Immortal (Fallen Angels #6)(16)
Author: J.R. Ward

These inanimates were her connection with her children down below, her way of communing with her captives, her tangible tie to her immortal life’s work. Millions of objects—and yet, it so wasn’t enough. Her hunger was a worm that never stopped turning, and didn’t that make the war so much more real to her.

Shit, to think of the fun she and Jim could have.

He could also help her protect all this. Anytime she went away, there was always an undercurrent of fear that something would happen, that she’d get in that elevator, hit the down button, and find those doors opening a moment later to a whole lot of nothing. And this was even though she had the best security system in the world: At the moment, it was thanks to a twenty-two-year-old computer programmer from Neuvo-Tec, a company she had “hired” to come here to her “human resources firm” to configure “banks of servers” to properly support her “intranet.”

Or some shit.

In reality, she’d created all that fiction just to get the poor virginal sonofabitch and his pathetic pocket protector on her premises. Whereupon she’d metaphorically knocked his socks off with a gold Prada pantsuit and a mile-high pair of Manolos—and then literally knocked his block off by coming at him from behind and overpowering him as he’d checked out the illusion of a computer system. After that, there had been the bloodletting, the ritual, the symbols in the flesh … and way-to-go, she had her early-warning system.

If anyone came in on that first floor above, or tried to get into the elevators? Wherever she was, up here on earth or down there in her Well of Souls, she’d know about it.

And she could protect her precious possessions.

Man, it’d be really fucking nice to have a partner in all this. Yeah, sure, her minions were fine when she felt like ordering something around, but they couldn’t think for themselves, and that got boring quick. Jim Heron was the opposite of compliant—she fought constantly with him, and that was just the hot sauce she was looking for.

Resuming her promenade, she headed for the back to her bedroom-ish area. Above her, banks of fluorescent lights glowed like fake suns, and soon enough, her rolling stands of hangered clothes overtook the lineup of bureaus. Past her showroom of a wardrobe came her shoes in their floor-to-ceiling cases; her accessory area, where she kept her handbags, scarves, and jewelry; and finally her makeup table, with its mirrors and all her Chanel compacts, YSL liners, and Estée Lauder foundations.

And then there was her bed, of course. Oh, her bed, with its acres of Porthault and its down comforters and pillows. She’d actually never had sex in the thing before, but how cool was it going to be when she broke the mattress in with Jim?

A sudden image of Sissy Barten made her clench her teeth.

Goddamn it, if it was the last thing she did, Jim was going to lie in that bed with his legs spread and his cock hard and ready, and he was going to tell her he loved her and beg her to have sex with him. And when they did get it on? It was going to be total hotness, because she’d know that she had won and he was with her forevermore.

That was just the way it had to be.

“Right?” she said to her new shoes.

The good news was that the prospect of putting the twin sparklies in with the rest of her collection was a great de-stresser—except she had to check one more thing first.

Of all her objects … it was the nastiest-looking. Also the most valuable—in spite of the amount of pilfered jewelry she had down here.

Her real mirror was in the far corner of the basement. And it was tucked away in the darkness not just to keep it safe, but because it was fugly and a half: The thing was at least five feet high and three feet wide—maybe it was even bigger. There was scrollwork around all four sides, and from a distance you might have assumed it was a flowery motif or some kind of French fanciness. Up close, though, it was clear that the undulating pattern was a series of tortured bodies, their limbs mangled or missing, their faces distorted in pain. And fuck the gold leaf—there was a glimmer to the thing, but it was not from any precious metal.

It was like the glow of a cobra’s eyes.

As for the surface of it, the flat plane was pockmarked, pitted, and spotty, more like the skin of an old person than anything reflective. Then again, she didn’t use it to see herself. The mirror was a portal, the conduit for her to travel back and forth from her Well of Souls—and the only way she could get there. Once down in her lair, she could welcome new souls or minions or Jim and Adrian, but she had to be in Hell to do that; otherwise the place was locked up, even to her.

If she lost or broke the mirror? Then poof! went the access to her collection of souls.

The horror was too much to think about—

At first she didn’t know what got her attention. Twisting around, she searched her private space, eyes narrowing, claws prepared to come out. But there was nothing behind her, and no warning from up above that someone had crossed the barrier she’d created.

Walking back into the light, she put the stiff bag with the hotel’s gold logo on it down on the duvet. Then she stayed perfectly still.

The only one who could get in would be the Creator Himself.

“Jim?” She frowned, wondering how that would be possible. Unless …

No, this was definitely about Jim.

Her eyes shot over to her vanity table. In between a Clarins clarifying mask and some Chanel Précision Sublimage, there was something that didn’t have jack-all to do with makeup—and ordinarily she wouldn’t have been able to tolerate the discordance of objects.

But this one got special dispensation.

It was the hood ornament of her own Mercedes S550 4Matic—and for once, she wasn’t rushing to get the thing put back in its proper place. In fact, she’d broken the neck off herself … because that trademarked circle with its intersecting lines had a very special accessory of its own: When she’d hit Jim with her car the other night, he’d been clipped by the front hood, and a little part of him had been left behind in the ornament’s metal.

That residue in the very molecular fiber of the steel was how she’d managed to get into his house, into his bed, and oh so close to seducing him while pretending to be Sissy.

It was a one-way connection, though. So there was no way he could use it to get to her—

From out of nowhere, a wave of pain rang her chest like a bell, as if she’d been shot or stabbed. But there was nobody around. Nobody up above.

And yet something was wrong, something …