“. . . Dan . . . ny . . . boy . . . my Danny boy . . .” he was saying.
Jim put the blade to the center of his palm and dragged it through his skin, letting out a hiss as the steel bit deep and clean.
Eddie’s voice cut through the memory and the icy pain. “Now take your palm and rub it on the wood shavings. Then get out your lighter and fire it up. Lifting your hand, blow across it into the flame and onto the body, keeping that picture in your mind.”
Jim did as he was told . . . and was amazed to see a blue glow coalesce on the far side of his Bic, like the thing had magically turned into a blowtorch. And the hey-check-its didn’t end there. The flare settled around the body, blanketing it in a shimmer.
“You’re done,” Eddie said.
Jim flicked his Bic off and just stared down at himself, wondering what Matthias was going to think.
There had been a time, long ago, when he and the guy had been tight. But as the years had passed, the bastard had gone one way, Jim another. And that was before the whole being-dead, fallen-angel thing.
But this wasn’t about him and Matthias.
Jim pulled the sheet back into place, covering his own face and wondering how long it was going to take for the spell to call Matthias here and for Jim to see the guy again.
He slid the table into the refrigerator and shut the door, cutting that phosphorescent blue glow off. “Let’s blow this joint.”
He was quiet on the way out, lost to the bad memories of what he’d done and who he’d killed while in XOps. And what do you know. In addition to his adrenal glands, it seemed like his personal demons had also survived his death. In fact, he had a feeling his regrets were eternal luggage: The not-so-hot part about being immortal was that there was no endgame to be had, no prospect for getting off the ride that you could hold on to when things got rough and overwhelming . . . and you despised yourself.
As he and his comrades reemerged onto the funeral home’s side lawn, it was back to the hunt for Isaac Rothe.
“I’ve got to find that man,” he said grimly. Although it wasn’t likely they’d forgotten what they were doing.
Closing his eyes, he summoned that which would carry him over the miles between Caldwell and where Isaac had been seen last. . . .
Jim’s massive wings unfurled on his back, the span of iridescent feathers stretching out and flexing like limbs that had been cramped. When his lids lifted, Eddie and Adrian were sporting theirs as well, the two fallen angels magnificent and otherworldly in the light of the streetlamps.
As a car drove by on the street, it didn’t screech to a halt or get derailed from its lane. The wings, like him and Eddie and Adrian, were neither there nor not there, real nor unreal, tangible nor intangible.
They just were.
“You ready,” Eddie asked.
Jim glanced back at where his earthly form was now not only frozen stiff but a beacon for a man he’d come to hate.
Even though he’d saved the fucker’s life.
“Yeah, let’s do this.”
Up, up, and away, and all that shit: In the blink of an eye, they were flying through the dark heavens and the sparkling stars on the strong, steady wings of Angel Airlines, as he called it.
Aloft and alive, he resumed his hunt for a hunted man . . . and headed off for Boston with all proverbial guns blazing.
CHAPTER 3
The demon Devina was as close to all-powerful as you could get without being the one who had created the Earth and the heavens: She could assume all manner of visages and bodies, becoming anyone at any time in any place. She could imprison souls for an eternity. She commanded an army of the undead.
And if you crossed her, she could make life a living hell for you. Literally.
But she had one little problem.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said as she rushed into the cozy red office. “I had a meeting that ran longer than I’d thought.”
Her therapist smiled from her arm chair. “Not to worry. Would you like a minute to collect yourself?”
Devina was indeed frazzled, and as she sat down, she put her Prada bag to the side. Taking a deep breath, she patted the corporeal illusion of brunette hair that the human woman saw, and pushed at the lizard-print leather pants that actually existed.
“Work has been hell,” she said, glancing down to double-check that her bag was zipped up. There were bloodstains on the sweatshirt inside, and the last thing she needed was to have to explain them. “Absolute hell.”
“I was glad you called for the extra night session. After last week, I’ve been thinking about you and what happened. How are you doing?”
Devina downshifted out of the chaos she’d just come from and focused on herself. Which was not a happy thing. Instantly, tears sprang to her eyes. “I’m . . .”
Not okay.
She forced herself to say something. “The movers got everything into my new place, and most of it is still in boxes. I spent the afternoon trying to unpack, but there’s so much, and I have to make sure it’s ordered correctly. I need to check that my—”
“Devina, stop talking about the things.” The therapist made a little note in her black book. “We can get to planning toward the end of the session. I want to know how
Devina looked across the needlepoint rug and wondered, not for the first time, what the woman would think if she knew she was treating a demon. Ever since Devina had been in Caldwell, she’d been coming to see the psychologist—so it was over a year now. She kept her true identity hidden under her favorite skin of a sexy, chic, brunette female, but the underneath . . . especially after her first loss to Jim Heron . . . was a fucking mess.
And this human was actually helping her.
Devina snapped a tissue out of the box on the table beside her. “I just . . . I hate moving. I feel totally out of control. And lost. And . . . scared.”
“I know you do.” Warmth positively wafted out of the woman’s pores. “Changing homes is the hardest thing for someone like you to do. I’m very proud of you.”
“I had no time. No time to do it right.” More tears. Which she hated. But, God, she’d had to rip her collections out of their rightful places in a matter of
Oh, God . . .
Panic fanned into her chest and made the heart she had co-opted beat triple-time.
“Devina, look at me.”
She had to force her eyes to focus through the panic attack. “I’m sorry,” she choked out.
“Devina, the anxiety is not about the things. It’s about your place in this world. It’s the space you declare as yours emotionally and spiritually. You must remember that you don’t need objects to justify your existence or make yourself feel safe and secure.”
Okay, that all sounded well and good, but her things on the earth were what tied her to the souls she owned down below, the only link she had to her “children.” Over the centuries, she had amassed personal possessions from every soul she’d taken: buttons, cuff links, rings, earrings, thimbles, knitting needles, glasses, keys, pens, watches . . . the list went on and on. She preferred things made of precious metal, but any kind of metal would do: Similar to the way the substance reflected light, it also gave off the reverberations of the one who’d owned it, worn it, used it.
