The trouble was, he didn’t know whether Sissy Barten would survive that. The girl was trapped down below in that wall—and if Hell was destroyed, wouldn’t she go
He didn’t know, and he couldn’t take a chance on that … so he waited for Devina’s response.
And had to wonder what the demon was cooking up—
Brilliant light exploded into the bathroom, blinding him so badly that he dropped the soap to cover his eyes with his hands.
He knew who it was—even before an aristocratic English voice cut through the anemic shower.
“Have you lost all your wits!” Nigel, the archangel, demanded.
Great. Just what he was looking for.
A confron with the boss.
Adrian’s first clue that all was not well in Casa d’Angel was the illumination that cut in around the closed door to his bedroom. Bleeding through the jambs like the detonation flash of a car bomb, it could only be explained by a visit of the archangel variety.
Either that or that crap-ass stove downstairs in the kitchen had spontaneously combusted.
Getting off the bed, he limped to the door naked and opened things up so he could get a gander at the drama.
“… not interested—so
As Jim marched out of the loo with a towel around his hips and water dripping off his hair, his voice was deep and low, like a rattlesnake giving a warning.
Nigel wasn’t impressed. The boss man from Up Above was tight on the other angel’s balls, the English- accented dandy looking like he was on his way to the symphony: White tie seemed a little formal for the ass kicking that was rolling out. Although it was after dark.
La-di-frickin’-daaaaa.
Neither of them seemed to notice as Ad leaned back on his doorjamb and Milk Dudded the show. Then again, any kind of third-wheel routine was way down on the list of their priorities.
“… did you think you can just give away a win?” Nigel bit out as they went into Jim’s room, his accent sharpening the syllables into knives. “You have no right— Dear God, is that the flag?!”
Adrian whistled under his breath. The last time he’d heard that tone come out of that otherwise proper mouth?
He and Eddie had spent a century or two in Purgatory.
Fun, fun.
Jim’s gauge was still hitting high on the fuck-ya meter, however. “My possession, right? They’re mine—you told me that yourself. So I can—”
The slap that resonated out of the open door made Ad wince.
“That’s your free shot,” Jim growled. “Next time you do that? I’m going to kill you.”
“I’m not alive, you fool. And you are putting
“How do you know what I’m doing with the goddamn flag.”
“You’re giving it to her. For whatever reason I cannot discern. In fact, I cannot fathom what could possibly be as valuable as your being one win away from victory.”
Adrian repositioned his weight off his bad leg and shook his head. Okaaaaay. Not aware that Jim was tampering with things on this kind of level. But he knew who it was about.
Sissy Barten.
“Fuck,” Ad muttered as the math added up. “Fuuuuck.”
“Nigel, welcome to reality,” Jim spat, “you are
“Have you no thought of your mother!”
There was a beat of silence. “You think that’s your ace in the hole? My leash to bring me back to your yard?”
“Forgive me for making the assumption that you might care about her eternal salvation.”
As the pair of them argued, swiping insults and getting angrier, the grandfather clock on the stairwell landing began to chime.
But hadn’t it just gone off?
One, two, three…
That thing creeped him the fuck out.
… four, five, six…
Such hostile voices going back and forth, the pair of them like two wolves circling. And meanwhile, somewhere in Caldwell, a soul was in play—and Devina knew who it was.
But Jim did not.
Adrian rubbed his eyes and tried to refocus them. Getting used to having only half his vision was taking time, the flat plane of landscape screwing with his depth perception, his sense of where he was in space, the arrangement of his limbs.
… seven, eight, nine…
This stuff with the flag was bad juju: Jim takes a win down off the wall without telling Nigel? There was only one reason for that … the guy was going to try to trade it for Sissy’s soul.
This was out of control. The whole goddamn thing.
… ten, eleven, twelve…
Adrian glared across the second-floor foyer, at that old clock on the staircase’s landing. “Go on, do it, you fucking—”
The thirteenth chime that followed sure as hell felt as if the thing had flipped him off. And as the mournful sound faded, the argument raged on, Nigel and Jim locked into a rhythm where they were just emoting, neither of them listening to the other.
And as they wasted this energy? The game was continuing: Although there were parallels to football, there were no time-outs in this seven-round war between good and evil. And from the way things were just going in Jim’s room? The savior wasn’t giving in or seeing the light; he was just going to do whatever he damn well pleased.
His attention wasn’t on the war. It was on Sissy—and it was going to stay that way.
And Nigel’s focus? It was on wanting to beat the crap out of Jim.
Devina, however, was no doubt moving forward, circling around the soul even though she wasn’t supposed to…
The solution Ad came up with was radical and had a poor likelihood of success, but what else could he do?
The two bigger players on the team were at each other’s throats—and there was no better predictor for an enemy’s success than that kind of divided attention.
Going into his room, he pulled on some clothes, sat on his bed, and gripped his knees. As he closed his eyes, he sent out a request, the paranormal equiv of a page.
It took about two seconds to receive the summoning he was looking for.
Which meant Colin, the archangel, knew exactly why Nigel had gone earthbound—and was no happier about shit than Ad was.
Chapter
Three
Victoria Beckham.
That’s who the stylist reminded her of, Cait thought as Pablo shampooed the color out of her hair. And that wasn’t an insult. It was the guy’s black hair, sharp cheekbones, and the thin legs. And that posing/pouty thing he did with one hip out.
“
