Immortal (Fallen Angels #6)(88)
Author: J.R. Ward

None of the objects reached her.

From out of the viscous walls of the prison that was now her jail as well, the tortured hands of the damned reached out and retook whatever was theirs, claiming the objects, grabbing them back, reestablishing ownership.

Stealing from her.

That was when the loss of the war hit home. And the demon wept tears that became black diamonds that skipped and jumped on the ragged stone floor by her worktable.

She let the emotion have its way with her because she had no choice. She had lost her shot at domination. She had been cheated of an eternity that was rightfully hers. Her collection was gone. God only knew if she had any minions left to listen to her.

Cupping her skull in her hands of bone, she wept so hard she thought she would shatter all over again, just as her beloved mirror had.

But she did not.

Eventually, the heaving and the tears stopped, and she sniffled and tried to mop herself up—although that was hard to do with the raw bones of her arm.

Marshaling up some strength, she called on the illusion she had been relying on to make herself beautiful, thinking that at least that would cheer her up.

Nothing happened. Her flesh did not reknit and rekindle its color and warmth. Her luxurious brunette hair did not sprout from her bald skull. Her legs did not magically appear smooth and luscious.

She cried again at that point.

Except then the sound of something clattering next to her brought her head up. It was a shoe. It was … one of her sparkling—

The other half of the pair of Louboutins dropped right beside her.

Sniffling, she reached out and brought them close, wiping off black smudges from the creamy-colored crystals … all of which were in metal settings.

Proof positive that if you buy quality, it’ll last through everything. Including the portal into Hell.

Looking them over, watching as the ambient light caught on those minute facets and reflected back to her, she prized them all the more because they were the last of her life up above, the final dredges of her precious collection. As it was now? All she had was that stained worktable of hers and this busted, rotting body.

She stretched out and put one on, then the other. The fact that they were a size too small worked well now that there was little to no meat on her feet.

As she turned her ankles this way and that, the shoes gleamed in spite of how ugly she was, the red soles still vibrant because she’d barely worn them.

But soon she lost interest in admiring them.

It turned out that therapist—who she was now convinced hadn’t been a human female at all, but rather the Creator Himself—was right. The stilettos were just objects. And anything that had truly mattered was out of reach now: her work doing evil, her love for Jim, her freedom to roam where and when she wanted.

Just shoes.

The Creator had been trying to get her to see a truth she had learned too late.

The things? Were not the thing.

But come on, she was evil. What else was a girl to do?

Leaning her head back, she stared up, up, up … and wondered what Jim was doing. Probably celebrating with that Sissy.

God, she hated him; she really did.

Maybe someday, if she ever got out of this place … she could find herself a real man, someone who appreciated her for who and what she was. Someone who was sick and twisted, but had good traditional values, a nice bank account, and a sense of humor.

And could go for hours in the sack.

Probably nobody like that existed. But considering she had nothing else to do for … well, shit, maybe forever … she might as well live in fantasy.

Memories and her mind were all she had now.

Chapter Fifty-one

The following afternoon …

Up in Heaven, Nigel rolled the tea cart over to the knoll by the walls of the Manse of Souls. Typically, the table was willed into being, but with naught to occupy himself, he wanted to do things more manually.

He was the one who flipped free the damask tablecloth from its careful folds, and he set the plates out, and the cups and saucers. He arranged the teapot and the caddies of sugar and cream and also the rounder that held the assortment of scones and biscuits.

All right, fine, he had conjured the edibles—but he was no baker.

Leaning down, Nigel lined up the silverware precisely along with the napkins. Adjusted things so they were perfect. Fiddled with the flowers—

“That for me?”

He hid a small smile as he turned around and saw Jim. “You are welcome to join us, savior.”

The angel seemed awkward, as if he didn’t know how to handle having done his job well. “You don’t have to call me that anymore.”

Nigel inhaled deeply. Straightened his white suit. And walked around the table.

Without preamble or artifice, he hugged Jim and said roughly, “I do believe we shall call you that forevermore.”

Jim returned the embrace and they stayed there for a moment. Then they both stepped back. By that time, the other archangels had appeared with Tarquin—who bounded up to Jim and nearly knocked him down.

As the group spoke of victory and praise, Nigel stood on the periphery and witnessed the exchange of congratulations: Byron and Bertie threw their arms about the savior as much as their dog did, and even Colin joined in, the warrior archangel going so far as to pop a smile that reached his beautiful eyes.

Unable to bear the sight of that, Nigel glanced up to the parapet. There were seven flags waving in the breeze, Jim’s final win laying claim to all the rounds, even the ones Devina had prevailed in. The colors were varied and looked as a rainbow up in the sky.

“—Nigel?”

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said, shaking himself back into focus. “What was that?”

“Mind if I ask you something in private?” Jim repeated.

Nigel glanced over his table. The three archangels had sat down, Byron and Bertie chatting like songbirds in a spring tree, their innate energy boosted by the fact that the fear was gone, the stress was gone, and all that remained was the place and the job they loved best.

“There is no need,” Nigel murmured. “Your answer is yes.”

Jim’s eyes closed and he weaved in his boots.

“You okay, mate?” Colin asked.

The savior nodded and rubbed his face. Then he looked at Nigel. “You sure?”

“Do you think I would do aught to jeopardize the souls of the righteous?”

“Okay, then. Thank you.”

“Not my doing, but your own.” Then he relented. “But I am … so happy for you. So very happy for you both.”

“Thanks.” Jim hesitated. “One last thing … the souls like Sissy? The innocents who’ve been slaughtered over the centuries by Devina to protect that mirror of hers—”