Immortal

  "Don't let her go anywhere."

  "Roger that. She's just going to help me with the plywood--"

  Jim cut the other angel off and left Sissy's grave in the blink of an eye.

  "No, I've got it." Sissy gave a hard yank and pulled a section of plywood out of the back of the Explorer. "See? No problem."

  "Yeah, well, I'm not totally crippled."

  "And girls are strong, too."

  She and Ad took a break to glare at each other. And then they both grabbed hold of a side of the sheet and walked over the grass, heading for those blown-out windows.

  "It was a miracle you got all this in the back of the SUV," she grunted.

  "Yup," he strained. "But a couple of bungee cords and that back hatch did just fine being mostly open."

  "Have you called the landlords?"

  "Not yet."

  It was slow going, what with his limp and the fact that her hands kept slipping. Who knew boards weighed this much?

  Over at the parlor, they put the plywood down and leaned it against the house. She was glad she wasn't the only one panting--boy, they still had five more left to unload, several of which had to go around the corner of the house on the far side.

  "You really should have waited for us," Ad muttered between deep breaths.

  "Like I said, I'm sorry."

  "Jim's due back any minute."

  "Let's get the next sheet."

  Back at the Explorer, she reached and locked onto the wood. Giving it another yank, she--

  "Shit!" Pulling back her hands, she looked down at her palm. The rough edge had cut into her skin, streaking across and leaving a bloody trail . . . that was silver, not red.

  "Are you okay?"

  Spinning around, she looked up into Jim's eyes--and promptly forgot what was wrong with her. He was standing on the lawn about three feet away, still in what he'd been wearing when they'd left. But he was totally and completely different.

  Rising up behind both of his shoulders were an angel's trademark, the shimmering beauty of what she'd seen on Christmas trees and Christmas cards and on TV suddenly very real. All she could do was blink.

  Wings. Iridescent angel wings--

  "Why did you leave without saying something?"

  It took her a second to figure out he was talking to her. "Ah . . . I just did."

  "I'm gonna ask nice. Please . . . don't do that again. You scared the shit out of me."

  Overhead, a cloud drifted across the sun, cutting the glare and the warmth. But Jim remained resplendent, somehow creating his own illumination, like he was a kind of destination in and of himself. A place where she wanted to end up--

  Like a neon sign that was suddenly plugged in, images of Jim making love to Devina flashed in her mind's eye, popping up and eclipsing the vision before her.

  Reigniting her anger.

  "Look, can we talk?" he said.

  "I've got to take care of my hand."

  "I'll come with you."

  As she headed into the house, she saw him make a motion to Ad--like he wanted to be sure they had some privacy. Fine. Whatever.

  She didn't have anything to hide. Then again, the same wasn't true for him.

  Back in the kitchen, she started the water running and got out the dish soap--no reason to get fussy about cleaning things off. Hell, she wasn't even sure she had to bother, but old Neosporin habits died hard.

  "You can't do that to me," he said roughly.

  "I'm fine," she hissed as she put her palm under the faucet.

  "Sissy--"

  "You know what I did while you were gone?" She squeezed some Ivory soap out onto the cuts and hissed again. "I looked you up. On the Internet."

  She glanced behind herself to find that he was totally still. And his wings were gone now--guess they only appeared when he needed them to travel--and somehow that seemed right.

  She refocused on rubbing her hands together until the soap frothed up. "Your computer is pretty fast--and that's a good thing. There's a lot on you. But it made for quick reading."

  As he went over and sat down at the kitchen table, she had the sense that his eyes never wavered from her--and it was obvious he was surprised.

  "What made you decide to look me up," he said.

  "Just a whim." She cut off the water and went for some paper towels to dry things off. "Is it true that they couldn't find all the body parts? Of those men who . . . killed your mother? I mean, I know you murdered them, right?"

  "That was a long time ago."

  "Some things are never a long time ago."

  "So what do you want me to say." When she didn't reply, he shrugged. "You brought this up for a reason."

  "What did you do afterward?"

  "You read the articles."

  "They say you died. Clearly, that wasn't true. So what did you do? I can't believe the military took someone that young in--were you in foster care until you joined? Or were there other arrangements made?"

  In the silence that followed, she realized that she was hoping he came clean and told her everything. Which was dumb. Like that was going to change anything?

  His stare narrowed. "Where is all this coming from?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You just all of a sudden, out of the blue, decide to look me up? Doesn't make sense."

  "Kind of like you shutting down after you had sex with me, huh. Doesn't make sense."

  He began patting pockets, and then cursed and got up. "Gimme a minute."

  When he came back into the kitchen, he had his cigarettes and his lighter--and he waited until he had a live one between his lips and had taken his first drag before he answered her.

  "I'm really sorry about upstairs," he said.

  "Are you."

  "Yes." He exhaled up to the ceiling. "I didn't know how to handle it."

  "Oh, really. I'm very sure that I was the only one who lost their virginity."

  "I wanted you so bad, so fucking bad--I was scared I was going to hurt you. That's why I pulled out and came into the goddamn mattress. And afterward, I had the worst case of the head-fucks--I know you're disappointed in me, and you have every right to be. I just . . . look I'm not good at this, okay? I don't know how to do . . ." He motioned back and forth between them with his cigarette. ". . . this. You want to know the real me? Well, you've got him right here--I'm tongue-tied and stupid, especially with you, and that is dangerous for you, for everyone. Oh, and yeah, I killed those three men back in Iowa. I came home from school to find my mother bleeding on our kitchen floor. They had done . . ." His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. ". . . bad shit to her. Just so we're clear? I'd do it all over again--and no, they didn't find all the body parts, because some of them were nothing more than mulch after I was done with those bastards."

  Sissy looked down at her hand, thinking about how much the wound hurt. Then she imagined what it would be like to have things that were worse get done to her while she was conscious.

  "I went into the military afterward. That's where I went, Sissy. I did unspeakable things for this country until I couldn't live with myself anymore and I got out. I was electrocuted at a construction site about three weeks ago--and that's how I ended up here. I got nothing to offer you but honesty--and that's it. This where I'm at."

  "I don't . . ." Now she was the one with the head-fuck, as he so aptly put it. "I don't know--"

  She cut herself off before she could finish with "who to believe." Instinct told her it was better to keep Devina out of it.

  "You sure there wasn't a reason," he murmured.

  "For what."

  "Looking me up."

  "I had sex with a man for the first time and he leaves my bed without a word. I don't need you to hold me afterward and make me feel better, but I--"

  "I want to do that." He dragged a hand through his hair. "I am very sorry, Sissy. I handled that really fucking badly."

  It was so weird. As she listened to his voice and studied his open, calm affect, she felt like she
was straddling a divide, teetering back and forth, shifting her weight from one side to the other. In Devina's car, she'd been so sure that Jim was the enemy. Now, listening to him, she wasn't so sure.

  "I had to find out something about you," she blurted.

  "I can respect that."

  After a moment, her feet moved of their own volition, taking her over to the table. Then her arm extended and she pulled out the chair opposite him. She sat down slowly, her mind flip-flopping between the extremes.

  Was he an angel? A devil?

  It seemed foolish to believe the source of all evil about anything. But those killings . . .

  "They made us get that tattoo."

  She looked up, and wondered if maybe he read minds. "They?"

  "My branch of the government. Such as it was. We all had the Grim Reaper put on us. It's not a badge of courage to me or something I'm proud of. And God knows, the shit is all over my back, so getting it removed, even if I had the free goddamn time, would hardly be an option."

  Straddling, straddling. Images of Jim with Devina warring in her mind with the information he'd just given her so calmly and succinctly . . . like he had no interest in hiding anything from her.

  "It hurt," she heard herself say. "When you left like that. I was . . . confused. I thought I'd done something wrong."

  He winced. "Last thing I wanted to do. I swear."

  "I don't know--"

  Jim laid his hand on his heart and stared straight into her soul. "I swear it on my mother."

  Chapter

  Twenty-three

  "Looks like you need some help."

  As Ad heard the nasty female voice behind him, he closed his eyes and tried to stop thinking about how much his bad leg hurt. "Not from you."

  He turned around. Devina had oiled up to the front of the house in her big black Mercedes, and somehow managed to get out from behind its wheel without making a sound.

  Which made him wonder exactly how long she'd been there.

  She smiled at him like a raptor as she lounged against the nearest quarter panel. "You know, Adrian, we go well together, you and I. Surely you haven't forgotten how we--"

  "I try to forget every day, bitch."

  The demon faked a pout and threw some of that heavy brunette hair over her shoulder. "Playing hard to get?"

  "Are you here for a reason, or did you just feel like wasting my time." At least the extra protection spell was up and rolling, its red glow separating them. Thank God.

  "Jim called me. So I came."

  "You sure about that."

  "Very."

  Adrian turned back to the plywood he'd managed to wedge into one of the empty sills. Putting three nails between his teeth, he hammered the upper right-hand corner first and then worked his way around. All the while, the demon just stood there, staring at him.

  The only reason he didn't push her to get the fuck going was because at least he knew where she was--and it was not with whatever soul was up in this round. But, man, this was like the worst case of the Jeopardy theme he'd ever been through.

  "I could help you, you know," she drawled as he straightened with some effort.

  He smiled with all his teeth and waved his hand around at Jim's spell. "No, you really can't. And I guess my boy ain't coming out to see you, so how 'bout you run along and scare a little kid or something."

  "Sissy's an interesting girl, isn't she."

  Ad frowned and contemplated hammering something that didn't involve a nail head or any kind of plywood. "You're done with her, remember?"

  "Am I." The demon straightened off the sleek sedan. "Tell Jim I'll be back."

  "And now you're the Terminator."

  "You got that right, Adrian." She high-stepped around the hood like she was on the goddamn catwalk. "Give my regards to Eddie."

  "That one's getting old, baby girl."

  "Not on my end, it isn't."

  "What happened to your hood ornament?"

  "Happy accident."

  She gave him a wave, and a moment later she was gone, easing on down the road, maybe to Hell . . . maybe to a sale at Neiman's.

  "Goddamn bitch."

  Ad limped over to one of the other sheets of plywood by the Explorer and muscled the thing over to the next window. Probably was a bad idea, pulling a DIY on a house like this--what with the whole architectural-integrity/historic-building thing going on. But he had to do something to improve their situation. As it was, all he did nowadays was creep around and complain about the aches and pains he'd taken on.

  So this was what eighty felt like for humans, huh.

  Shit, he could only hope Matthias was putting the sex drive he'd given the guy to good use--

  With a feeling of abject dread, Ad stopped what he was doing and looked through the opening into the parlor. Over on the dusty, bare floor, the book that Devina had supposedly written was right where Sissy had left it.

  Oh, God, he thought. What if . . .

  Propping the heavy sheet up, he followed a horrible instinct and stepped through the opening with a grunt. His boots crunched on broken glass--not from the windows as they had blown out onto the lawn, but because of the mirrors and lamps that had cracked from the change in pressure before being consumed by the portal.

  Bending down, he picked the book up and leafed through it. The sentences were utter nonsense to him, but that wasn't what got him worried. The letters . . . the words . . . didn't look even remotely Latin--and though he wasn't multi-lingual in the slightest, he should have at least recognized some prefixes or suffixes that were common to English words.

  Nothing. Hell, it was more symbols than alphabet.

  And yet Sissy was reading it just fine.

  As he started to wonder how that was possible, warning bells rang in his head.

  Stretching his palm out across the kitchen table, Jim knew Sissy was lying to him. Something had happened between their little excursion out and her bolting to come home alone. But whatever it was seemed less important than getting her to believe what he was telling her.

  "I'm sorry," he said again. "I wish I were Bryan Reynolds or Stanley Tatum. I'm not."

  There was a heartbeat of silence and then she cracked a smile. "You mean Ryan Reynolds or Channing Tatum."

  "Yeah, whoever they are."

  The lift to her lips didn't last long. "I don't know wh-- er, what to believe."

  "You don't have to make up your mind now. You don't have to make up your mind at all."

  Another long pause. "How did they . . . what happened with your mother?"

  His heart skipped a beat and every molecule in his body screamed for him to get up from the chair and walk out of the room. Instead, he took a sharp inhale on his Marlboro and retracted his hand, using the thing to bring the ashtray he was using closer to him.

  Even with the TO, he had to clear his throat. "We lived out on a farm. My mom and I worked it, and we made a pretty good living. I was in school, but summers, early mornings, late nights . . . I helped as much as I could. One thing about rural places: not a lot of money around. People tend to scrape by and that's okay, as long as there isn't an external imperative to do otherwise. Like drugs."

  Every time he blinked, he saw flashes of that horrible afternoon when he'd walked into the kitchen and found his mother in the process of dying a horrible death. Click--a close-up on her ashen face, her mouth struggling to work. Click--blood on the linoleum. Click--ripped clothes. And the shit came with the worst sound track imaginable, his mother's voice nothing but a weak rasp, her breathing a wheeze. And the smell . . .

  Fucking hell, it had been the potato-and-copper smell of fresh meat and blood, like when he'd taken the pigs in for slaughter.

  "I didn't stay to watch her die. She told me to run because they were still in the house. I didn't want to leave her . . . she made me go. I ran out to the truck and flew down that fucking dirt road. They came after me, but I got away. Went to the cops. When I finally came back, she was gone. Her body was cold.
"

  "Oh . . . my God."

  "The guys who did it went into the court system, but they got out on bail. I figured out who they were--it wasn't hard and I knew what to do to them even though I was young." He shrugged as he tapped his ashes off the tip of his cigarette. "When you live on a farm, you learn about death. How to make it happen. I used her favorite kitchen knife and a saw I'd cut firewood up with. Plus a few other things I found at the three different scenes." He leveled his eyes at her. "I made them suffer just like she did. And I will never be sorry for that. Never."

  Jesus Christ, when was the last time he'd spoken about this . . . ?

  Interview process for XOps, he thought. When they'd given him the psych screening--to make sure he was a good little sociopath.

  "I'm so sorry," she said hoarsely. "I can't imagine what that was like."

  "Yeah, you can. I only lost her. You lost your whole family--and you saw them suffer, too. You were at your own grave site." As she ducked her eyes, he cursed. "It's because of what happened with my mother that I just couldn't let you fucking go when I found you in that bathtub. I tried to save you. I tried to . . . get you to breathe . . . they had to peel me off you. I didn't want you to die."

  As his eyes actually got teary, he curled up a fist to remind himself that he was a man, goddamn it. And that mostly worked.

  "Jim, I--"

  "All I want is for you to be safe and stay that way," he said in a tight voice. "That's it. That's why . . . just don't take off on me again, 'kay? You nearly gave me a fucking heart attack."

  "Do you still want me?" she blurted.

  Okaaaaay, cue the coughing on his side. And not because he'd taken a bad drag. "Sissy, I--"

  "Considering everything you just told me, I think you can afford to be honest. And I need . . . I need to know. One way or the other, even if it's no--"

  "Yeah, I fucking want you."

  Off in the distance, he heard nails being hammered, and sorry, he wasn't feeling guilty at all about not helping his gimp-ass buddy go home-improvement. This had been a real ball-squeezer of a convo, but he was making headway with her. He could feel it.

  He didn't want to be at odds with her.

  Besides, Ad was right . . . the soul had always come to him. In every single round, the soul had come--

  "Prove it," she said. "Prove that you still want me."

  Chapter

  Twenty-four