Possession

“Nigel!” As his shout faded, he turned toward the fortified castle walls. “Colin!”

Nothing. Not even that huge wolfhound bounding over to him.

With few other options, he started hoofing it around the perimeter, hoping to run into someone. He’d gone about a fifty yards when he saw Nigel’s colorful tent setup off in the distance, gleaming in the strangely diffused light. Breaking into a jog, he beat feet in its direction.

“Anyone home?” he barked as he got within range of the draped entrance. “Nigel? You in?”

He called out a couple more times. Lost his patience with the whole polite thing.

Welcome back, Ali Baba, he thought as he drew the fabric aside.

Just as before, jeweled colors glowed from every corner, the fine silks and satins hanging in folds that caught the golden light of many candles. The furniture was all antique and very fancy, the place looking like something out of an Old English excursion to the Middle East.

“Nigel?”

At first, the flash of silver on the floor seemed like nothing but the glare of candlelight playing tricks on his eyes. But as he refocused on it, he realized there was … a thin puddle of the shit? Right at the base of one of the curtain falls. It looked as if someone had melted down a sterling tea set right on the Oriental rug—

That was when he smelled the flowers.

Breathing in, his nose hummed with a bouquet of freshly cut blooms.

And then he heard a faint, rhythmic sound.

Drip, drip, drip …

As dread clawed its way into the center of his chest, he approached slowly, and watched from a distance as his hand reached out and grabbed hold of a ruby-colored curtain.

Even before he pulled the thing back, he knew what he was going to see.

“Oh … fuck … no.”

On the far side, lying in an uncharacteristically messy sprawl on a chaise longue, Nigel was at once perfectly alive and completely gone: unmoving, with no breath in his chest or expression to his face, he was nonetheless the picture of health, a blush to his smooth cheeks, his skin retaining that glow he had had during his version of “life.”

There was a crystal knife sticking straight out of his sternum, his own hand still locked on its grip, his eyes fixed on some far-off point.

That silver blood was everywhere on the floor, and the dripping was more of it falling into the biggest of the puddles, the one directly under the body.

Jim backed out into the main space, letting go of the drape. The thing did not return to its former place, however, getting bogged down in the archangel’s blood, the doorway, such as it was, remaining open so that he could still see his “boss.”

Something hit him in the back of the legs. A chair by an inlaid desk.

Jim let himself fall down into the cane seat. Staring at the game changer ahead of him, he was dumbfounded to the point of not being able to breathe.

His choices had caused this; he knew that without a doubt. And that was bad. But the real kicker? He couldn’t say, even if he’d known this was going to be the result, that he would have done anything differently when it came to Sissy.

He just really fucking wished that he hadn’t had to trade one for the other. Yeah, he’d gotten the girl out, but the cost had been so much higher than he’d thought.

And now he knew precisely why the drawbridge had been up.

Heaven was not as secure as it used to be, was it. 

Chapter Thirty-four

What was the saying? Once more with feeling…?

Cait leaned back as her plate of food arrived. Oh, yeeeeeahhh, cheeseburger with French fries. Nothing like a little red meat after what she and—

She glanced up as her cheeks got hot. Across the same table they’d been seated at before “things” had happened down at the boathouse, Duke was doing as she was—making way for about a thousand calories of burger goodness.

His had been without the cheese, though.

“Ketchup?” he asked, in that deep gravel voice of his.

After she nodded, he passed the Heinz, but didn’t release it as she took hold of the bottle. When she looked up into his half-lidded eyes, he deliberately licked his lips.

Damn. That man was going to be the death of her. He totally was.

Cait’s hands shook, but not from shyness, as she put her top bun aside and did the duty with the jar, banging it on the bottom to get enough out.

“Would you like my fries?” she asked as she put the thing down.

“Maybe. You’re not going to eat them?”

“This burger alone is going to put me over the edge.”

“Gotta keep your strength up.”

Yeah. Wow. The way he said those words? It was like his mouth was against her throat and his body back on top of hers. In fact, every shift of his shoulders and blink of his eyes, all the syllables he spoke as well as the silences he kept, everything about him was a seductive reminder of where they had been … and where they would go again.

They were still not finished.

She did want to talk to him, though. Get to know this man who rocked her world and yet was still mostly a stranger.

“So … do you have a lot of family in town?” she said between bites.

“No. You?”

“My parents are out west. Middle of the country, actually.” Pause. “They’re missionaries. They leave the country a lot.” Another pause. “I went to college here—at Union. And stayed on because I got a job teaching. I’m an artist. An illustrator.”

She gave him the opportunity to pick up on the Union thing. When he didn’t, she said, “Where did you go to college?”

“Would it bother you if I hadn’t?”

She frowned, but then thought, maybe he’d dropped out and didn’t want to tell her? “No.”

He studied her for a time. “You know, I believe that.”

“College doesn’t automatically mean you’re smart, or going to be more successful. For a lot of people, it’s just four years of keggers and tailgates.”

“Not a bad way to pass the time.”

“True. But working your way into your twenties isn’t so bad, either.”

He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Is that what you think I did?”

“You could settle the issue by just telling me.”

“Maybe the mystery is working in my favor.”

“You do not need any help, trust me.”

There was another pause, and then he smiled a little. “That so?”

“Don’t ask me to draw you a picture,” she muttered.

“You’re an artist, after all.”

“Not that kind.”

“Pity.”

When the conversation died out again, she pushed her plate away. She loved being with him; it was undeniable. But that was in the horizontal sense. With both of them vertical? She was less sure—although come on,