Fallen Angels 06 - Immortal (29 page)

He refocused on the numbers above the elevator doors, the ones that were lighting up sequentially as they descended to the lobby.

“So this is good news,” she mumbled.

“Yeah.” He gave her hand a squeeze and dropped a quick kiss on her mouth. “The best.”

Then why was his jaw clenched like he was still upstairs, fighting with Devina?

No, she thought. There was something he wasn’t telling her.

In Adrian’s dream, a spring thunderstorm rolled through Caldwell and settled over the old mansion, flashes of lightning splintering through the attic’s opposing circular windows and flickering over his face, waking him up. As was typical, however, there was something wrong, something missing—which was the way you knew that it wasn’t real.

No thunder. Just the vivid bursts of sugar-white light.

Which were the kind of thing that could be cured by putting your arm over your eyes. No problem—except then shit got a little more critical. With a massive
pop!
, the transformer tucked under the eaves of the roof was struck, and a shower of golden sparks flowed downward—

Ad jerked up from his makeshift bed.

Wait a minute, he thought, there wasn’t a transformer under the damn roof.

So yeah, he pointed out to himself, that was how he knew this was just a dream.

And yet …

As he tried to figure out whether shit was real or Memorex, lightning continued to flash around the house, highlighting the old steamer trucks and racks of Victorian clothes and—

The back of Ad’s neck went haywire, the hairs prickling so badly he reached up and rubbed them to quiet the irritation down.

The sound of his name being whispered made him freeze.

With a feeling of utter unreality, he slowly turned his head in the direction of the carefully wrapped, sheeted figure that lay next to him like some kind of Boris Karloff movie extra. As another jagged flash ripped through the night sky, the flickering light penetrated the old-fashioned glass and washed over the body … making it seem like …

“Get a fucking hold of yourself.”

Eddie was dead and therefore did not breathe. So there was no up-and-downing of the chest happening—because the guy was
dead
.

Whatever he thought he had just seen was a function of those brilliant and quickly fading bursts of energy. It was not because—

Another flash licked into the attic through the window and … the chest was going up and down. Slowly, unevenly … but yes, in fact, it was—

“Fuck!” He shoved himself back, slamming into one of the steamer trunks. “What the—”

Instantly he calmed down, because he realized, Oh, right, this was a dream. One of those fucked-up fake scenarios that even the brains of immortals insisted on chucking over the fence of consciousness every once in a while.

“So now what are you going to do?” he muttered at the corpse. “Sit up—oh, yup, there ya go. Fantastic.”

The upper body of Eddie’s remains lifted off the planks, rising haltingly until it was at a right angle with the wrapped, extended legs.

More lightning flashed, as if on cue. “Annnnd now that we’re partially vertical, what’s it gonna be?” Ad would have checked his watch if he’d been wearing one. “Freddy Krueger? Or are we going more for a King Tut vibe? It’s impossible for you to scare me, FYI.”

His own mind had no terrors to offer that could compare to what he’d already lived through. He just wasn’t that inventive. And as for this little ditty? In a minute and a half, he was going to wake up in a cold sweat. Not because he’d been frightened, but because anything that had to do with his dear friend was more painful than all the aches he had assumed on Matthias’s behalf.

Slowly, the covered head turned to him, the neck straining against the wrapping.

“Really,” Ad muttered. “If this is the best you can do, you need to go back to the Nightmare Academy or wherever it is you got your chops. Frankly, you’re a total disappointment.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned back against the steamer trunk and looked around, waiting for it all to go away.

One of the mummified hands reached up and began scratching at the wraps around the face, clawing at them as if the layers were preventing the thing from breathing. Ad had to look down at his feet as the first patch of skin began to show at the chin. It was just too fucking painful.

Okay, maybe he hadn’t given this bad dream enough credit.

A deep, ragged inhale rattled through the attic, and all he could do was shake his head. This was just too fucking cruel.

Abruptly, the lightning stopped, the storm, or whatever it was, done.

From out of the darkness, he heard, “Ad…”

The voice was rough, but as with a person’s fingerprints, it was both instantly recognizable and a one-and-only.

Eddie’s.

“Ad, where … are … you…”

Ad covered his face with his hands. He was so wrong about his subconscious not going for the jugular: The idea that any kind of Eddie, even a hypothetical one made up by his own brain, could be searching for him made him feel his inadequacies and his why-hadn’t-hes all the way to the marrow. He had done so many reckless, stupid things while Eddie had been alive—and capped them off by not being on the ball enough when that harpy came after his buddy.

He should have done something that night. Heard something. Seen something out of the corner of his eye.

So that he could have saved—

“Where are the lights?”

Ad frowned. Then dropped his hands. Leave it to him to ruin an emotional moment even in his sleep—although he couldn’t say he wasn’t grateful. He’d been on the verge of fourteen-year-old-girling it over here.

“Ad, I can’t … see … lights off or…?”

Right. Now he was back to being bored with the whole goddamned thing. “There’s a long string right next to you,” he muttered to the mummy.

Unbelievable—

Click!

The mummy thing was still upright, but had managed to get half the wrapping off its face, the perfectly preserved skin possessing that ruddy color that Eddie had always sported. And as the nightmare spoke, that chin moved up and down, the lips moving fluidly.

“Ad, where are you? I … can’t see…”

“That’s because your eyes are covered, dumb-ass.”

Time to wakey-wakey, he told himself. Come on, do myself a solid and wake the fuck up, wouldja.

The mummy thing raised its wrapped hand and then, on a oner, peeled off the entire top of the masking. Ad’s heart skipped a beat—because the face was so familiar, everything from those red eyes to that dark hair pulled back into that braid exactly right.

“Eddie’s” expression turned from confusion to shock. “Dear God … what happened to you?”

Ad frowned. Great—clearly, this nightmare thing was taking another turn for the weird. Because come on, like his brain didn’t know what he’d done to himself?

Before he could tell the dream to cut the shit, or maybe roll over and hit himself on the head so he’d wake up, the Eddie thing reached out to him with its mittened hands.

“Adrian, what did you do while I was gone?”

Ad blinked once. Twice. And then an ill feeling washed over him. “This is a dream.”

“No, it’s not. Nigel went to the Creator and begged for my life. Something about Jim calling in a favor for getting the archangel out of Purgatory? What’s been happening—and, oh, God, you’re hurt. Your eye—”

Adrian opened his mouth and screamed his guts out.

As Jim drove back to the house from downtown, he had to crank the heater on account of all the nakey he had going on. Next to him, Sissy was silent and staring out the windshield like maybe she was in replay mode. He was likewise distracted—although he was doing a brain cramp on what was still ahead of them, as opposed to what had just happened.

Oh, God, he didn’t know how he was going to get through it. And he wasn’t talking about the next and final round.

Hell, he couldn’t even feel the hah-gotcha that should have come with making Devina lose this one. Didn’t dwell on the thank-fucking-God that he’d not lost everything to the demon. Wasn’t able to even consider strategy for the final/final he was about to go into.

All he could focus on was Sissy and getting her clean: There was no winning this war if she couldn’t go to Heaven.

Turning into the old mansion’s driveway, he went all the way to the back and parked in front of the detached garage. And when he got out, he did the whole cup-his-manhood thing as he went around and opened Sissy’s door for her.

“Sorry about this,” he muttered as they walked toward the house together.

“About what?”

He opened the way into the kitchen and held the door for her, standing there like a piker with his bare ass propping the cold wood wide and his hands over his cock and balls.

Someday, he vowed. Someday he was going to give her a piece of normal.

“Everything at this point,” he replied. “I’m sorry for fucking everything.”

The light fixture over the four-top had been left on and that gave her an awful lot of him to see, unfortunately. Not that she was checking him out or anything—he just felt like it would have been so much better for him to have pants on. A loincloth. A frickin’ napkin over his privates.

Head to bed. That was the only thing he was thinking of—

Sissy stopped in the doorway that led into the hall, blocking the way. “What else,” she demanded.

“I’m sorry?”

“There’s something else here.” She motioned back and forth in the air between them. “And whatever it is, you need to be honest with me. ’Cause what’s doing me in is the fact that I can feel there’s something wrong, and in the absence of knowing what it is, my head is coughing up all kinds of bad things.”

Jim cursed and let his head fall back. Ironically, that pointed his eyes toward an old light fixture that had been built in the shape of a three-dimensional star.

“You’re scaring me,” she said roughly.

“Do you mind if I put some clothes on?”

“Yes, because no offense, I’m enjoying the view even with all this crap going on.”

He had to smile at her. He couldn’t stop himself.

“You’re blushing,” she murmured.

“Am I?” He shook his head. “Didn’t know I could.”

“Now stop deflecting.”

“Sissy, I—”

The scream that filtered down from above was like a bomb going off, and Jim sprang into action, beating feet around Sissy and racing for the front of the house. When there was no smell of smoke, and no other sounds, he flew up the stairs, wondering what in the hell was going on.

“Adrian!” he barked. “Ad!”

Shoving open the door to the angel’s bedroom, he found no one around, so he hit the attic stairs, tearing up them two at a time.

As he rounded the top of the staircase, he skidded to a halt. Adrian was sprawled on the floorboards, back against a trunk, peepers showing so much white, he looked like he had egg slices for eyeballs. And across from him, Eddie was sitting up, the wrapping off his head, the rest of his body still pulling a mummy.

The two angels looked at him—and both did a double take. Which, considering the Lucy-I’m-home stunt Eddie had just pulled, was really saying something.

“Oh, hey, Eddie,” Jim said. And then he remembered he was naked.

As he re-cupped himself, Sissy came up the stairs behind him. “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

Eddie’s mouth fell open as he saw Sissy. And then he turned back to Adrian and demanded, “What the
fuck
has been going on since I’ve been gone?”

Eddie Blackhawk was not the kind of angel to get his feathers ruffled very easily. But come on. He’d been stuck in the prison of his dead body, his soul effectively trapped and conscious in a cell with no key—when—surprise!—the Creator decided to grant a rare reprieve. After which he’d gone through something like electric shock therapy to rise to the surface of life once again. Only to find that his best friend had been in a car accident and Jim Heron was evidently getting really fucking naked … with the girl from Devina’s bathtub.

That’ll teach him to die. Yup. Not pulling that shit again, because look what happened.

And not one of the three of them was talking.

“Will somebody here
please
give me a clue,” he demanded. “I mean, how long have I been gone? Where are we in the war? And, Jim, what the
hell
were you thinking! You can’t go to Purgatory! I never would have let you—”

Abruptly, he realized he hadn’t been properly introduced to the lady. He lifted one of his sheet-wrapped paws to the female. “Hi, I’m Eddie, by the way.”

“Ah … nice to meet you,” she said. Then indicated her chest. “I’m Sissy. Sissy Barten. I was—”

“Oh, I know. And I’m so sorry you got mixed up with this stuff.”

“Me, too.” Except then she glanced over at Jim. “It hasn’t been all bad, though—”

“What the fuck is this!” Ad exploded. “I don’t dream about you people, okay? Like, ever. Never seen Jim. No Sissy. And no frickin’ Eddie. So can I just wake up—”

“Not a dream—”

“—is reality.”

“—totally real.”