"Devina, what are you doing."
For a split second she nearly attacked for real. But logic and a reality check kicked in: The compulsions were on the verge of taking her over. And you couldn't be effective against an enemy like Jim Heron if you were trapped in a closed circuit of numbering or touching objects that you knew perfectly well hadn't been lost, moved, or fingered by someone else.
"Lipstick. I'm just making sure I have my lipstick."
"Okay, well, I want you to stop."
Devina looked up with true despair. "I...can't."
"Yes, you can. Remember, it's not about the things. It's about managing your fear in a way that is more effective and permanent than giving into the compulsions. You know that the split second of relief you get at the end of a ritual never, ever lasts--and it doesn't get to the root problem. The fact of the matter is, the more you comply with the compulsions, the stronger a hold they have on you. The only way to get better is to learn to bear the anxiety and reframe those impulses as something you have power over--not the other way around." The therapist leaned in, all earnest cruel-to-be-kind. "I want you to throw one of them out."
"What."
"Throw one of the lipsticks out." The therapist eased to the side and picked up a wastepaper basket the color of Caucasian skin. "Right now."
"No! God, are you crazy?" Panic threatened on the periphery of her body, her palms breaking out in a sweat, her ears beginning to ring, her feet going numb. Soon enough, the tide would close in, her stomach doing flip-flops, her breath getting short, her heart flickering in her chest. She'd been through it for an eternity. "I can't possibly--"
"You can, and what's more, you have to. Pick your least-favorite shade out of them, and put it in the bin."
"There is no least-favorite color--they're all the same red. 1 Le Rouge."
"Then any of them will do."
"I can't...." Tears threatened. "I can't--"
"Little steps, Devina. This is the linchpin of cognitive behavioral therapy. We have to stretch you past your comfort zone, expose you to the fear, and then get you through it so you learn that you can come out on the other side in one piece. Do that enough times and you begin to loosen OCD's grip on your thoughts and decision-making. For example, what do you think is going to happen if you throw one of them out?"
"I'm going to have a panic attack. Especially when I get home and it's not with me."
"And then what."
"I'll buy another to replace it, but it won't be the one that I threw away so it's not going to help. I'll just get more compulsive--"
"But you haven't died."
Of course not, she was immortal. Provided she could win against Jim Heron. "No, but--"
"And the world hasn't ended."
Well, not under the lipstick scenario, no. "But it feels like it."
"Emotions come and go. They are not forever." The woman jiggled the little bin. "Come on, Devina. Let's try it. If it's too much for you to handle, you can take the lipstick back. But we need to start focusing on this."
Sure enough, an anxiety attack bloomed on her, but ironically, fear was what got her through it: fear that she was going to get hobbled by this problem she couldn't control; fear that Jim was going to win not because he was the superior player in the Maker's game, but because she cracked under the pressure; fear that she was never going to be able to change....
Devina shoved her hand into the bag and grabbed the first lipstick that hit her palm. Then she ditched it. Just let the thing go into the wastepaper basket.
The dull sound as it hit the Kleenex balls of previous clients was like the jaws of Hell shutting on her.
"Good job," the therapist said. As if Devina were a five-year-old who'd done the alphabet right. "How do you feel?"
"Like I'm going to throw up." Eyeing the bin, the only thing that kept her from vomiting was the fact that she'd have to lose it on the lipstick.
"Can you rate your anxiety on a scale of one to ten?"
When Devina threw out a ten, the therapist went on a roll about breathing through the panic, blah blah blah--
The woman leaned in again, like she knew she wasn't getting through. "It is not about the lipstick, Devina. And the anxiety you feel now is not going to last forever. We won't push you too hard, and you'll be amazed at the progress. The human mind can be rewired, new pathways of experience forged. Exposure therapy works--it is just as powerful as the compulsions. You need to believe this, Devina."
With a shaking hand, the demon wiped the sweat from her brow. Then, gathering herself inside her fitted overalls of human flesh, she nodded.
The couchlike woman was right. What Devina had been doing up to this point was not working. She was getting worse, and the stakes were only getting higher.
After all, not only was she losing...she was also in love with the enemy.
Not that she liked to remind herself of it.
"You don't have to believe that this is going to work, Devina. You just have to believe in the results. This is hard, but you can do it. I have faith in you."
Devina locked onto the human's eyes and envied the therapist's conviction. Hell, with that kind of confidence, you were either delusional...or standing on the concrete floor of experience and training.
There had been a time when Devina had been that sure of herself.
She needed that to come back.
Jim Heron had proven to be so much more than a worthy opponent and a good fuck. And she couldn't let him keep this upper-hand thing going. Losing wasn't an option, and as soon as this session was over, she had to return to work with a clear head uncluttered by any bullshit.
Closing her eyes, she leaned back into the soft chair, put her hands on the padded arms, and dug her nails into the velvety fabric.
"How are you feeling?" the therapist asked.
"Like one way or another I'm going to beat this."
"Just tell me if he's alive."
As Mels spoke up, the ER nurse at her bedside gave that one a total pass. Sticking out a pen, the woman said, "If you'll sign these discharge papers, I'll give you your prescriptions--"
Screw the Bic routine. "I need to know if the man lived."
"I can't divulge anyone's condition. HIPAA. Sign this so you can be discharged."
Subtext: Get off my back, wouldja. I got work to do.
Cursing quietly, Mels scribbled on the line, took the two slips of paper and the copy that was hers, and then Nurse Ratched went on to terrorize the next patient.
What a night. The good news was at least the police had called it an accident, recognizing that she hadn't been negligent or under the influence. But there were still problems...
Glancing down at her ticket to leave, she scanned the notes. Mild concussion. Neck strain. Follow up with her primary care in a week, or earlier if double vision, nausea, dizziness, worsening headache presented.
Her car was probably totaled.
There was no way that man was alive.
With a groan, she sat up from the pillows, and her bandaged head registered the vertical shift with a ballerina spin. As she gave things time to settle, she eyed her clothes on the orange plastic chair across the way. She'd gotten to keep her camisole, bra and her slacks on during her examinations. Blouse, jacket, and coat were just waiting to be put back into service.
She hadn't called her mother.
The family had already been through one automobile accident--and in that case, the person who hadn't lived through things had been her father.
So, yeah, she'd just texted and said she was going out with friends and would be home late. The last thing she needed was her mother upset and insisting on picking her up, especially given what she wanted to do now.
Mels took the whole getting-dressed effort slowly, although the foot drag wasn't just about being a good little patient. Evidently her shot at being a crash-test dummy wasn't the kind of thing you could brush off. She felt ancient and decrepit--and oddly terrified.
To have kille
d someone was...unfathomable.
Shoving the paperwork into her pocketbook, she pushed aside the pea green curtain and faced off at a crapload of managed chaos: People in scrubs and white coats were ping-ponging around, jumping into rooms, jumping out of them, giving orders, taking them.
Considering she'd already been in one collision tonight, she was careful not to get in anyone's way as she headed for the exit.
Which she didn't use.
The waiting room out in front was filled with various versions of the halt and lame, including one guy with a black eye and a badly bandaged hand that was bleeding. Looking up at her, he nodded, like they were bonding over the fact that she'd gotten into a bar fight, too.
Yeah, you shoulda seen what that oak tree looked like after I was done with him. Word.
At the front desk, she propped herself at the counter and waited to get noticed. When a man came over, she smiled like nothing was a big deal. "Can you tell me what room the John Doe from that car accident is in?"
"Hey, I know you. You're a reporter."
"Yeah." She dug into her bag, got out her laminated press pass, and flashed the thing like it was an FBI badge. "Can you help me?"
"Sure." He started tapping on the keyboard. "He's been moved to an inpatient room. Six sixty-six. Take the elevators over there, and follow the signs."
"Thanks." She knocked on the counter: He was still breathing, at least. "I appreciate it."
"You know, you don't look so hot," the nurse said, making a circle around one of his eyes.
"Rough night."
"Clearly."
The ride up to the sixth floor was an exercise in data processing that her brain flunked badly. Unsteady to begin with, the ascent gave her middle ear a workout that left her hanging on the rail that went around at hip level. Good idea to put one there; then again, they'd probably had a lot of woozy people on this thing. And the fact that the panels were matte gray metal was another bene. She hadn't seen what she looked like, but given her reception down in Reception, the air bag she'd tried to eat hadn't done her complexion any good.
The ding was Disney-cheerful, but the doors opened slowly, as if they were exhausted.
Doing as she'd been told, she followed the signs and found the right place, entering a long, broad hall that was marked by countless oversized doors. Things were quieter up here, although no one looked over from the nursing station as she approached. Just as well--she didn't want to run the risk of someone asking questions, not liking the answers, and shutting her down.
The room was nearly at the end of the corridor, and she half-expected there to be a cop sitting outside of it. There was nothing and nobody. Just another door with a buff-colored number plate on its jamb, and a laminated face that approximated pine.
Pushing on the toggle, she leaned inside. In the dim light, she could see the foot of the bed, a window on the far wall, and a TV mounted by the ceiling. Beeping sounds and the smell of Lysol proved it wasn't a hotel room--not that she needed help on that one.
She cleared her throat. "Hello?"
When there was no reply, she stepped in and left the door slightly ajar. Walking past the bathroom, she stopped when she got a full view of the patient.
Bringing her hands up, she covered her mouth as her jaw dropped. "Oh...dear God."
Up above the utility garage, in the cramped studio apartment he'd been renting, Jim Heron couldn't sleep.
Everyone else around him was out like a light: Dog was at the foot of the cramped twin bed, paws twitching as he dreamed of bunnies or gophers...or maybe black shadows that had teeth. Adrian was propped up around the corner, his back against the crawl space, big body tense even though his breathing was even. And Eddie? Well, the guy was dead, so it wasn't like he was up pacing the floor.
Desperate for a cigarette, Jim got out of bed on the wrong side to avoid disturbing Dog, and grabbed his pack of Marlboros. Before he left, he went over and checked on Adrian.
Yup. Asleep sitting up.
With a crystal dagger in his hand, in case someone came after his boy.
Poor damn bastard. Eddie's loss had been a crippler for the team...but particularly for the pierced and tatted wild card who had been on vigil ever since it had happened.
Why did a strong man showing grief in a tough way seem so much sadder than any kind of histrionic weeping and wailing?
And P.S., it was fucking weird to have partners.
Back when Jim had been an assassin in XOps, he'd been a strict solo operator. Now, so much had changed, from his boss to his job description to his weapons of choice--and Eddie Blackhawk had been the one to show him the way, teaching him what he needed to know, calming him and Adrian down when they were throwing punches at each other, being the voice of reason in situations where there seemed to be no logic whatsoever...like when you were standing over your own corpse. Or fighting a demon who had a penchant for Prada and a thing for men who didn't like her. Or bearing on your shoulders the future of all the good souls and the bad ones that ever had been or would be.
Kind of made a guy want to flip burgers for a living.
With a curse, he went over to the couch, snagged a leather coat, and draped it over Adrian's lower legs. The other angel grunted and shifted on the floor, but stayed under the coat. Good thing--the goal was to keep the guy warm, not talk to him.
Jim didn't feel like talking to anybody.
No newsflash there, at least.
Stepping out onto the top landing of the stairs, the cold air clawed into the bare skin of his chest. Before he had a roommate and a dog, he'd always slept in the nude. Now he wore sweats. Helped with the fact that in April, Caldwell was still pretty chilly at night.
Not that he did much sleeping.
The fresh pack of Marlboros was still wrapped in cellophane, and he smacked it on the heel of his hand as he shut the door quietly. One of the advantages of being both immortal and corporeal was that you didn't have to worry about cancer, but nicotine still had an effect on your nervous system.
You also didn't have to pat your pockets for a lighter.
Ripping the flip top open, he took out a coffin nail, put it between his lips, and brought up his hand. As his forefinger glowed on command, he thought of Eddie again--and felt like murdering Devina, as usual.
At least overall, the good guys were still ahead two to one in the war. If he could just squeak out two more wins, he'd have done it: snatched the Earth out of the jaws of damnation, kept his mother safe in the Manse of Souls...and gotten his Sissy out of Hell.
Not that she was his.
Exhaling, he wasn't one hundred on that last one, but that had to be the way it worked, right? If the angels won, and Devina didn't exist anymore, he had to be able to go down and get that poor, innocent girl free of that prison. Hell would be his to do with what he chose.
Right?
On that note, he wondered who the next soul in play was.
Thinking about his new boss, he heard the Englishman's voice in his head, Nigel's smooth, haughty tones echoing around, getting on his nerves: You will recognize him as an old friend and an old foe who you have seen of late. The path could not be more obvious if it were spotlit.
"Thanks," he muttered, the smoke leaving his lips along with his breath. "Big help there, pal."
How the hell was it fair that his enemy knew the target and he did not?
Fucked. Up.
Last round, he'd tricked Devina into giving him the intel, and she wasn't going to fall for anything like that again--say what you would about that demon, she was not a dumb blonde on so many levels. And that meant that here he was again, stuck in neutral, as the opposition no doubt got a head start.
Which was precisely the problem he'd had in the battle over his former boss's soul. The whole time, he'd assumed the one on deck was someone else's, but it had turned out to be Matthias's all the way.
Too little, too late, and the SOB had made the wrong choice.
Win: Devina.
At
this rate, the game was set up to be unfair--as long as Devina continued to interact directly with the souls. According to the rules, Jim was the only one who should be doing that, but in practice, she was as much a part of the ground action as he was. Naturally, Nigel, chief Boy Scout in charge, was convinced she was going to get shanked for this kind of coloring outside the lines--and maybe she would. But who knew the when of that?
In the meantime, Jim had no choice but to stay sharp and hope he didn't fuck up again.
He had to win. For his mother...and for Sissy.
As he took another drag and let it out, he watched the milky white smoke curl up into the cold air and rise until it disappeared. Between one blink and the next, he saw Sissy Barten, that beautiful young girl, hanging upside down in a white porcelain tub, her bright red blood staining her light blond hair, her skin marked with symbols he'd never seen before, but that Eddie had understood all too well--
A subtle scratching interrupted his train of thought, and he reached behind and opened the studio's door. Dog limped out, his shaggy hair all discombobulated--although that was the stuff's SOP, not because he'd fallen asleep in a weird position.
"Hey, big man," Jim said softly as he reclosed things. "You need to go out?"
The poor old thing had a hard time with the stairs, so Jim usually carried him down to the ground. As he bent down to oblige, though, Dog just lowered his butt onto the landing--which was his way of saying he wanted to be picked up and held.
"Roger that."
The animal, who Jim knew damn well was so much more than just a random stray, weighed next to nothing in his arm, and was warm as a Bunsen burner.
"I told her to think of you," Jim said as he held his cigarette downwind of the dog--just in case he was wrong about the something-else. "I told Sissy to picture you chewing on my socks. I want her to imagine you playing in the bright green grass when things get..."
He couldn't finish the thought aloud.
In his lifetime, he'd done ugly things, hideous things, to ugly, hideous people--which meant he had been long hardened to his emotions--
Well, actually, that had happened when he was still a teenager, hadn't it. On that day when everything had changed forever.
On the day his mother had been murdered.
Whatever. Water under the bridge.
The fact of the matter was, the idea of Sissy in the demon's Well of Souls was enough to make even a battle-hardened soldier like him lose his mind.