Envy

“You got it.”

On that note, Jim thought about the guy’s father. Man, that one was pure evil. And if that was what bound Veck’s flesh?

“Am I going to end up there?” Veck said softly, as if he were talking to himself.

“Not if we can help it.”

Although how the hell were they going to pull that off? Especially given that Veck had seemed darker since he’d left that visiting room. Angrier. Farther away even though he was just as close by.

Why the hell did Eddie have to die, Jim thought. They needed him on this one.

Devina was such a bitch.

“Is Reilly in danger,” Veck asked harshly.

“The more distance between the two of you, the better.”

The man cursed again, and muttered, “Mission accomplished there.”

“It really is safer. She’d be nothing more than collateral damage, and Devina’s into that shit.”

At the side of the highway, a green sign with white lettering read, CALDWELL 55.

How many cigarettes did he have left?

“So who is the ‘she.’ The one who suffered?”

Oh, yay. That question was so going to help his mood. “Someone I care about.”

“Sissy Barten.” Veck looked over. “Right? Kroner said the same thing, in exactly the same words, when he was talking to Reilly about her. And you already told me it was personal.”

“That I did.”

“So what were those markings on the girl’s stomach?”

“Devina doesn’t know from ADT. She uses virgins.” Jim stretched in his seat, his muscles going rigid as the urge to kill rang his motherfucking bell. “What you saw on Sissy was the way she does it.”

“Fucking . . . hell. So my father’s first victim . . .”

“Maybe Devina made him do it for her as a pledge of faith. Maybe he just helped her work. Who knows.”

“How long has this been going on? Between you and the . . .” The pause that followed suggested the man was still getting used to the word demon on his tongue.

“Only a couple of weeks. But there were people before me—and going to be none after me unless I make sure that you don’t go the way she wants you to.”

Jim glanced over at the detective’s hands. They were wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel, it was a wonder the damn thing hadn’t snapped off.

Okay, that kind of pissed was not going to work in their favor: It gave Devina a flashpoint—if she hit the vein correctly, they’d be dealing with an explosion. And Veck was a big, powerful guy who was capable, and probably trained, to kill with his bare hands.

Goddamn it, Jim hated this waiting around. “By the way, we’re staying with you tonight.”

“I figured. I only have one bed, but I got a couch.”

“I’m mostly interested in some version of a 7-Eleven.” He flipped open the box of Marlboros. “Running low.”

“There’s a Stewart’s close to my house.”

“Cool.”

Veck reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone. “Might as well turn this back on.”

While Jim seethed in frustration, he looked out the side window at the highway’s dark shoulder, wondering when in the hell things were going to—

“What the hell,” Veck muttered. “My damn phone blew up.”

As Jim slowly cranked his head around, he thought, Waiting’s over; here we go.. . .

CHAPTER 39

Up in Heaven, Nigel was playing with himself.

Chess, that was.

In truth, it was a bit boring, even though he found his opponent smashingly dressed and incredibly astute: Fellow had all the same moves he did, so the lack of surprise presented no challenge a’tall, really—in spite of the flamboyantly brilliant strategies.

“Checkmate,” he said out loud to the silence of his private quarters.

When there was no cursing, no accusations of unfair practice, no stamping about and demands for a rematch, he was reminded again as to why playing with Colin was much more gratifying.

Rising to his feet, he stepped away from the table and left the pieces as they were, with only two on the board, a white queen and a black king.

The urge to leave his tent and go wandering across the lawn toward the castle, toward the river, toward where Colin slept, was such a compelling impulse, it went beyond the mental to border upon the physical.

But he had lowered himself to that folly once, and been spared embarrassment. He would not do so again.

Distracted by the ache in his chest, he went ’round the bed and into the bath and then came back out once more. In truth, he hadn’t properly focused in . . . well, since that horrid meal . . . when Colin’s honesty had fired a shot directly at Nigel’s arrogant, pissy little ego.

Strange the way one’s position changed, wasn’t it. As time had drifted by like a lazy current in a vast and largely still stream, his initial hotheaded, defensive reaction had faded into a more moderated response . . . one that might even make him prepared to apologize, provided an apology was tendered in return.

Which was proof positive that miracles could happen.

Unfortunately, he was entirely unsure what he would receive in reply, and knowing himself, as well as the other archangel, he recognized that another round of arguing would benefit neither of them.

Still, Colin could be the one to offer the olive branch.

In fact, although Nigel would admit it to no one, he had been skipping the last several meals, and passing time herein, in hopes of that archangel coming forward. This was wearing thin, however. Such passivity was not in his nature, and patience was a virtue he had little of—

“Nigel?” came a voice from the far side of the flaps.

Nigel gritted his teeth, but kept his curse to himself as he double-checked his cravat. The last thing he needed was a visitor of the non-Colin variety. It was hardly proper to punish a well-intended innocent, however.

“Byron, old boy,” he muttered, heading for the entrance, “how fare thee—”

The moment he drew back the satin weight and saw the other archangel’s face, he stopped dead. “Tell me.”

“Is . . . Colin herein?”

“No.”

“We cannae find him.” Byron fiddled with the brass buttons on the sleeves of his club jacket. “When he did not present himself for the evening meal, we assumed he was studying and left him be. But afore I was going to turn in, I went to search him out with some provisions. He was not in his tent. Not at the water’s edge. Not in the castle . . . and not here, either, apparently.”

Nigel shook his head at the same time he stretched out his senses—and found no sign of the angel. Indeed, if he had not been so preoccupied with himself, he would have recognized previously what he noted clearly now: Colin was not on the premises.

There was a brief urge to give in to panic, but Nigel controlled the emotional response. And considering things logically, he knew there was but one place the sod would go.

Why had he not seen this coming?

“Worry not,” Nigel said grimly. “I shall go and retrieve him.”