Immortal (Fallen Angels #6)(72)
Author: J.R. Ward

“Easy there,” Eddie murmured as he restrained her, easing her back.

Good thing—she was all but jumping on Jim’s chest. Hardly a help.

“Lemme get a look at him.” Eddie reached across and thumbed Jim’s eyelids up, one by one. “Shit.”

Adrian shuffled himself over. “What we got?”

“One hell of a concussion—or worse. I don’t know—I’m not a healer like this.” Eddie looked at Sissy. “First things first. Get some salt and put it across that windowsill. Ad, light up, will you.” Then the angel glanced around. “Fucking hell, one of the guns broke.”

Which explained the dripping: Over where Eddie had been thrown, crystal shards gleamed in the light from the frosted window, a puddle of the solution Ad had prepared on the floor in front of the busted-up barrel.

Sissy went vertical stiffly and hit the Morton bag, grabbing one of the remaining containers. She was more concerned about Jim than anything else, but that didn’t mean she wanted Devina in here while they figured out exactly what was wrong and how to fix it. With hands that shook, she peeled off the little paper square over the spout, and then there was that hiss again as she closed the loop around the bathroom.

“Can you take care of this?” Ad said to Eddie.

“It’s outside of what I can heal.”

Sissy shut her eyes and thought, No, no, this is not how this ends. It just can’t be.

“Is he dead?” she heard herself ask as she went back and crouched down. “Is he?”

Eddie didn’t meet her eyes. “No. But he’s gonna be soon.”

Chapter Thirty-nine

As the archangel Nigel stared up at the Manse of Souls’ great walls, his eyes were focused on the new victory flag that waved next to the other two. But he wasn’t thinking about Jim’s victory or dwelling on the fact that although it was customary for the savior to come up and mark the occasion with a visit, the angel had not, in fact, made an appearance.

No, Nigel was tied up in his head. He was well aware of what had transpired and was transpiring down below—Jim was on the verge of passing away, and given that they were heading into the final round, Nigel should be taking initiative and interceding. After all, the Creator did allow interaction with the savior by him, and curing a head wound, one could argue, was a sort of “interaction.”

Instead, he waited for the summoning. And was rather unimpressed by his apparent willingness to use this dire situation for his own, personal, means.

Indeed, desperation changed one, didn’t it—

“Ah, yes,” he whispered. “Welcome, Edward…”

With permission from him, the angel materialized on the lawn beside him … and it was rather good to see the chap. So tall and strong, Edward was, but what made the male even more useful was his calm stare—even with Jim gravely injured on earth, all the necessary faculties were intact.

Nigel smiled, and not in a politely dismissive manner. He was honestly pleased to have this fighter back. “How nice to see you.”

Edward’s bow was reverent. Appropriate. Considerate.

And it was like a cool glass of water in a hot, dry place: oh, so very appreciated.

“I have missed you, my old friend.” Nigel offered his hand and the two shook. “And I shan’t waste time. I am aware of why you come.”

“Can you help?’

“No,” he lied. “I am still recovering from my ill-advised holiday. But let us go and conscript another, shall we?”

He led the way across the lawn, striding by the table that was already set for afternoon tea, though that repast was as yet hours away. Predictably, the closer they got to the meandering river and the tent of his former lover, the more Nigel’s immortal heart pounded. Colin had been avoiding him with such studious and concerted effort, that there had been neither hide nor hair of him.

Beneath Nigel’s calm mask, he was on the verge of breaking down, and the energy required to affect the lie of pragmatic reasonableness created a pain at both of his temples.

He was terrified that the other archangel would not be there, but alas, Colin was reclining upon his cot, an old leather-bound book cradled in his palms—and he looked up at Edward as they approached. Immediately, he put the Tennyson aside. Walked over and embraced the angel. Clapped him hard upon the stout back.

“I am glad you have returned, mate.” Colin’s eyes, those lovely, intense eyes, roamed around Edward’s face as if checking to see that the features were all in the right place. “And you look no worse for the wear.”

Oh, how one longed for that kind of welcome home.

The two exchanged brief pleasantries, none of which Nigel heard or cared about.

“Your assistance is required,” Nigel interrupted. “There has been an accident down below.”

Edward glanced in his direction as if he were surprised at the show of tension. Meanwhile, Colin stared out of the entrance to the tent, no doubt wishing that the visit from Edward had been a solitary affair.

Nigel felt compelled to tack on, “There is healing to be done and I am not capable of it.”

“Then lead on, mate,” Colin said to Edward. “And I shall—”

“Let us all go together.”

That got him the attention he had been seeking, those eyes swinging over and narrowing on him with a dislike the archangel had previously reserved for Devina, yellow-jacket wasps, and television evangelists down on earth.

Nigel cocked a brow. “I know that you would never let personal enmity stand in the way of doing your duties.”

Colin’s jaw ground hard, the hollows under his cheeks standing out in sharp relief. But he didn’t disagree.

It wasn’t much of an easing to the conflict, but at least the two of them were going to be in an enclosed space together for however long it took to get Jim back and in action—and, of course, that had to be the outcome with the savior. Whatever the troubles between him and Colin, they truly did have to work together to ensure Jim was not lost.

And if there was a chance to broach a discussion? In the midst of it?

Nigel was prepared to be an opportunist.

In her old life, Sissy had seen a couple of head injuries—mostly on playing fields. She’d been in the football stands three years ago when a left offensive tackle had pulled a pile drive into one of the opposing team’s guys, popping off his helmet, knocking him out cold. She’d never forget how everyone in the crowd had fallen quiet and barely breathed as paramedics had rushed onto the field and stabilized the poor kid. He’d been so far gone that he’d had to be carried out on a stretcher and he’d not even acknowledged the standing ovation he’d gotten. Later, she’d read in the newspaper that they’d had to teach him how to walk all over again.