there was something wrong about that grin, too.

"Things are taking a different course," the second in command said. "Surprise."

With that, he put Isaac's gun muzzle to his own chin and pulled the trigger, blowing his head clean off.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Jim came out of his coma with the nape of his neck on fire. He had no clue how long he'd been out, but Ad had clearly moved him back to the bed: The softness under his head was definitely a pillow and not the cold, hard tile by the shower.

As he sat up in the darkness, he was shocked: He felt curiously strong, miraculously steady. It was as if whatever state he had been in for . . . well, hours, assuming he was reading the clock right . . . had rebooted him inside and out.

Which was all good news.

The tightness at the tippy top of his spine, however, was anything but: Isaac.

Isaac was in trouble.

Swinging his legs off the bed and bolting upright, he felt no dizziness, no nausea, no aches or pains. Except for the ants at the base of his skull, he was not just ready to go, but roaring.

"Adrian!" he called out as he went to his duffel and yanked out a pair of jeans.

Where the hell was Dog?

Through the open connector, he could see that the lights were on in the other room, so the angel had to be in there.

"Adrian!" He went commando and jerked on his pants; then grabbed for a shirt. "We've got to go!"

He snatched his crystal gun and dagger along with his coat. "Yo, Ad--"

Adrian all but skidded into the room with Dog under his arm. "Eddie's in trouble."

Well, didn't that just make that nape of his feel soooo much better. "What?"

Adrian undid Dog's leash and let him scamper over to say hello. "He's not answering his phone. I just called. And called again. And called a third time. Never happens."

"Fuck."

As Ad weaponed up, Jim checked over Dog and put some food down and then he and his wingman--literally--took off. Man, he'd never been so grateful for the blink-and-you'll-miss-it ride of those flapping numbers on their backs: Only minutes later, they were in Beacon Hill.

He and Adrian landed in the walled garden in a shimmering blaze and they kept themselves hidden from prying eyes because it was only four in the afternoon. The house looked fine on the outside and the red glimmering spell was still in place, but his neck was killing him. And where in the hell was Eddie--

"Shit," he spat as he saw the soles of the angel's combat boots sticking out from under a bush.

Jim beat feet over and crouched down. The guy was flat on his ass, looking like he'd played chicken with a bulldozer and lost. "Eddie?"

The grounded angel opened his eyes. "Holy hell . . . what . . . I don't know what happened. One minute I was up. Next . . ."

"You were a welcome mat."

Adrian reached out a hand to help his best friend up. "What the f**k was it?"

"No clue." Eddie slowly got to his feet. Then he looked over at Jim and cringed. "Jesus Christ . . ."

Jim frowned and glanced around. "What?"

"Your face . . ."

Okay, maybe he only just felt better. Hopefully the looks part would come later. "You're saying my days as a calendar model are over?"

"Didn't know you were into that." Eddie shook his head. "Listen, Isaac wants to talk to you. ASAP."

Jim glanced at Adrian. "You stay with the welcome mat."

"Like I would be anywhere else?"

Jim jogged over to the house. The back door was wide open, which was another piece of bad news--and shit only got more critical as he went into the kitchen.

God, you never got used to the smell of a mortal gunshot wound: There were different flavors, gut versus chest versus brain, but the palette was everything metallic between the lead of the shot and the copper of the fresh blood.

First body he found was a man he knew: Captain Alistair Childe. The poor guy was lying in the archway that led out into the front hall, having crumpled to the floor in a heap.

Not the source of the blood, though. There was none on the clothes or the tile, and Childe was breathing evenly in spite of the little knockout nap he was having.