Immortal (21 page)

Jim watched through the eyes of another as the end of the war happened right in front of him. And there wasn't a goddamn thing he could do about it.

Trapped in Devina's illusion of herself, frozen to the chair in the position she had arranged him in, he was roaring—but only on the inside. Outwardly, he was imprisoned and mute and unable to move, and as he watched with horror, he knew exactly how this was going to play out. Sissy was going to take that kitchen knife, lift it high over her head, and drive it right into Devina's chest—and that demon was going to make sure there was a good target to hit.

As soon as that blade made contact with the demon? The war was over, and Devina won. After all, it was the choice that counted; it was the intent, not the outcome of actual death that mattered. That knife wasn't going to do shit to the demon, but it was everything that counted: Sissy's crossroads, even though engineered by Devina, was the test she was going to fail. That rage and hatred, the shit Nigel had been talking about, were carved into the tight lines of her face and her body, and she wasn't just going to give in to them.

They had taken her over.

Ad was right; she was possessed.

Nooooooo,
he screamed inside his prison of flesh. Sissy, no!

Devina leaned backwards over the bar, like she was scrambling to get out of the way and struck with indecision over which direction to take, but he knew better. She was giving Sissy every single opportunity in the world to score a kill shot.

God, he couldn't believe this was how the demon got everything . . . the quick and the dead, the angels and the archangels, the Manse of Souls and Heaven above . . . all hers.

His vision became wavy from tears as his failure came home to roost. His mother . . . Sissy . . . Adrian and Eddie and the archangels . . .

It was all over.

And Devina knew it. From her contorted position at the bar, she shot him a look out of his own face with a sly, knowing wink.

Abruptly, time slowed down until Sissy all but froze in position, everything becoming hyper-focused—

Except . . . wait.

The slow-mo wasn't a perception issue. Sissy really had stopped with the knife over her head, and her body poised to strike—and she stayed that way.

Devina frowned using Jim's face, like her dance partner had missed a beat and stepped on her foot.

Sissy pivoted, still keeping the weapon up. Her eyes were hollows of what he knew them to be, but they were not completely insane. Especially as they narrowed on him.

“What are you doing?” Devina demanded in his voice.

Sissy lowered the blade and turned fully around—at the very moment one of the tears in his eyes slipped out and traveled down the illusion of Devina's smooth cheek.

“What are you looking at,” Devina growled.

Sissy took a step forward toward him. And then another.

All he could do was try to communicate through the pupils that were not his own, begging her to see through the lie.

“What the fuck are you doing?” his voice demanded.

Sissy ignored Devina. Instead, she reached out with her free hand and seemed to touch the air above his head. Then she went down further and he felt her brush against the skin of his neck.

“Sissy,” Devina said. “Are you really this stupid?”

Please, God, he thought. Whatever you're seeing, stick with it.

Sissy straightened abruptly and looked at Devina. “How did you do it?”

Jim watched the illusion of himself cross his arms over his chest. He was still naked, but his cock was no longer hard as a rock—apparently, Devina had lost her own arousal.

“I came here,” his voice said, “took her clothes off, and got ready to fuck her.”

Sissy glanced back and forth between them. And then she countered levelly, “No. You didn't.”

As Sissy lowered the knife, she looked over at Jim—who was not, in fact, Jim. She wasn't sure how she could explain the fact that every detail about him was correct, from the cowlick on the left side of his hair by the temple to the flecks in his blue eyes, from the tattoo on his back to the power in his chest—and yet it was
not
him.

Jim, the real one, was sitting in the chair. In spite of the fact that he appeared to be every inch the demon.

There were just two tiny details Devina had gotten wrong. Two things that, however accurate the demon's imitation of him was, she had failed to nail.

The shaking hit Sissy the same way the fury had, rocking her from head to foot, making her feel as if the world were spinning even as she was pretty damn sure the hotel was on solid ground. And it was shortly after the blender routine took over that she realized she had a fucking knife in her hand.

And she'd been about to use it on Devina.

Because, for whatever reason, the demon wanted her to. Devina had set this lie up—for God only knew what reason.

Disgusted with herself, she threw the knife at the coffee table with such force, it knocked off—

“Fucking hell! Fuck you! Fuck you both!”

And just like that, “Jim” disappeared—and “Devina” flew off that chair, the female body exploding up as if released from some kind of hold.

In mid-air, Jim emerged from the lie, everything that looked like the demon replaced by his male body and proper face. He landed like a cat and shot back over to Sissy, throwing his arms around her and holding her so hard she could barely breathe.

She wasn't the only one who was trembling.

“You did it,” he said hoarsely. “You did it.”

“No, I didn't—I didn't—”

“You saved us.”

“What?”

He pulled back and kissed her. “How did you know?”

It took her a moment to hear the words and comprehend what he was asking. “N-n-noo h-h-h—damn it, I c-c-can't talk.”

“Breathe, just breathe with me.”

“No halo.”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry?”

She pointed up to the crown of his head. “N-n-n-no halo. I was about to—” She couldn't even say the words. “I was going to . . . but then I noticed that there was no halo. You—you—you
have a halo . . . because you're an angel. And my necklace . . . when I looked over at her—you, I mean—I saw that ‘she' was wearing my dove n-n-n-necklace. That's when I knew—but why? Why would she want me to—”

“You're one of the souls.”

“What?”

“Lemme explain at home—we've got to get out of here.” He looked around on the floor. “How did you get here?”

“E-E-Explorer. Out front.”

“Okay, okay, good.”

“What are you looking for?”

He bent over and picked up . . . a Mercedes emblem. “This.”

“From her car?” Sissy said.

“You got it. Come on.”

Jim grabbed her hand and started to hustle her out of the penthouse, but she pulled him to a stop. “You're naked.”

“And invisible.”

“But won't you get cold—”

“No time, come on.”

And that was how they ended up in the hotel's elevator, her in a twenty-eight-dollar outfit from Target, him in the birthday suit the good Lord gave him.

“
I'm
one of the souls?” she said.

He looked down at her, his blue eyes grave. “Yeah. You are.”

“So . . . this round is won?”

Jim nodded. “You evened it up for us. You chose wisely—when you stopped. When you didn't act on the rage as you came to your crossroads.”

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?”