The Comfort Inn & Suites in Framingham, Massachusetts, had corridors that stank of Febreze, windows that were caulked shut, and sheets that were a little itchy. But at least the quietly humming Coke machine by the elevator spit out an endless stream of glacially cold caffeinated heaven.
Adrian Vogel loved a good Coke, preferring the old-school glass bottles to cans. But he'd take the plastic long-necks happily enough.
And he was going to buy two as soon as he got off on his floor. One for himself and one for . . . "What did you say your name was?"
The redhead next him was exactly his type: totally stacked, partially wasted, and under no illusions that this was going to be anything but sex.
"Rachel." She smiled, showing teeth that were sparkly and superwhite. "And I think I'll keep my last name to myself."
Man, those chompers of hers were incredible--as lined up and shiny as bathroom tile. Then again she was a dental hygienist, so she probably got a discount.
Hell, with her looks, she could be a model for their product lines.
There was a ding and the door slid back, revealing the red-and-white vending machine of his dreams. As he stepped aside and let lovely, sparkly Rachel-with-no-last-name pass, he was well aware that he was using her, but that was a two-way street: Their conversation at the bar next to the hotel had started up over the fact that she was wrenching her wedding band off.
Apparently, her husband was fucking a friend of hers.
And it had taken Adrian 'bout a minute and a half to come up with the perfect payback.
He'd bought her a couple of drinks and then one more, and he knew he had her when she asked if he was staying in the hotel. He told her yes, he was . . . with his best friend. Who was a lot better-looking than he was.
Right, total lies-ville on that one. But he liked to share with Eddie if the women were up for it. Given the state of his buddy's game, the fucker would never get laid if Ad didn't bring 'em home.
"Hold up," he said as he stopped at his machine, got his wallet out, and peeled free a couple of bills.
"You know," his date said, "I've never been with anybody like you."
Yeah, he was damn sure of that one. "Really?" As he smiled at her over his shoulder, she focused on the loop in his lower lip--and to oblige, he deliberately licked over the dark gray metal. "I ain't so bad, am I?"
Her eyes were hungry. "Not at all. Hey, do you have a girlfriend? I never asked."
Adrian turned back to the machine and fed the money in, listening to the little whirrrrrr as the George Washing-tons were sucked into the thing's gullet.
"No," he said, pushing the pad for a regular. "I'm not with anyone."
Actually he had been . . . all too recently. Which was why, even though he always liked his sex, he'd been so hell-bent on picking the chick up last night and hitting on Rachel tonight.
Washing off after Devina had used him was always a process. Sure, right after she released him, the hot water and soap got rid of his blood and the other stuff that coated his skin . . . but the filthy dirty thing always persisted.
This lovely little morsel of humanity, however, was going to help replace the sensations that lingered in his body.
The ones that had nothing to do with the fading bruises on his skin.
The shit with Devina stayed with him, lingering in the back of his mind, festering. To the point where there were now two of him: the one who bantered with Jim and stayed alert and was ready to fight for Isaac Rothe's soul . . . and the one who was curled up in the recesses of his mental park, shaking and numb and all alone.
"Diet?" he asked.
"Yes, please."
This time, his hand shook as he fed the machine's mouth. To the point where it took him a couple of tries to get the bill in. "Hey, could you do something for me?"
"Sure."
"Wrap your arms around me."
There was a soft laugh and then he felt a gentle compression around his waist as Rachel No-Last-Name did what he'd asked. As she leaned into the back of him, her soft breasts pressed against his hard muscle and the warmth of her body was one hell of a contrast to what was doing inside of him.
He was so damn cold. Cold as the Coke he was buying.
Adrian let his head drop and braced one hand against the machine, holding them both upright.
Devina was going to kill him. If not when she was actually fucking him, then because of the aftermath: His brain wasn't working right anymore, and as the days went by and it didn't return normal, he was starting to worry. He didn't think Jim knew; he worried that Eddie did--and here was the problem: He had no intention of getting benched by the powers that be again. He was a fighter and he had a personal vendetta against Devina . . . and that meant he had to pull it together.
"You know," Rachel murmured against his shoulder, "if you wanted to feel my breasts, there's a better way."
He swallowed hard and put his mask back in place. Turning around in her arms, he swept her red hair off her neck and tilted her chin up. "You're so right."
He was utterly empty as he kissed her, but she didn't know that, and he was so desperate to make a connection that he didn't care.
"Adrian. . . ." As she drew out his name, he guessed she liked the way the metal bar through his tongue felt against her own.
Running his hands down her hips to her ass, he pulled her in tight to his body and tried to break through his arctic circle with her curves and the way she moved against him and the smell of her perfume and the taste of the cranberry and vodkas she'd been drinking.
Keeping to the rhythm, he punched the "diet" button and the machine coughed up another bottle.
"Come on," he growled, grabbing her soda. "Let me introduce you to Eddie. Like I told you, you're going to love him. Everyone loves him."
He gave her a wink in an attempt to flirt, and going by the way she giggled, it was clear she bought the charm . . . and was really open to what she was walking into.
"You know, I've never done this before," she said, as he led her down the corridor. "Well, with . . . you know."
"Two people?" She giggled again and he smiled down at her. "That's okay--we'll treat you very, very well."
This was going to work, he told himself as he got out his plastic key to the door. This had to work. Last night just hadn't been enough, but after this, his slate was going to be clean and his head was going to be back in the game and he was going to get to take his pound of flesh out of Devina.
When they came up to his room, Adrian stopped, slipped the card in the slot, and opened the way just a crack. "We've got some company. You decent? "
Eddie's reply was quick and annoyed. "Of course I am."
Adrian pushed in with that manufactured smile nailed on the front door of his face. "Where are you, buddy?"
As his roommate came out from the loo, Eddie's hard look changed the instant he saw the female.
Nooooooot so annoyed anymore. But Adrian knew the guy had a thing for redheads--which was why the lovely Rachel had been a slam dunk.
While Eddie stepped up to introduce himself, Ad went over and put his head through the open connector into Jim's room. The angel was sitting in front of the laptop he'd bought earlier in the day. On one side of him, there was an open box of half-eaten pizza, and on the other, a Marlboro quietly smoldered in an ashtray. In his lap, Dog was a scruffy pile of gray-and-blond-colored fur--to the point where you couldn't tell what end was tail and what was muzzle.
Going by Jim's frown, it was pretty clear what he was doing on the compy: He was searching for info on that girl Devina had murdered, desecrated, and hung upside down in that tub back in Caldwell--the virgin girl who had been sacrificed to protect the demon's turf. The one Jim had tried to save . . . and been too late for.
"Jim."
At the sound of his name, the guy who was responsible for saving the world looked up. His eyes were red rimmed from lack of sleep and he was looking hollowed out--so yeah, he was pretty much what you'd expect, given how much was on his shoulders. And yet he was clearly up to the task. That spell the guy had pulled out of his ass at the brick house? Unbelievable. First try out of the gate and he did it on a oner. Eddie or Ad? Would have had to go all around the place marking the entrances to ensure proper coverage.
Kind of made you wonder what else the bastard could do.
"What's up, Ad?" the guy said as he picked up his cig and took a draw. The exhale was slow and tired.
Adrian thumbed over his shoulder. "We're gonna be busy for a little bit."
"Are you, now."
As if on cue, Rachel let out one of her giggles and right on the heels of it came a low purring growl. Which usually meant Eddie was going in for something. A kiss. A palm up. A sucking . . .
Jim's stare narrowed. "Are you okay?"
Adrian stepped back and started to shut the door. He didn't want Jim involved in his drama. It was one thing to be undone before Eddie--who he'd lived through hell with. Literally.
But not Jim. He liked the guy . . . trusted him . . . was willing work with him. That was it, though.
"Hold up a minute," Heron demanded.
"I gotta go--"
"You can spare me a frickin' minute. Something tells me they won't go far without you."
Adrian was having problems.
Jim could sense it clearly as the guy stood in the doorway with that faker smile on his puss and a body that was strung tight as a bridge cable. Sure, he'd appeared to be keeping shit together, but that wasn't the truth under his Mr. Rough Guy routine, was it.
And battle fatigue was not a joke; it fractured your brain and presented a danger to yourself and others. After all, walking around with a noggin that wasn't working right was like having a weapon in your holster that could misfire at any moment--and blow up in your hand.
"Adrian."
"What." The guy's reply was not an opening for discussion. And neither was the hand with long red nails that snaked across his hip and began to drag up his shirt.
"Come in here for a sec," Jim said, well aware he was pushing water uphill. No way the angel was going to turn away from Ms. Fancy Fingers over there.
"Little busy right now, buddy." Adrian's eyes were nothing but glass, like whatever lit up the inside of him had taken off for a vacation.
"This is more important."
"FYI, I'm not a big talker. I'm a doer."
This got yet another giggle and the shirt pushed up past the angel's pecs . . . and then there was a pause, like the female was surprised with what she'd found. Made sense. Ad's nipples were pierced with bars, and a gunmetal gray chain connected the set--and didn't stop there. The links ran down his six- pack and beneath the waistband of the jeans.
Jim had pulled a hey-wait-a-minute when he'd first gotten a gander at the connect-the-dots, too.
"Look, Adrian," he began, prepared to start in, even if it was with an audience.
Ad twisted around to the woman. "Go say `hi' to Eddie for minute, honey."
The redhead took the suggestion and ran with it, crossing over to the other guy and pulling him in for a kiss. Through the crack in the door, it was a hell of a show as Eddie maneuvered her to the bed, laid her out and covered her with his heavy body. Going by the gasping, she was in straight-up heaven as she pulled his muscle shirt--
Jim frowned and jacked forward, wondering if he was seeing right . . . and yeah, he was. Eddie's back was heavily scarred . . . but not as in a burn or a random whipping. It was the same symbology that had been on the stomach of the girl at Devina's place--
As Jim burst to his feet, Adrian stepped into the line of sight, blocking the view. As well as the way in.
"What the fuck is on him?" Jim hissed, hanging on to Dog.
Adrian just shook his head as the lights went out in the far room and something hit the floor. Like one of Eddie's combat boots.
"We're not talking about anything," the angel said quietly. "We'll work for you and do what we have to to help you win, but you're not welcome in our cesspool, Jim. He and I have been together too long, and in case you haven't noticed, you just showed up on the job."
A deep, guttural voice rose through the darkness: "Come on, Adrian."
That sure as hell wasn't the female sending out the demand. And for once, Ad, who wasn't into taking orders, seemed in the mood to comply.
"We're right next door if you need us," the guy said before he disappeared into the darkness and the sex. "Just holler."
And then everything was shut up tight.
Jim sank back down onto the chair and resettled Dog in his lap. Stroking the animal's rough fur, he had to force himself to stay where he was. He wanted to break into that other room and demand that Adrian see a shrink and Eddie talk about what those markings were. But come on--everyone was half-naked and soon-to-be totally naked. And then pneumatics were going to get started.
"Hell . . . fuckin' hell."
Closing his eyes, he saw the patterns carved into Eddie's back and remembered the moment he'd busted into Devina's bathroom and found that innocent young girl upside down over the tub. Her blood had been bright red against the white porcelain and all over her pale skin and her blond hair. She'd been slaughtered and marked by the demon, her skin scratched raw with symbols.
Just as Eddie's had.
Devina had obviously gotten her claws into that angel. And Jim was going to need the details on that one.
Refocusing on the laptop he'd bought that afternoon, he cleared the screen saver with a swipe of his finger. The Dell had only civilian speed and memory, but then again, it wasn't like he was going to be commanding satellites off its keyboard--and the Caldwell Courier Journal Web site had come up easily enough.
As he returned to the archives, that picture of the girl was a raw wound on his brain. Dead bodies were nothing new to him, and yet that one had burrowed into his brain stem and set up shop in the heart of his CPU.
He wished he could have at least given her a proper burial. But when he'd entered the room, he'd broken the spell that had protected Devina's sacred mirror so they'd had to leave. After that, the remains of the girl had disappeared.
Which was what brought Jim to the newspaper. Somebody would be looking for their daughter, and the body--or at least pieces of it--would eventually be found: Adrian maintained that Devina usually just dumped what was left as opposed to destroying it because that would cause more pain to the family and friends.
Such a peach that female was.
And it made him wonder whether permanently missing was better than defiled and destroyed. Hell of a choice.
In the search box, he entered things like "blond woman found dead" and "blond woman homicide" and "blond female killed." Nothing--well, a lot of somethings, just none that fit what he was looking for. The results were too old either in age, because his victim had looked to be only about eighteen/nineteen, or the articles were from six months to a year ago whereas his girl had been killed very recently: The blood had been fresh, and her body, though mutilated, had appeared to be in relatively good health, which made him assume she hadn't been tortured or starved for a period of time prior to her death.
When the CCJ didn't give him what he wanted, his next stop on the information superhighway was the national database of missing persons. He searched the state of New York.
Oh . . . man. So many.
So much damn suffering out there in the world: nights that were filled with parents or husbands or wives or sisters and brothers wondering if the one who had been taken from them was dead or alive or in agony caused by another.
"Christ," he whispered.
And he had been part of this, hadn't he. On a worldwide scale, he had perpetrated crimes that had created holes in other people's lives. Yes, the vast majority of his targets had been evil men, but he knew for a fact that many had had families, and now he wondered what he'd left behind. Even if the paterfamilias had deserved to die, what kind of trickle-down chaos had he created? He knew that a couple of his targets had been renowned for loving their kids: They might have been enemies with dangerous resources on a political calculus, but they hadn't been bastards at home.
"Shit, Dog . . ." There was a snuffle and then a cold wet nose bumped against his hand. "Yeah, let's start wading through all this."
Dog raised his scruffy head and yawned so wide he let out a sound like a hinge squeaking. Then with another snuffle, the mutt rearranged himself in Jim's lap, curling his little paws in and relaxing.
Jim tried to smooth the fur that had been messed up by the repositioning, but Dog's wiry coat made that wasted effort. Silly animal always looked like he'd been blown dry by a set of box fans and then hit with four cans of Aqua Net.
Faces . . . names . . . stories . . .
As a moan percolated up from next door, he thought of the last time he'd had sex and got nauseated. The idea that'd he'd come inside his enemy was enough to give his cock a case of the never-again shrivels.
To think the other two had done her as well--
At first, the sensation was hard to place. Something was . . . just off. And then the vague huh-what? coalesced to the back of his neck until he was convinced cold air was being exhaled on his nape.
He wrenched around, but nobody was there. And the chills persisted, flickering down his spine, turning into a fleet of ants that teemed over his back.
Jim got to his feet and set Dog on the carpet.
Isaac, he thought. Isaac and Grier . . .
That house . . .
The spell at the house.
He was out of the hotel and back to Beacon Hill in the work of a moment, landing in the rear garden. The incantation he'd thrown remained in place, the outside of the town house still glowing, and now that he was in range, he knew he'd been right to come.
Devina was here. He could sense her evil, parasitic presence.
And yet everything appeared quiet: Through the plate-glass windows in the back, the kitchen was dark, with nothing but a distant hall light throwing illumination. No shadows moving, no alarm screeching, no guns going off, no screaming.
With a great beat of his wings, he levitated up to the third-floor terrace and landed in silence. Walking over to the French doors, he kept himself invisible to the human eye and peered in. The blond attorney was in her bed, lying on her side facing a little TV, apparently sleeping.
She seemed just fine.
Matter of fact, everything appeared just fine. Yeah, sure, he could sense that ghost hovering around--but it wasn't a threat to her or Isaac. . . .
The vibrating alarm in his spinal cord was still going strong, however, and he was inclined to listen to it rather than go with this illusion of A-OK. On a blink, he walked through the glass door and stood in the center of her room, braced for action.
Which appeared to be a waste of muscle tension.
Again, there was nothing out of place, no sounds. . . .
Frowning, he walked past the bed and through the closed door across the way. On the landing at the head of the stairs, he paused, and the ant farm on his back went crazy, the tickle so intense it turned his whole body into a tuning fork. Jogging downward, he knew he was headed in the right direction as the sensation got even worse--and then he ghosted into the room Isaac was using.
And there was the disturbance.
His fellow soldier was on the bed, twisting and turning in the sheets, his body contorting, his face screwed up tight in a mask of agony. As his big hands gripped the duvet, his arms strained, and that heavy chest of his pumped air hard.
Devina was here, all right, but she was in the man, not around him: The demon had sucked Isaac into a nightmare and trapped him in some kind of torture. And the result was a torment all the more real for its unreality, Jim imagined, because the bitch could custom-fit the abuse to Isaac's weaknesses, whatever they were.
At least there was a simple solution: Wake the poor bastard up.
Jim rushed forward--
Nigel, his new boss, appeared in the corner of the room and held his hand up like a crossing guard. "If you rouse him, she'll get into more than just his mind."
Jim pulled out of the lunge, yanking his weight back onto his heels and confronting the English lordship-type who was his CO Tonight, the archangel was dressed in a 1920s-era tuxedo, and sporting a cigarette in a holder in his right hand and a martini glass in the other. But this wasn't a party to him: In spite of his Gatsby duds and his 007 drink, his face and his voice were death's-door grim.
Jim pointed to the bed. "So I was right. Isaac is my next assignment."
Nigel took a draw on his coffin nail and exhaled--which made Jim realize they actually had something in common. Although given that they were both immortal, guess it wasn't a bad habit anymore.
"Indeed, saving his life is the answer," was the eventual reply.
"But I can't leave him like this," Jim said as Isaac let out a groan. "Even if he'll live through it, it's cruel."
"You cannot wake him, however. You relate to humans through their souls. That is your conduit--the way you touch them when you interact with them. Right now, his mind is contaminated by her--if you open the door by disturbing him, she shall waltz right on your heels."
Hardly the kind of assist he was looking to provide the enemy.
And yet as Jim stared at the thrashing man, he worried whether the experience would actually kill the sorry SOB. He looked as if someone were ripping his arms and legs off. "I'm not going to let him suffer like this."
"Use the tools you have. There are many." Damn it, he should have brought Eddie and Adrian with him. "Tell me."
"I cannot. I shouldn't be here a'tall. If I provide too much guidance, I risk affecting the outcome and thus having the round disqualified--or worse."
Down on the bed, Isaac let out a rippling scream.
"Shit, what do I do?"
When there was no answer, Jim looked over to the corner and saw nothing except a fading curl of smoke left by the archangel's cigarette. His boss had disappeared the same way he'd arrived: quickly and in silence.
"Fucking hell, Nigel . . ."
Standing there all by his little lonesome, while his back screamed in alarm and Isaac suffered, Jim took out his phone and tried Eddie. Adrian. Eddie again. He was about to go back to the hotel and drag them out of bed--naked if he had to--when the solution came to him.