"I'm so sorry." She shifted in her chair. "What do you mean, final war?"
"Evidently the Creator is as bored of life as the rest of us are. He set this thing up--seven souls, seven rounds. Jim's job is on the field, trying to make the people choose the right path. And if he doesn't prevail? It's gonna get really fucking hot around here."
Sissy wrapped her arms about herself. "Hell's actually not all that warm..."
Adrian winced. "Sorry. I'd forgotten that you ... yeah, sorry."
As a shiver laddered up her spine and settled in her nape, she knew she had to change the subject. "It's okay ... so, ah, what did Jim do before this?"
"Carpentry. Before that, he killed people for a living." As her eyes bulged, Adrian shrugged. "Look, if you want sugar-coating, you'd better read one of those mags I bought you. I'm not good at it."
"Killed people as in how?"
He leveled a stare at her. "Put a bullet in their brains. Poisoned them. Threw them off buildings--do you need a picture book?"
When she stuttered, he rubbed his face. "Sorry, I'm really not good at this, am I?"
"No, it's all right, I just--"
"It was for the U.S. government, I guess. That whole thing with him never mattered much to me. But his old boss was one of the souls in the war--actually he was in two rounds. We lost the first, but won the second with good ol' Matthias. And I don't hate the guy, actually."
"How many more rounds are there?"
"We're even at two to two with three to go at this point. And that's what I've been working on while Jim's been..."
As the angel let the sentence drift, Sissy sighed. "I've been in the way, huh."
"I think he's back on track now. No harm, no foul--yet. Assuming Nigel doesn't castrate him when he gets up there."
"Nigel?"
"Head of everything."
"Ah. So how are the souls chosen?"
"By the Maker and Nigel and Devina. We aren't told shit down here. Every round, the issue is who the hell is in play. Kinda hard for Jim to intercede at the crossroads and influence them if he doesn't know who they are. Again, we win or lose depending on the decision the soul makes, or the actions he or she does or doesn't commit. First to four wins? Takes the prize."
"Who knows about this ... war?"
"Not the world at large, if that's what you're getting at. They won't know until the end--well, actually, only if we lose. If there are minions crawling the Earth, people are going to get a clue pretty fucking fast. Otherwise, it's going to just be business as usual."
Answers. Finally, she was getting some lay of the land.
"Will you tell me how I fit into all this?" She reached across the Target bags and put her hand on his forearm. "Please."
When all he did was curse under his breath, she rushed to fill the silence. "Jim took me to the demon's place today."
"You went to Hell? What the f--"
"No, the warehouse district, where she used to live, I guess? You know, where Jim found me in that bathroom?"
The angel shook his head and went back to rubbing his face, like maybe he didn't like what he was seeing in his mind. "Fucking Devina."
"He said something about a mirror." She covered her belly with her arms. "That I was killed ... and marked to protect her mirror?"
"Her mirror's how she gets to Hell. It's the key to the lock down there, and if she loses that ugly old thing, she's separated forever."
"It's like something out of an evil fairy tale, then."
"That's one way of looking at it."
"But she only had me for a couple of weeks, right? That's how long Jim said I was dead."
"Well, technically you're still dead, honey. But yeah."
Sissy looked around the kitchen, noticing absently that someone had scrubbed the walls while she and Jim had been out. Once grungy and faded, the yellow was brightening up.
"So how many others like me have been sacrificed?" she asked in a dull voice.
Adrian groaned as he adjusted his position. "Time immemorial, right? She's existed that long--so I don't know. It's my understanding that the seal on the door lasts until it's broken by a third party. She can go in and out as many times as she wants to, but, like, when Jim went into that bathroom door, he broke it. I also think whenever she moves, she needs another sacrifice--new door and all that."
"There must be others like me down there, then."
"Yeah."
That anger started to curl in her gut again, the burning getting stoked once more. Reaching down, she lifted her shirt up and looked underneath.
She expected to find the glowing in her skin, but there was none, no markings, either. Maybe she'd imagined what she'd seen in that loft?
Tugging things back into place, she met the eyes of the angel.
"You got another question?" he prompted.
"The ones like me, trapped down there?" she said quietly. "Is there any way of getting them out?"
The drawbridge was up.
That was the first thing Jim noticed as he arrived in Heaven. Actually, no, that was the second. The real number one was that his summons was not answered and he'd had to force himself up here.
Hadn't been aware he could do that until he'd found himself back-flatting on Heaven's lawn.
Getting to his feet, he brushed off his ass and frowned at the abandoned tea table. Hard to believe those four natty bastards would have walked away from it like that, leaving half-filled cups and itty-bitty sandwiches all over the place.
Something had happened.
"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, first dates were always a little rocky.
Right?
"I went to Union, too," he said gruffly.
As she looked up, he was focused on his fries, examining each one before making his choice and dragging it through a little pool of ketchup.
"What year?" she asked. When he answered, she shook her head. "That was just before my time, but we were almost there together. What did you major in?"
"I was premed."
"Really?" Because she didn't want him to know she had, in fact, Googled him.
"Surprise, huh. But I didn't follow up on it, as you can tell."
"Why not?"
"Things change."
Their waitress appeared at the table. "You finished already, ma'am?"
"Yes, thank you," Cait said. "Unless you'd like my fries?"
"Nah, I'm good." He pushed his own mostly full plate away as well. "And I'm done, too. Love a cup of coffee and a piece of apple pie, though. You want dessert?"
Cait shook her head. "No, thanks. But the coffee's a great idea."
"Bring two spoons." Duke handed his plate up and over. "In case she gets curious for a bite."
The waitress lingered a little, looking at Duke as if she herself might like a serving of him.
Okay, wow. For the first time in her life, Cait actually considered snarling at somebody.
"When can I see you again?" Duke said as soon as they were alone.
Cait crossed her arms and rested them on the table's edge. From the corner of her eye, she measured a couple sitting at a table across the way. The pair of them were talking with animation, laughing, smiling, holding hands from time to time.
"Is that a no?" Duke prompted.
Jerking herself to attention, she cleared her throat and felt a little lonely for some reason. "Ah..."
"Look, I'm not much of a talker. I'm sorry."
Part of her, the weak part, wanted to say or do anything that increased the likelihood of their being together again. Which, she supposed, would just mean putting the awkwardness aside and agreeing to meet tomorrow night--as well as stopping any attempt to turn this into something other than incredible, mind-blowing sex.
But she didn't take the easy route out. "Is it lack of interest or lack of practice?"
He was quiet long enough for their coffee and his pie and two spoons to be brought over, along with the check.
As the waitress put the slip of paper facedown, she said in a husky voice, "It's been my pleasure to serve you."
Or had she said "service"?
"You're welcome," Cait said sharply.
Little Miss Double Entendre got flustered at that point. Which was kind of satisfying, actually. As was the way the woman beat feet out of Dodge.
"It's not lack of interest." Duke cut into his pie. "Not at all. I have contact with a lot of people, just not in a conversating kind of way."
"You don't have any roommates?"
"No one permanent, at any rate."
She tried not to think of how many of them were like that waitress--failed. Also attempted not to dwell on the fact that he didn't seem to be looking for anything long-term. But come on, what could she expect given the way they'd carried on?
"With my jobs?" he continued. "Not a lot of talking's necessary. On one, I use chain saws and shovels in the warm months, snowplows and salt in the cold. The other? Yeah, I shut people up for a living."
Forcing her mood out of the picture--because come on, they were both grown-ups--she refocused. "Maybe it'll help if I ask questions." When he shrugged, she took that as a yes. "What changed? When you decided to get out of college, that is?"
He took a sip of his coffee and stared at its black surface. "I just lost interest."
She d
idn't buy the simplicity for a second--
"There's no story there, Cait. It was years ago, and I was a different person. You ready to leave?"
He clearly was. He took out his wallet and pulled two twenties free.
"Ah, yes, of course." She pushed her untouched mug out of range, got her bag and her coat, and stood up. "Thanks for dinner."
"You need help with your coat?"
"No, thanks."
He led the way out, holding the two doors open for her, one after the other. The night was still clear and coolish, and she could smell dirt, the sure sign that winter was over.
Small stones under their soles crackled as they made their way across the parking lot to her car.
Keys. She should take out her--no, wait, she had a smart key now, thanks to Lexus.
At her driver's-side door, she gripped the handle, and automatically the lock popped open.
Oh, God, she didn't want things to end this way. The awkward silence now, the stilted conversation back in the diner.
Abruptly, she thought of G.B.--things had been so easy with him--
"I'm bad at this," Duke said roughly. "Really bad."
As she looked up, a car pulling out highlighted his face in the darkness. Behind his shadowed eyes, she could sense pain, the deep, abiding kind.
"You can trust me," she whispered, reaching up and touching his face. "You really can."
He turned in and kissed her palm. "Thank you." Except then he cursed. "The problem is, I don't know what this is between you and me. And I have a feeling I'm no more comfortable with dating than you are with a string of one-night stands."
"Do we have to make choices tonight?"
"You'll see me again?"
Something about the way he asked touched her. Maybe it was because he seemed so unsure of the answer. "Yes. I will."
His mouth came down on hers, brushing lightly once. Twice. And again. "Good. Tomorrow night. Can I pick you up?"
"Yes." She wrapped her arms around him and eased against his body. "I live at two fifteen Greenly Drive. Do you need to write that down?"
"No more than I did your number." As one of his hands threaded into her hair, his lids lowered. "Give me a little more before I go."
They were still kissing ten minutes later. And it took her another five to actually get into the car.
"I'm going to think about you all night," he said just before he shut her door.
Oh, God, and what would he do to pass all those empty hours, she wondered with a flare of heat.
"Don't keep your hands to yourself," she heard herself say.
"Don't worry, I won't." He shut her door. "Drive safe."