Immortal (26 page)

And he was failing. Grip slipping, oh, God, the grip, his grip . . .

Someone was screaming. Him. He had gambled and lost—again. He had let her down—again. He was losing another woman he loved . . . again—

Two sets of hands reached down and joined his on the black mass, one from each side of him.

Together, they all pulled. Him and Adrian and Eddie. They all pulled together, the strength brought to the fight not just one plus one plus one, but exponentially more powerful.

The evil began to shift. He felt the give, barely perceptible at first, but then . . . yes,
yes
.

“Harder,” he barked. “Fucking harder!”

He could sense the heat rolling off the other angels as they put all the strength they had into the fight, and sweat popped out all over his own face, running down into his eyes. Just a little more . . . if they could just put a little more—

The sound as the darkness ripped free was like the squeal of eighteen wheels across pavement, burning his ears until he cringed. And just as before with Vin, a black seething form ripped away and took flight, screeching around the ceiling like a bat out of a cave.

There wasn't time to dwell on the victory—or even on whether Sissy was alive. Jim flew back as if his torso had been sucked away—or blown away. And as he was in midair, shit went into slow-mo for him: He saw Adrian getting thrown toward the door; Eddie pitched to the window; Sissy's body flopping up and down against the porcelain as if she'd been racked with seizures.

He had to get to her—he had to—

Jim didn't land on his head. He landed on his ass. But when he skidded back further, the base of his skull hit something sharp and hard.

The impact was a grenade going off in his skull, white-hot and obliterating every thought and all senses. The only thing that remained was a diffused panic that what they had released from her was just going to jump back in.

But even that wasn't enough to keep him conscious.

Everything went lights-out.

Down below Devina's old loft, the demon stood in the center of the street, right where the yellow double lines were. She had one pump planted on each side as she angled her head up, up to the fifth floor of the warehouse. The breeze was cold against her body, and the light rain that came down misted her cheeks and weighted down her hair and spotted her silk jacket. Cars passed and sometimes honked—always gawked.

But for once, she didn't pay any attention to all that.

How the
fuck
did they get Eddie back. How the
fuck
did that happen.

Then again, who was she fooling. There was only one way it could have happened.

The Creator.

Up in her former abode, shapes crossed the square-paned window stacks as the four of them moved around while performing the purification ritual and creating a force field to direct the expulsion—and attempt to keep her out. She knew their little tricks by heart: First, they would create the barrier of salt. Then they would smoke the place out. And before they started, they'd have shooters loaded with purifying solution and all the magic Jim could summon—unless, of course, he was the one doing the
exorcism, in which case he'd be out of commission for protection spells.

It was impossible not to feel shut out by all the effort—not just because they were working together, but because all of their effort was to fuck her in the ass.

Devina hoped and prayed it killed that little bitch. And there was such a good chance it would. The infection in Sissy had gone deeper than anything those angels had ever tried to remove—

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!

As some version of a Honda went by, its horn was a curse made manifest, and she turned around, eyes narrowing.

She let the POS sedan go another block down and then she extended her palm and threw a burst of energy out at it.

Refocusing on the windows up above, she heard a sharp braking, a metallic crunch, a shattering of safety glass, the hiss of a busted radiator. Blah, blah, blah.

She was waiting for another crash.

It came about ten minutes later. Without warning, at least that human eyes and ears could pick up on, the bathroom window blew open and something that looked like a tight-knit swarm of bees sizzled out into the air, hovering as a shower of glass snowflaked down to the sidewalk below.

The part of her she'd so graciously lent Sissy waited for a command from her—and there were a number of directives she could give it. Attack. Reenter Sissy. Expand and join with other minions to create a force capable of overthrowing governments.

She held up her palm and summoned it home, reabsorbing the black energy.

As distant sirens grew louder, and the human cleanup crew's arrival became imminent, she stared at her loft's bathroom, hoping to see a face in the window. Hoping to see Jim, looking out to find her.

He did not.

When nothing but ambulances and a fire truck came toward her, she cursed under her breath and dematerialized.

Even though she was hurt, she tried to stay positive. There was a final endgame still to play out, and Jim was right where he needed to be—in spite of the fact that he was with Sissy, up in that bathroom.

Sacrifices must be made in order to win.

Besides, his time with that bitch was coming to an end. Devina was going to make sure of it.

Sissy came awake to the sound of dripping.

Her first instinct was to open her eyes and sit up. She wasn't sure where she was or why her head hurt or why she was so very, very cold and she was scared. Something had happened—

Okaaaaay. She couldn't move and her lids refused to budge.

And that dripping . . .

...was gone now. She didn't hear it anymore. Had she lost consciousness again?

Time to get over herself.

Putting her hands out from her body, she felt something smooth and cool and followed whatever it was up—

A tub.

All at once, her brain came on like a laptop that had had a reboot. Images of the ritual flickered through her mind, snapshots taken and internalized, everything from pouring the salt to the whispered verses to the light coming up from underneath her.

To that moment when the evil had left her body.

Jerking upright in a scramble, she sucked in a breath and dragged up her sweatshirt. Gone. The runes or symbols or whatever the heck they were? Not with her anymore. Except even as tears of relief made her eyes sting, there was no time for a victory dance.

She tried to twist around and look to see how Jim and the angels were, but her body was too stiff. From her torso to her neck, her muscles were locked so tight she had to force herself onto her knees and shove herself around.

Eddie was the first one she saw sprawled on the gray marble floor, his big body relaxed as if he were just having a quick lie-down, his feet lolling to the sides in his boots. Ad was over by the door, in a similar slump. Where was—

“Oh, God, Jim!”

Gripping the edge of the tub, she pulled herself up and over, and fell down on the far side. Jim was across the room, lying partially under the pedestal sink, his head cocked at a wrong angle, his body twitching unnaturally.

Her knees cracked against the hard floor as she crabbed over to him. “Jim?” She put her hand on his chest—his body was still warm, but she didn't know if that meant anything. “Jim—wake up!”

Silver blood had pooled around the base of his skull.

“Jim!” She wanted to slap him or shake him, but God forbid if he'd broken his neck? “Jim—”

Groans rose up from behind her, and there was a rustling, as if Eddie and Adrian were coming to. “Help me,” she barked without looking back. “Jim . . . wake up, Jim. . . .”

This was not supposed to be the tragedy at the end of it—she was the one who was supposed to have “died.” Not Jim.

“Easy there,” Eddie murmured as he restrained her, easing her back.

Good thing—she was all but jumping on Jim's chest. Hardly a help.

“Lemme get a look at him.” Eddie reached across and thumbed Jim's eyelids up, one by one. “Shit.”

Adrian shuffled himself over. “What we got?”

“One hell of a concussion—or worse. I don't know—I'm not a healer like this.” Eddie looked at Sissy. “First things first. Get some salt and put it across that windowsill. Ad, light up, will you.” Then the angel glanced around. “Fucking hell, one of the guns broke.”

Which explained the dripping: Over where Eddie had been thrown, crystal shards gleamed in the light from the frosted window, a puddle of the solution Ad had prepared on the floor in front of the busted-up barrel.

Sissy went vertical stiffly and hit the Morton bag, grabbing one of the remaining containers. She was more concerned about Jim than anything else, but that didn't mean she wanted Devina in here while they figured out exactly what was wrong and how to fix it. With hands that shook, she peeled off the little paper square over the spout, and then there was that hiss again as she closed the loop around the bathroom.

“Can you take care of this?” Ad said to Eddie.

“It's outside of what I can heal.”

Sissy shut her eyes and thought, No, no, this is not how this ends. It just can't be.

“Is he dead?” she heard herself ask as she went back and crouched down. “Is he?”

Eddie didn't meet her eyes. “No. But he's gonna be soon.”

As the archangel Nigel stared up at the Manse of Souls' great walls, his eyes were focused on the new victory flag that waved next to the other two. But he wasn't thinking about Jim's victory or dwelling on the fact that although it was customary for the savior to come up and mark the occasion with a visit, the angel had not, in fact, made an appearance.

No, Nigel was tied up in his head. He was well aware of what had transpired and was transpiring down below—Jim was on the verge of passing away, and given that they were heading into the final round, Nigel should be taking initiative and interceding. After all, the Creator did allow interaction with the savior by him, and curing a head wound, one could argue, was a sort of “interaction.”

Instead, he waited for the summoning. And was rather unimpressed by his apparent willingness to use this dire situation for his own, personal, means.

Indeed, desperation changed one, didn't it—

“Ah, yes,” he whispered. “Welcome, Edward. . . .”

With permission from him, the angel materialized on the lawn beside him . . . and it was rather good to see the chap. So tall and strong, Edward was, but what made the male even more useful
was his calm stare—even with Jim gravely injured on earth, all the necessary faculties were intact.

Nigel smiled, and not in a politely dismissive manner. He was honestly pleased to have this fighter back. “How nice to see you.”

Edward's bow was reverent. Appropriate. Considerate.

And it was like a cool glass of water in a hot, dry place: oh, so very appreciated.

“I have missed you, my old friend.” Nigel offered his hand and the two shook. “And I shan't waste time. I am aware of why you come.”

“Can you help?'

“No,” he lied. “I am still recovering from my ill-advised holiday. But let us go and conscript another, shall we?”

He led the way across the lawn, striding by the table that was already set for afternoon tea, though that repast was as yet hours away. Predictably, the closer they got to the meandering river and the tent of his former lover, the more Nigel's immortal heart pounded. Colin had been avoiding him with such studious and concerted effort, that there had been neither hide nor hair of him.

Beneath Nigel's calm mask, he was on the verge of breaking down, and the energy required to affect the lie of pragmatic reasonableness created a pain at both of his temples.

He was terrified that the other archangel would not be there, but alas, Colin was reclining upon his cot, an old leather-bound book cradled in his palms—and he looked up at Edward as they approached. Immediately, he put the Tennyson aside. Walked over and embraced the angel. Clapped him hard upon the stout back.

“I am glad you have returned, mate.” Colin's eyes, those lovely, intense eyes, roamed around Edward's face as if checking to see that the features were all in the right place. “And you look no worse for the wear.”

Oh, how one longed for that kind of welcome home.

The two exchanged brief pleasantries, none of which Nigel heard or cared about.

“Your assistance is required,” Nigel interrupted. “There has been an accident down below.”

Edward glanced in his direction as if he were surprised at the show of tension. Meanwhile, Colin stared out of the entrance to the tent, no doubt wishing that the visit from Edward had been a solitary affair.

Nigel felt compelled to tack on, “There is healing to be done and I am not capable of it.”

“Then lead on, mate,” Colin said to Edward. “And I shall—”

“Let us all go together.”

That got him the attention he had been seeking, those eyes swinging over and narrowing on him with a dislike the archangel had previously reserved for Devina, yellow-jacket wasps, and television evangelists down on earth.

Nigel cocked a brow. “I know that you would never let personal enmity stand in the way of doing your duties.”

Colin's jaw ground hard, the hollows under his cheeks standing out in sharp relief. But he didn't disagree.

It wasn't much of an easing to the conflict, but at least the two of them were going to be in an enclosed space together for however long it took to get Jim back and in action—and, of course, that had to be the outcome with the savior. Whatever the troubles between him and Colin, they truly did have to work together to ensure Jim was not lost.

And if there was a chance to broach a discussion? In the midst of it?

Nigel was prepared to be an opportunist.

In her old life, Sissy had seen a couple of head injuries—mostly on playing fields. She'd been in the football stands three years ago when a left offensive tackle had pulled a pile drive into one of the opposing team's guys, popping off his helmet, knocking him out cold. She'd never forget how everyone in the crowd had fallen quiet and barely breathed as paramedics had rushed onto the field and stabilized the poor kid. He'd been so far gone that he'd had to be carried out on a stretcher and he'd not even acknowledged the standing ovation he'd gotten. Later, she'd read in the newspaper that they'd had to teach him how to walk all over again.

Then there had been that catcher on the girls' softball team who'd been hit by a ball. The kid on the hockey team who'd ended
in
the goal. One drunk guy at a house party who had decided he could fly and learned the hard way he could not.

Each one of them had gone to a medical center.

“Can't we just call nine-one-one?” she heard herself ask.

Jim had been admitted into a hospital in the last round, not that it had helped him much—and that had been when she'd learned that she could step into the skin of people. If she could do that now? With him? She'd put herself in his position in a heartbeat. He was needed and important. She was not.

Especially with one more round to go.

“It's better to wait here,” Ad ground out.

“Is he still breathing?”

“Yeah. He is—”

There was a flash of light, as if someone had turned a lamp on and off real quick. And then suddenly there were three more people in the bathroom: Eddie and the archangels, Colin and Nigel, had materialized out of thin air. But they didn't have little doctor bags with them. Or a stretcher. Hadn't come in an ambulance, either.

Hard to decide whether the arrivals were good news or not.

Both of the archangels narrowed their eyes on her.

“Good,” Nigel said. “This is well-done.”

“Not if he's dead, it isn't,” she muttered, getting out of the way so they could do whatever it was they had to.

When Nigel gestured forward, Colin gave the other archangel a nasty look—then he stepped over and crouched down next to Jim. Leaning this way and that, he checked out the angle of the head, and the pool of silver blood that was getting larger.

And then he ignored Jim. Rising up, he inspected the corner of the sink, making the
mm-hmm
noises she'd assume would be associated with—hello—the assessment of the nonresponsive semi-corpse on the floor.

Just as she was about to say something, Ad took her elbow and whispered, “The way humans get treated for injuries like this is different from how we need to deal with Jim.”

“What do you mean?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“It's an accident. So there's no will attached—he didn't have it done to him by someone else, and he didn't choose it for himself and that's what makes the difference. Without malice or will involved, Colin can try to erase the impact—but it gets done where he hit his head, not on his body.”

Without making any contact, Colin cupped his hands around the silver smudge that had been left behind on the sink, then moved his palms upward and around in a slow, deliberate motion. At first she didn't think anything was happening, but then there was a subtle sound that rose up—

Cracking. The porcelain was cracking as if being subjected to some kind of pressure or heat even though there was nothing that she could see between those hands and the surface. And the spiderweb pattern grew more intense and spread wider as Colin kept up whatever it was he was doing.

“Oh, my God,” she hissed as she looked at Jim. “It's working.”

Like magic, the blood on the marble floor was retracting, that puddle growing smaller and smaller . . . until it disappeared under his hair.

Meanwhile, Colin began to shake, a gritted string of curses coming out of his mouth, the muscles in his forearms standing out in sharp relief like he was pulling at a rope. And Jim shook, too, his arms and legs twitching, his head going back and forth in a series of jerks.

Then the strangest thing happened. A warping emanated from Colin's hands and suddenly, the sounds of someone falling, hitting his head, and slumping to the ground were played in reverse: shambling fall of arms and legs under the sink; sharp, nasty impact; and then whoosh! as if somebody had flown through the air in front of her.

Abruptly, Colin slumped to the side as if the effort had taken all his strength—and Nigel was the one who caught him before he hit the ground, the other archangel rolling Colin over onto his back and then easing him carefully onto the marble.

“Is it done?” she asked as Nigel moved away.

But she knew the answer to that as she rushed over to Jim: His lids flipped open and he took a deep breath, his mouth gaping, his eyes popping wide. And then he all but jumped up off the floor, focusing on the tub—

“Sissy!” he screamed.

“I'm right here, hey—I'm right here. Jim?”

Jim turned his head so fast, it was a wonder it didn't snap off his neck. And then he froze—like he couldn't figure out if he were seeing things right.

“Jim, I'm okay. I'm all right.”

He grabbed her face with both hands and kissed her. Then he patted her down. “Are you sure?” he asked hoarsely. “Fucking hell, tell me you're—”

She pulled up her sweatshirt and flashed her smooth, unmarked belly.

Jim sagged with such relief, she actually reached out to make sure he didn't land on his face. And in response, he wrapped her up tight and held her against him.

“It's over,” she said. “It's over and we're all okay . . .”

As he trembled against her, she offered up a prayer of thanks, and took a deep breath of relief. She had no idea how long this precious slice of peace was going to last, but she sure as hell was going to enjoy it.

Especially because she was, once again, alone in her own skin.