Possession

  He sidled around to the back of her house, keeping flush with the clapboards, grateful that she wasn't much of a gardener and hadn't put bushes everywhere around the foundation. In the back, there was a glass-enclosed porch with no doors ... but he found a rear entry on her porch.

  Locked.

  Cupping his hands, he leaned into the nearest window. The kitchen was simple and neat ... and he could see through to the living room. She was leaning back in a chair, head resting on the cushions, a bottle of water in one hand.

  Was she asleep? That would certainly make things easier.

  A little farther on, he found a storm door, but that, too, was secured. So was the door into the garage.

  Damn it. If he had to break in, this was probably going to get messy before he wanted it to.

  Heading around the rest of the house, he was all the way to the front again when he frowned and ducked over to the main entrance. There was no possible way--

  The handle turned beautifully. Which meant there was probably a dead bolt--

  The door opened in total silence.

  And there she was. Eyes closed, breathing evenly, looking for all intents and purposes like she'd passed out.

  He shut the door before some change in scent or temperature or draft alerted her.

  Unlike Cait, he was careful to turn the bolt.

  Moving slowly, soundlessly, he walked close to the walls, assuming that the floorboards were less likely to creak that way. He went past her and kept going, making a fat circle so that he could come up directly from behind her.

  He didn't kneel or anything. He needed to be free to jump when it came to that--

  Cait lifted a hand and rubbed her nose; then sighed as she resettled her arm on the chair. "Damn it," she whispered.

  Reaching forward with his gloved hand, G.B. touched her blond hair, stroking the ends. Great hair. It had been what he'd first noticed about her back at the cafe.

  Wasn't it weird that that chance meeting had brought them to this?

  "Wake up, Cait," he said loud and clearly. "Time to play."

  With that, he turned off the lamp next to her.

  Chapter

  Fifty-six

  The sound of a man's voice directly in her ear jerked Cait to attention, a surge of terror throwing her upright as the room went dark--

  Rough hands locked on her hair, digging in, latching on, yanking her so violently to the side that her body flipped off her feet and she slammed face-first into the hard wooden planks of the floor.

  Momentarily stunned, she watched in the dimness as a pair of nice black shoes came into her wonky vision.

  G.B.'s voice was even. Almost bored. "I can't believe you fell for his sob story, I mean, really--I thought you were smarter than that."

  He grabbed her head with both hands and dragged her back up, holding her with such vicious strength, she was convinced he was going to snap her neck.

  As she struggled, he kissed the exposed column of her throat, running his tongue up to her ear. "But I guess you're a typical dumb blond. Kind of a shame, I actually liked you."

  With that, he threw her into the wall headfirst, the impact enough to knock her framed diploma off its mounting. The glass shattered, and she stepped in it, pieces cutting through the socks she was wearing.

  "I even killed for you." He banged her again into the Sheetrock. "I mean, I wouldn't have wasted time on that Jennifer thing--but she almost got you hurt. She ditched that ticket and you were terrorized in that garage. Remember?"

  He grabbed on again and cranked her head back to meet her in the eye--and that was when she knew true terror: He was totally placid, his face almost pleasant.

  "Remember?" he repeated, retightening his grip on her hair. "Sort of ironic, isn't it--given how this is going to play out."

  She braced herself for another vertical impact, but he had other ideas. He ripped her back to the floor and pinned her facedown. As he mounted her from behind, his weight settling on her lower body, she cried out--

  The knife was about six inches long, and had a blade that was cared for so well, it gleamed white in the distant light of her office.

  "No more of that yelling. Don't want to wake the neighbors."

  "You're not going ..." She couldn't breathe.

  "To get away with this? Of course I am. You'd be surprised what I've gotten away with in the past."

  "You're..."

  "Just stop, I know what I'm doing, okay?" At that, one hand locked on the back of her neck to keep her in place, and the other started working on her clothes.

  Tears speared into her eyes, terror making her tremble all over. Not like this, oh, dear God ... but she couldn't move, and wasn't going to try screaming again in fear of--

  A thunderous noise broke through the pounding horror in her blood, and she wasn't the only one who heard it; she could feel G.B. freeze above her. A moment later, it was repeated ... and a third time, and a--

  The explosion that came next was something she knew, if she lived through this, that she would never, ever forget. It was unholy, a roar that was loud and deadly as a wild animal's attack call.

  An instant later, the weight on top of her was gone, and even as close to fainting as she was, she took advantage of it, wrenching herself up and shoving herself backward.

  "Duke!" she screamed.

  Duke's much larger body had taken G.B. down, the pair of them rolling around.

  "He has a knife!" she yelled.

  Like either one of them was listening? Scrambling to her feet, she wanted to help, needed to--

  Fuck the phone and 911. What she required was upstairs, in her bedroom.

  As the pair of them struggled for control of the weapon, she ran for the staircase, skidding in her now-bloody socks, ricocheting off the walls, scampering to the second floor. And even though it was totally dark up there, she found her bedside table in a second.

  Her handgun was one she was licensed to carry and had been trained to use. But all of that had been on a hypothetical. It had never occurred to her that she might have to use the nine-millimeter autoloader.

  She all but fell down the stairs.

  Pulling herself around the base of the balustrade, she entered her living room with the weapon up at shoulder height and the safety off.

  All hell had broken loose, her furniture busted up, more pictures down from the walls, the lamp knocked over.

  They were up on their feet again, a hideous waltz happening as they circled around and around. Duke had control of G.B.'s arm, his superior strength on the verge of winning out, but he'd been stabbed, blood dripping off his elbow and from a wound in his side.

  For a split second, she thought ... yes, they truly did look like brothers. Nearly twins, as a matter of fact.

  Then she leveled the gun at the two of them. "Drop the knife," she said in a voice that didn't sound like her own.

  Both of the brothers looked toward her, identical pairs of blue eyes locking on the barrel of her gun.

  Later, she would realize that Duke really did love her. Because for a split second, his concern for her distracted him and his focus was lost ... and that was all it took.

  G.B. pulled a second knife out from God only knew where and plunged it right into his gut.

  "No!" she screamed.

  Everything went into slow motion at that point. Duke dropped to his knees, clutching his abdomen, curling over. Above him, G.B. threw the knife up over his head, his eyes rapt, his body strung in an arc--

  Pop! Pop! POPPOPPOPPOPPOP!

  Cait started knocking off rounds, the bullets firing cleanly out of her well-oiled gun, one after another after another ... driving G.B. back, the impacts jerking him like a puppet. And as he went, so she followed, discharging the entire clip as she walked with him.

  Just as she had done in that dream she'd had early in the morning.

  When she was finally finished, he was falling backward, his feet tripping over themselves, his expression one of utter and complete shoc
k, as if this was not at all what he'd had in mind.

  He hit one of the glass windows of her office in the center of its large pane, and his weight and trajectory were too much for the fragile barrier to hold: he broke it as he finally fell back completely, his limp body shattering the expanse in a spectacular display of light and sound.

  But she didn't give a shit about him.

  Whirling around, she all but fell on Duke. "Oh, God, please don't die, please don't..."

  With a groan, he pitched to the side, and she could tell he was struggling to focus. "Duke, I'm going to call nine-one-one, just hold on."

  As she went for the phone on her desk, he captured her arm with a burst of strength that didn't last. "Cait ...? Are you there?"

  Oh, shit. "Yes, I'm right here."

  "I'm not going to live through this, Cait."

  "No, you are! You're going to--"

  "I love you," he said as he started cough. When blood appeared on his lips, she nearly screamed again. "I want you to--"

  "I love you, too!" Oh, God, she meant that. With all her heart and her soul, even though she barely knew him, and even though--

  "Just be with me as I go, okay? Just ... stay with me..."

  "No! You fight it! Goddamn it, you fight and stick around until the--"

  Fast, everything was going so fast now, as if time felt it needed to catch up from the slowdown that had just occurred. She needed to stop this--oh, God, how did this happen--how did--

  As her mind threatened to hamster itself into immobility, Duke's voice reached her through the delirium.

  "Cait, are you still there?" His eyes were moving around, but they were unfocused--and there was more blood, everywhere. "Cait?"

  Pull it together. She was going to pull it together. Right. Fucking. Now.

  As her brain came back on, there was only one thing she wanted more than to give him his dying wish. And that was to save his life. Which was not going to happen if she stood by and let him continue to hemorrhage on her living room floor.

  For the second time, she tried to break away from him ... and this time, he couldn't hold on to her.

  Chapter

  Fifty-seven

  "More coffee?"

  When Adrian didn't answer, Sissy got up from the kitchen table and took his mug with her. As she poured out what was left in the pot, steam rose up and tickled her nose. Funny, the old pot seemed to be getting the stuff hotter by the hour, instead of the other way around.

  "It's so late," she said, looking at the clock for the thousandth time.

  She'd tried reading more of that book he'd given her. Had flipped through the magazines in that Target bag. Had even resorted to reading the newspaper, something she'd always assumed only parents did.

  "How much longer can this go on ...?" she wondered out loud.

  She couldn't believe she was still asking that as dawn closed in--and there still had been no word from Jim. No sign of him. No anything at all.

  For a while, she'd assumed Adrian was just better at this waiting thing than she was. But then she'd realized he'd fallen asleep sitting up, his battered body somehow knowing enough to keep him propped upright at the kitchen table.

  "I'm just going to go to the bathroom," she said to him in his repose. "I'll be right back."

  After all, that coffee she'd been drinking all night had to go someplace.

  As she headed out, her companion didn't show any reaction to her excusing herself, and that was okay. If she couldn't get any rest, he might as well have the benefit of it. And at least someone in the household would be perky enough to deal with whatever might come home.

  Striding down the hall, and into the parlor, she shut herself in the formal guest bath. There were another nine or so to choose from, but she didn't want to go upstairs, and the other two on this level weren't as pretty.

  She liked the flowered silk wallpaper, so sue her.

  After taking care of business, she went to the sink and cranked on the gold handle. So strange. Every time she came in here, the fixtures seemed to get shinier, the mirror losing even more of the black pits that had marred its wavy surface, the crystal sconces coming back to life.

  It was almost as if the house were de-aging.

  But of course, that wasn't possible.

  After drying her hands on a towel that was softer than it had been when she'd used it at midnight, some six hours before, she walked out toward the--

  A flash of reflected light appeared across the marble floor for a moment ... before disappearing as if it had never been.

  Frowning, she changed directions and walked to the front part of the house. The door was closed, as it should be--so it couldn't have been from someone--like, oh, say, Jim--coming home. Besides, he walked through those kinds of things normally, didn't he.

  Just as she was about to go back toward the kitchen, she heard the subtlest creaking above her head.

  Someone was going up the stairs.

  Rushing around in her stocking feet, she was about to bound up two at a time, but instead she stopped. Collected herself. Proceeded in a silent way.

  As she passed the grandfather clock, it began to chime, its incessant droning pissing her off--as if the thing were making the noise in hopes of giving her away.

  When she got to the top, she was just in time to see the hall bathroom door shut and hear the shower come on.

  So it was him.

  Fine. She would wait out here.

  The second-story sitting area had an arrangement similar to the one in the parlor, sofas and love seats placed with care around an Oriental rug, little side tables supporting lamps and small objects made of stone as well as coasters for drinks consumed long, long ago.

  Funny, her grandmother had had a collection of those carved rocks, too. Sissy had particularly liked the ones that were cut and polished to be fruit--green grapes made of jade, purple ones made of amethyst, apples and pears from various shades of quartz.

  As the shower droned on, the grandfather clock eventually got over itself and fell silent, and she got bored with pacing around, so she sat down in the far corner.

  Not long thereafter, the water cut off.

  And Jim came out into the light with nothing but a towel on.

  Surging to her feet, she went to say his name--

  Something stopped her. Well, actually, it was him: He looked absolutely hollowed out, a shell of the man she knew, and yet that wasn't it. No ... there was something else--

  His mouth was swollen, but not like he'd gotten punched. Just red and puffy. And there were scratches on his bare chest and his arms.

  Made by fingernails.

  And he wasn't just exhausted; he was spent.

  Sissy didn't know a lot about sex--well, the mechanics, sure, but it wasn't like she'd personally gone much past second base or anything. And it hadn't been because she was a prude. She'd just never found a boy who seemed worth the risks of pregnancy--had never been so flipping turned on that she'd let booze or romantic delusions go to her head.

  She knew enough, though, to be one hundred percent sure that that man had spent most of the night having had it.

  And the confirmation? Not that she needed it?

  As he walked on to his room, he flashed his back: Which was covered in a shockly huge black-and-white tattoo of the Grim Reaper. And there were scratches on both the ink and the flesh, as if someone had been hanging on to him as he--

  "Are you kidding me," she demanded.

  He stopped dead in his tracks. But instead of turning around, he just dropped his head, as if he were too tired to hold it up anymore.

  "I thought you were supposed to be fighting the war." She went over to him, getting right in front of his well-used body. "But that's not what you did all night, was it."

  "Sissy ... you don't understand."

  "Oh, please, like you're going to hit me with another 'Stay out of it, this is all toooooo complicated for you, little girl'? Do you honestly think I don't know what the walk of sham
e looks like? Christ, I saw it all the time in my dorm. I just never thought I'd associate it with you."

  He pushed a hand through his wet hair and finally met her in the eye. "I'm going to bed now."

  "Okay, great. So I guess Adrian and I'll just go find the soul--"

  "We lost the round, okay? We lost."

  Sissy stopped breathing for a moment. Then that anger deep inside of her flared. "Because you were fucking around with some woman, right?"

  "As a matter of fact ... that's exactly the case."

  "Some savior you are. God, you're pathetic, you know that."

  As Sissy pivoted on her heel, Jim watched her walk off. It was probably for the best. No, definitely for the best.

  She was right; he had spent the night fucking. And when the round concluded itself? He'd been with Devina when she'd gotten the signal. Naturally, she'd insisted he come down to Hell with her to get her flag, and he'd gone because, once again, the only virtue she had was that she couldn't be in two places at once.

  As long as she was with him? She wasn't with Sissy and Adrian and Eddie.

  And with the way things were right now, that was the best he could hope for ... the only thing he could expect to go his way.

  So he'd sat down there and witnessed the soul arrive, a black shadow streaming the length of the well, entering the viscous wall, a fresh scream pealing out as the damned realized that death had not freed him at all.

  In fact, he was trapped forever. Tortured forever. Not life everlasting ... more like life never-ending.

  And then he'd watched as Devina had taken a guitar string, a gold earring shaped like a shell, and an old Rolex watch out of her pocket.

  "Just more to add to my collection," she'd said with a self-satisfied smile.

  After that? No more reason to stay. And even the demon had been yawning like she'd needed some rest...

  The slam of Sissy's door went through Jim like a bolt of lightning, his legs nearly going out from under him. The weakness wasn't simply because he was physically exhausted. Spiritually, he was coming to realize, he was dying inside.

  If Devina was a parasite, as Eddie had said, and she entered through a wound in the soul ... he knew he was making the infection in him worse every time he saw her, anytime he was with her. But even knowing that, he would have done no differently tonight.