Immortal (Fallen Angels #6)(5)
Author: J.R. Ward

The truth was, she was the reason that he was on the verge of losing this whole goddamn war. He’d traded one of his wins to the demon to get her out of Hell. And then he’d been so distracted trying to make sure Sissy didn’t lose her mind in the transition, he’d tanked the last round.

If not for Sissy Barten, he’d be up by two and on the verge of shutting things down in a good way.

Instead, all it was going to take was one more fuck-up and Devina was the HBIC—and the aftermath was going to make any concept of doomsday look like an infomercial for luxury time-shares.

He thought of his dead mother, up in the Manse of Souls, spending the eternity she deserved with the rest of the righteous. He cocked this up? Poof! Sorry, Mom, pack your bags, you’re retiring down south. Waaaaay down south.

All because I got my head scrambled by long blond hair and a pair of blue eyes.

And yet he still wanted to go after Sissy. Just to make sure …

From out of nowhere, he pictured her sitting up in his bed, nothing but a white T-shirt on, her eyes wide as she stared at him.

Her voice had been soft, but strong. Just kiss me and I’ll go. It’s the only thing I’ll ever ask of you …

He’d fought the seduction and then lied to himself as he’d given in, his brain insisting it was only going to be a kiss when his erection had known otherwise. Clear as day, he saw himself leaning into her, her lips parting for him …

And then everything coming to a screeching halt as Sissy’s voice had said his name—from outside in the hall. Instantly, Devina had emerged from the lie he’d fallen for, the demon replacing the illusion that was in front of him, her black eyes sparkling, her smile pure evil.

The bitch had been out of there a second later: Well, you can’t blame a girl for trying.

Talk about your crossroads. He was at one now. Either he went after Sissy again … or he got with the program and did his job.

Jim finished tying up his boots and headed for the door. Indecisiveness had never been a problem with him before—any more than plastic explosives would take a moment to introspect before going off. And yet, when he walked into the kitchen and saw his remaining wingman cracking eggs over a bowl at the counter, he had no fucking clue what he was going to do.

Adrian put his palm out to cut any questioning. “No, I don’t know where she went.”

“It’s all right.”

Ad’s eyes narrowed. “Lemme guess—you’re going after her.”

Jim felt a pull toward that damn door that was nearly irresistible. The idea that Sissy was out in the world by herself, hurting and confused—it was enough to make his heart go snare drum on him.

Curling his hands into a pair of fists, he turned to the table. Went over. Sat his ass down. “We need to talk.”

Adrian looked up to the ceiling as if searching for strength. “You mind if I have breakfast first? I hate hearing bad news on an empty stomach.”

Chapter Three

Rage was the octane in her veins as Sissy shot through the streets of suburban Caldwell, jerking the Harley into lefts and rights, blowing through stoplights and intersections, flying past a hospital, some strip malls, a school …

Nothing really registered. Not the SUV she cut off or the delivery truck she nearly crashed into. Not the pedestrians that jumped back or the stray black cat that skipped across her lane.

All she could think about were flames … the ones she had started days ago in the mansion’s parlor. Red, orange, yellow, licking out of the fireplace, fueled by the dusty sheets she had ripped off the furniture and shoved into the oven she’d created. Heat on her face, singeing her eyebrows and lashes, making her pores sting, echoes of the flickering light spotting up her vision. Hunger in her gut for more, more, more …

Jim had been the one to stop her before things had gotten completely out of control—

In the corner of her eye, a pattern registered, one that was part of the real world, not the stuff in her mind.

It was a fence. A ten-foot-high, glossy black wrought-iron fence.

Beyond which were graves.

The Pine Grove Cemetery.

How had she ended up in this part of town? Then again, if you didn’t have a destination, a tank of gas and a machine could take you somewhere. Didn’t mean you had to go inside, however.

And she really meant to continue on by the place—it just was not the way the Harley happened to go. The gates were open because it was after eight, and as she zoomed through them, her stomach went on the grind.

The landscape of blocky gray markers, and tombs that looked like banks, and white marble statues of angels and crosses made her think of that tattoo on Jim’s back, the one of the Grim Reaper.

And this, naturally, took her right back to the fingernail scratches on his chest.

She was still cursing as she rounded a fat turn, ascended a brief hill … and found herself at her own grave site. Hitting the brakes, she was surprised that she’d managed to make it to the right place. The cemetery was a maze of all-the-same and she had been here only once before.

When her remains had been sunk beneath the surface.

Funny, she’d always had a fear of being buried alive, those Edgar Allan Poe–era stories of people scratching at the insides of their coffins scaring the crap out of her. Now? Turned out that hadn’t been worth worrying about. She’d have done herself more of a favor not to have made that ice cream run to Hannaford’s.

Killing the engine, she dismounted and walked across the asphalt strip. The scratchy spring grass was a bright fresh green, and crocuses and tulips were pushing up to the sun, their pale shoots searching and finding warmth, their flowers about to come out and see the world.

She was careful not to step on them as she made her way over to the grave marker that had her name and dates on it.

The groundskeeping staff had done a pretty crappy job with the rolls of grass over all that loose dirt, the lengths a little cockeyed, one of them trimmed too short.

She pictured her funeral mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Her mother crying. Her sister. Her father. She saw her artwork arranged in the narthex … and that groundskeeper who had been so kind to her … and all the people, young and old, who had come to pay their respects.

Abruptly, it was hard to breathe.

None of them deserved this destiny of hers.

And the longer she stood over her own grave, the more she became convinced that virtue was so overrated. If she hadn’t been a virgin, none of this would have happened. Instead, she’d be gearing up for finals right now and in the studio with her favorite art teacher, Ms. Douglass. She probably should have just given it up to Bobby Carne when she’d been a junior in high school. Even though he’d had octopus arms and a tongue like a dripping sponge …