Crave (Fallen Angels 2)

All of it was irrelevant to him, with no more significance than a movie playing on a screen.

No more depth, either.

He had issues. Bad issues. The kind that tied his brain in knots and made that pain he'd been having on his left side fire up to the point that he struggled to keep conscious.

Shit . . . Jim Heron knew way too much about what should have been private thoughts and private knowledge. It was as if the man had tuned in to Matthias's inner radio station and heard all his songs and jingles and traffic reports.

And the f**ker was right. Matthias's second in command had only truly distinguished himself after Matthias's little "accident" in the desert: In the last two years, that operative had made himself indispensible and, looking over the assignments and situations Matthias had dealt with, the guy had gradually influenced Matthias's decisions until he was all but making them himself.

It had been so subtle. Like someone slowly turning the flame up under a pot of water. His second in command had been the one to change his mind about letting Jim Heron go. And the man had been driving Matthias to kill Isaac. And there had been a hundred more examples--many of which he'd acted on.

He hadn't even noticed it happening.

God, it had started with killing Alistair Childe's son. That had been the first of the bright ideas.

Of course, the logic had been unassailable and Matthias hadn't hesitated to pull the trigger. But when he'd watched the footage of the death, the captain's weeping had touched him. Opened up a door he hadn't even known had been in his hallway.

Matthias had turned the video off and gone to bed. And the next morning he'd woken up and decided enough was enough. Time to leave the party he had started all those years ago--let the guests take over his house and burn it down, fine. But he was done.

Straw. Camel's back.

Focusing on his hands on the car wheel, he realized someone else had been driving him, steering him, dictating his exit ramps and his directional signals. How had it happened?

And why the f**k did Jim Heron know?

As his mind went laundry machine on him and started another spin cycle on the past, he decided all that mental wash and rinse wasn't material. Not tonight. Not on this road. What mattered was not how he'd gotten behind this wheel and found himself on the way to Boston. What mattered was what he did when he got there.

Crossroads was right. He felt it in his bones--the same way he had when he'd prepared that bomb years ago.

The question was, What now? Believe what Jim Heron had said. Or follow through on the anger impulse that was driving him east.

Which destination did he go to.

As he ruminated, it sure as f**k felt like he was choosing between Heaven and Hell.

Chapter Forty-six

As Adrian watched over a gray clapboard gentleman's estate from a stand of oaks, he was beginning to feel like a f**king tree himself. Except for that skirmish back in town the night before, he'd spent waaaaaay too much time waiting in the wings over the last two days.

He'd never been a big bencher to begin with, but on a night like tonight, when the action was in town and he and Eddie were stuck out in the sticks babysitting for a couple of grown-ups, he got really damn twitchy. Especially given that the pair he and his buddy were in charge of were locked into a house that made Fort Knox look like a Porta-Potti in the sturdiness department.

Fucking hell. He couldn't believe they had been going after the wrong soul.

All their conclusions had seemed sound, but in fact, the shit was like an algebra equation that had gone awry: looked great on paper, but the answer was incorrect.

And what a squeaker this one had been. It gave him a case of the cold sweats to think they had been so close but so far away at the end of a match.

But the near-miss wasn't the only thing making his balls tight in a bad way. The other half of it was where Jim was at in his aftermath routine: in spite of what Devina had done to him, the guy was making like he was all tight in the membrane . . . and yeah, fine, maybe that was the case right now. Hell, the fact that everything with Isaac and Matthias was coming to a head tonight was probably a good thing, because it gave Jim something to focus on. The only trouble was, as Adrian knew firsthand, this crisis was going to pass and then the guy would be facing a lot of long, quiet hours by himself with nothing but those ugly memories pinging around his skull like stray bullets.

The hardest thing, at least in Ad's opinion, was knowing that it was going to happen again. When the situation called for it, Adrian would go back down there to Devina's Playgirl Mausoleum . . . and so would Jim. Because that was the kind of men they were. And that was the kind of bitch she was.

Next to him, Eddie smothered another sneeze.

"God bless you."

"Fucking lilacs. I'm the only immortal with allergies. I swear."

As the guy glared at the blooming whatever next to his head, Adrian took a deep breath thinking at least his best friend didn't have to go through hell down on that table. Then again, he'd been marked by that demon, which was hardly a lifetime pass to Disneyland.

Ten minutes, three more sneezes, and a whole lot of nothing else later, Adrian took out his cell phone and dialed up Jim. The guy answered on the second ring.

"Tell me," he barked.

"Nada. We've been out here in the lilacs--I guess they're called--staring at Grier eating with her dad. Looks like a pair of pork chops." The exhale that came across the connection was pure frustration. "Nothing on your end, either, I take it."

Man, sometimes bad action was better than this stalled-out, thumb-twiddling shit.

Jim cursed. "I spoke with Matthias about an hour ago, but I have no idea where he was. Definitely in transit, however."

"I think we should come back in." Adrian frowned and leaned forward in his boots. Inside the rustic kitchen, Grier got up, snagged some dishes out of a cupboard and lifted the glass cover off a cake plate. Looked like a whole lot of chocolate. With white icing.

Fuck it. Maybe they should stay a little longer. Invite themselves in for dessert.

"You hang tight," Jim said. "But maybe I do need to come out there. I'd prefer to keep the showdown well away from the Childes, except I'm not sure Grier won't be the target. At this point, I don't know what Matthias is thinking--I could only get so far with him on the phone before he cut me off."

"Look, all I know is that we want to be where the party is." As Eddie sneezed again, Ad amended that in his head to include where the antihistamines were. "And listen, I've walked around this house. It's secure as a motherfucker. Matthias is the soul in play so wherever he is will be where the action goes down--and he's coming for Isaac."

There was a beat of silence. And then Jim said, "Grier's an innocent soul, though, and an excellent way for Matthias to get revenge--maybe she's the one he's supposed to take out. We just don't f**king know. Which is why I want to give it some more time . . . and then maybe we'll trade places."

"Fine. Wherever you want us, we'll go," Ad heard himself say before hanging up.

Check him out, being all good-little-soldier and shit. And didn't that just suck ass.

"We're staying put," he groused. "For now."

"Hard to know where to position."

"We need more fighters."

"If Isaac lives . . . we could turn him. He's got the stuff."

Adrian glanced over. "Nigel would never give his permission for that." Pause. "Would he?"

"I think he'd dislike losing more, I'll tell you that."

Adrian resumed watching Grier cut two slices and plate them up. He got the impression by the way her lips were moving that she and her father were talking pretty steadily, and he was glad. He didn't know what having a dad was like, but he'd been on the Earth long enough to know that a good one was a great thing.

He cursed as Grier headed for the freezer. "Oh, man. Ice cream, too?"

"How you can have an appetite at a time like this astounds me."

Adrian took a little bow. "I am amazing."

"`Freak' is also a word."

On that note, Ad pulled some "Super Freak " out of his vocal cords, doing a fantastic Rick James impression. In the lilac bushes. In . . . where the hell were they? Roosevelt, Massachusetts? Or was it Adams?

Washington?

"By all that is holy," Eddie muttered as he covered his ears, "stop--"

"--in the name of loooooove." Putting his hand out, Ad switched it up and Diana Ross-ed it, shaking his ass. "Be . . . fore. . . . you . . . breaaaaak . . . my--"