Envy

Internet.”

As he backed out and went for the pants he’d left on the chair, they followed him into his room.

“What’s up with the necklace?” Ad barked.

Even though Jim was flashing his ass, he decided getting a Hanes undershirt on was more of a priority. He didn’t want them to see Sissy’s little strip of gold, thank you very much—

“We are fucked,” Adrian muttered. “We are so fucked.”

Jim yanked the shirt over his head. “Thanks for your vote of confidence—”

“She is not your problem! She’s just some girl, get over it.”

Wrong thing to say in the wrong tone on the wrong morning.

Jim flashed over to the guy and jammed his face into the other angel’s. “I spent part of yesterday afternoon staring into the eyes of that girl’s mother. So before you write her off as nothing special, I suggest you go over there and see for yourself how much she does matter.”

Adrian didn’t back down. “And I suggest you get your priorities straight. There’ve been a hundred thousand pretty, innocent victims in this conflict, and yeah, that’s tragic, but it’s also reality. She’s just the most recent one I’ve seen—you gonna pull this shit with every chick you come across? This is war, not a goddamn dating service.”

Jim bared his teeth in a snarl. “You holier-than-thou motherfucker. Don’t you ever pretend to know me.”

“Then do us a favor and know yourself!”

Jim stepped back. And glanced at Eddie. “Get him away from me—and keep him there. We’re done.”

Adrian tossed a “eah, whatever,” over his shoulder and walked back into their bedroom. A moment later, a door slammed shut.

Jim yanked his leathers on commando, and in the silence, he wanted to scream.

“He’s right,” Eddie said.

Shooting a glare over his shoulder, Jim bit out, “And you can leave, too. I don’t need either one of you.”

There was a beat of quiet and then Eddie’s brows slowly lowered, cranking down over those red eyes . . . that suddenly started to glow.

Jim took a step back, but not because he was afraid he was going to hit the guy. More like he realized he’d thrown a match on some gasoline.

Eddie Blackhawk pissed off was not something to fuck around with.

In a voice that warped as if it were a radio going in and out of frequency, the angel growled, “You want to be an island? Good luck with it—I saved your cock and balls last night, and that wasn’t the first time. You think Adrian’s the problem in this? Take a look in the mirror, you’ll get further.”

On that note, Eddie pivoted on his heel and shut the connector, locking it in place. Then a brief flare of incandescent light suggested the angel had taken off the old-fashioned way.

Wheeling around, Jim picked up a cheapo chair, raised the thing over his shoulder, and got ready to throw it at the door.

Except he paused as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the dresser.

His face was flushed with fury, his eyes glowing icy blue in the same way Eddie’s had gone Christmas-light red. His T-shirt was stretched tight across his bulging chest and shoulder muscles, and Sissy’s delicate necklace was cutting into the cords of his neck.

Slowly lowering the chair, he leaned into the glass and checked the tiny gold links. Any more of that and he was going to break the thing, just split it right in half.

“Dog, I’m going out for a little bit.”

When there was no chuffing reply, no pawing at the calf for attention, no pair of scruffy ears popping up over the far edge of the bed, he pivoted around.

“Dog?” Jim whistled through his teeth. “Dog?”

Maybe the little guy had gotten locked in over at Eddie and Ad’s. Going to the door, Jim went to spring the lock with his mind—

No luck.

No Dog, either.

He was alone.

For a moment, he had a head scratcher, a kind of what-the-fuck-just-happened-here. But then he shut his connector and dead bolted it. All things considered, this split had been inevitable. He and Adrian had gotten into a fistfight within forty-eight hours of officially working with each other, and all that oil/water had continued to simmer below the surface. And yeah, Eddie was cool, but Jim had the sense he could lap the guy when it came to the magic—so he couldn’t say he felt compromised.

It was neater this way. Cleaner.

Besides, when he’d been under Matthias the Fucker at XOps, he’d always worked alone, so this was also business as usual.

He was used to this.

Partners, whether professional or personal, were just too goddamn messy for the likes of him.

CHAPTER 16

“I beg your pardon.”

Up on the lawn outside of Heaven’s castle, Nigel looked across the linen-draped table and nodded at a Royal Doulton plate. “I should like the scones, please.”

“That is not what you said.” Colin sat back in his dainty chair, his black eyebrows down over eyes that were full of curses.

Their two dining companions—well, three if you counted the Irish wolfhound—stopped in midsip . . . or sniff, in Tarquin’s case. Nonetheless, Bertie delivered the plate in question, his fair face full of compassion, as was his way.

Suffice it to say, however, that no matter how glorious the pastry on the bone china was, tea was ruined.

“Nigel, what the hell have you done.”

“I shall thank you to not address me in that tone, Colin.”

“And you can pop off with the etiquette. What do you mean, you’ve been to see the Creator.”

Nigel broke open his fresh currant scone, and breathed in the waft of sweet steam that rose up. Indeed, they did not require sustenance, but to deprive oneself of this pleasure on a technicality was absurd.

Byron pushed his rose-colored glasses up higher on his nose. “I am sure he had his reasons, did you not.”

Unlike Colin, who was a hardheaded bull, the other two would merely wait for whatever Nigel chose to impart. Bertie, with his soft heart, and Byron, with his eternal optimism, were more delicate creatures than that other one, capable of demonstrating the virtues of restraint and patience in abundance.

Colin, however, would perhaps inquire but once more. And then he would start pounding the tabletop.

So naturally, Nigel took his time with his butter knife.

And naturally, one could feel the heat from the other side of the table sure as flames atop hardwood.

“Nigel. What has transpired.”

He replied only after his first bite had been chewed thoroughly. “I believe we have discussed the other side’s predilection for . . . how shall one put it . . . the creative readjustment of reality—”

“She’s a cheater and a whoring liar,” Colin spat.

“Must you be so blunt.” Nigel put the scone down, his appetite gone. “And may I remind you again that we, too, have broken the rules? Our hands are likewise unclean, old friend, and—”

“ ’Tis but a patch on what she hath wrought—”

“You shall desist the interruptions. Now.”