can't go back on it.”
He tried to shake his head, tried to speak. He didn't want her anymore. Not in his house, not in his life. Something had changed when he'd seen Marie-Terese, or maybe it was Jim Heron—although why that guy would matter he hadn't a clue. But whatever the cause, he knew he didn't want Devina.
Not in her beautiful form and certainly not in this one.
“Yes, you do, Vin.” Her horrible voice wasn't just in his ears; it vibrated through his body. “You asked me to come to you and I gave you what you wanted and more. You made a bargain and you've taken everything I brought into your life, you've eaten it, drank it, fucked it—I'm responsible for it all and you owe me.”
Up close, she didn't have eyes, just raw sockets that were black holes. And yet she saw him. Just as Jim had said, she
“You have what you wanted, including me. And there is a price and a payment for everything. My price…is you and me together forever.”
Devina mounted him, putting a skeletal knee on each side of his thighs, planting her horrible, shredded palms on his shoulders. The stench of her rotten flesh clawed into his sinuses, and the hard edges of her bones cut into him. Ugly hands went for his fly and he shrank back inside his skin.
No…no, he didn't want this. He didn't want her.
As Vin struggled to open his mouth and couldn't budge his jaw, she smiled, her waxy lips parting from teeth anchored by black gums. “You're mine, Vin. And I always take what is mine.”
Devina sprang his cock, which was hard with terror, and stood it up between her parted legs. He didn't want this. He didn't want her. No…
“Too late, Vincent. It's time for me to claim you, not just in this world but the next.” With that, she took him, her decomposing body encompassing his, fisting his flesh in a cold, scratching grip.
The only thing that moved on him, apart from her, was his tears. They ran down his cheeks and onto his throat, getting absorbed by the collar of his shirt. Caged under her, taken against his will, he tried to scream, tried to get a—
“Vin! Vin—wake up!”
His eyes flashed open. Devina was right in front of him, her beautiful face drawn in panicked lines, her elegant hands reaching out to him.
“No!” he hollered. Yanking her out of the way, he lunged to his feet and overshot his mark, falling face-first into the carpet, landing as his glass did with a hard bounce.
“Vin…?”
He jacked himself onto his back and brought his hands up to fight her off—
Except she wasn't coming after him anymore. Devina was sprawled on the couch where he had been, her glossy hair on the cushions he'd been leaning against, her perfect pale skin set off by an ivory satin nightgown. Her eyes were as his had been, wide, terrified, confused.
As he panted, he clutched his pounding chest and tried to decipher what was real.
“Your face,” she said eventually. “God…your shirt. What happened?”
Who was she? he asked himself. The dream or…what he saw now?
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she whispered, covering the base of her throat with her hand.
Vin glanced down at his fly. It was closed and his belt was done up, his cock soft in his boxer briefs. Glancing around the room, he found everything was as it always appeared, in perfect, luxurious order, the flames from the fire setting the scene off to gorgeous effect.
“Shit…” he groaned.
Devina sat up slowly, like she was afraid of spooking him again. Staring down at the liquor bottle on the floor next to the couch, she said, “You're drunk.”
True enough. Dead drunk. To the point where he wasn't sure he could stand…to the point where he could start to hallucinate…to the point that maybe none of that had just happened. Which would be a blessing.
Yeah, the idea that it was all nothing but a bourbon-fueled nightmare calmed him more than any amount of deep breathing.
With a surge, he went to stand up, but his balance was shot, so he lurched around and slammed into the wall.
“Here, let me help you.”
He held up his hand to stop her. “No, stay…”
Vin headed out of the room, and she followed him upstairs in silence. As he tried not to feel stalked, he reminded himself that she wasn't the problem. He was.
When he came to the doorway to the master bath, he said, “Gimme a minute.”
After shutting himself in, he turned on the shower, took off his clothes, and got under the hot water. He couldn't feel the spray, even on his busted face, and took it as evidence that however drunk he thought he was, he should be a little more generous in his assessment.
When he stepped out, Devina was waiting with a towel for him. He didn't let her dry him off, even though she no doubt would have done a better job, and he put a pair of pajama bottoms on even though he normally slept naked.
They settled into bed, side by side but not touching, the television's flickering like that of a fireplace with blue flames. In a moment of madness, he wondered if the walls were going to melt up here, too, but no. They stayed the same.
On the TV, Fred and Ginger were dancing around, her gown swinging wide, his tails doing the same.
Either Vin hadn't been out for very long or this was a marathon on whatever channel she'd chosen.
“Won't you tell me what happened?” Devina said.
“Just a bar fight.”
“Not with Jim, I hope?”
“He was on my side.”
“Oh. Good.” Silence. Then, “Do you need to go to the doctor?”
“No.”
More silence. “Vin…what were you dreaming about?”
“Let's go to sleep.”
When she reached for the remote to turn the TV off, he said, “Leave it on.”
“You never sleep with the television on.”
Vin frowned as he watched Fred and Ginger moving in sync, their eyes locked as if they couldn't bear to look away. “Tonight's different.”
Chapter 16
Pounding on his door woke Jim up the next morning.
Even though he'd been dead asleep, he was instantly conscious…and pointing the muzzle of a forty across the studio. With the blinds drawn across the big window in the front and the two small ones down over the kitchen sink, he had no idea who it could be.
And considering his past, it might not be a friend.
Dog, who was tucked in beside him, lifted his head and let out a ripple of inquiry. “Not a clue who it is,” Jim said, throwing the covers off and going buck naked to the far side of the front drapes. Parting them ever so slightly, he saw the M6 parked in his driveway. “Vin?” he called out. “Yeah,” came the muffled response. “Hold on.”
Jim put the gun back in the holster that hung on the bedpost and pulled on a pair of boxers. When he opened his door, Vin diPietro was standing on the other side, looking like a hot mess. Although he'd had a wash and a shave and changed into rich-guy casual clothes, his face was bruised and his expression was grim as hell.
“You see the news yet?” he said.
