Possession (Fallen Angels #5)(32)
Author: J.R. Ward

There were going to be no more images with Sissy in them, and this crying right now? No matter how concerned she was for those she had left behind, in this moment, he had a feeling she was experiencing her own loss for the first time.

And Devina had done this to her. To all of them.

The bitch had to go down.

Chapter Fourteen

When Cait headed back into downtown a little after ten o’clock, there was no traffic getting in her way, no messenger bikes weaving in and out in front of her, no buses crowding the four-lane surface road route. Nothing but a couple of red lights, and a cop car that went screaming by her.

It was as she pulled over to the side to let the CPD unit pass that she realized she was on Trade Street. And what do you know … she was right in the midst of all the clubs.

Not far from one specific club, as a matter of fact.

As she hit the accelerator and got back in her lane, she told herself there was no reason to slow down in front of the Iron Mask. But a couple of blocks later, she found herself letting up on the gas and coasting into her second pullover.

No cops going like a bat out of hell this time.

Just Duke’s supposed workplace.

With her foot on the brake and staying there, she checked out the scene. She’d never been to the club before. For one, it had opened up after she was out of college and past her barhopping days. For another, going by the black facade and the Gothic lettering? Didn’t exactly look like her kind of venue.

And yup, the long wait line at the double doors confirmed the extrapolation.

Right, the last time she’d seen that much drippy black hair and clothing? A Nick at Nite Munsters marathon. In fact, it was like her vision had gone fifties monochrome on her.

Strange to think that somewhere inside the low, windowless building, that man was working—at least in theory.

She had Googled him.

As soon as she’d gotten back to her house, she’d gone to her laptop, fired up Internet Explorer, and typed in “Duke Phillips, Caldwell, NY.” The good news? No articles about him murdering or stalking anyone, no mug shots, no crime-blotter mentions—and there was a picture from an old Union College yearbook that indicated he had at one point been premed. No address or phone number, but he could be a renter and only have a cell phone. No LinkedIn profile. Nothing on wife or children or parents.

She’d even gone on Facebook and searched under the name. No profile that matched him.

G. B. Holde on the other hand? After doing a search on him, she found that the guy had nearly nine thousand followers on Facebook—almost ten thousand on Twitter. No college profile for him, but plenty of articles on his singing, shows, and fans.

Cait frowned. The club’s entrance was being manned by two guys, and as one of them walked over to address somebody, she realized … it was him.

Her mystery man.

Okay, not hers.

And yeah, big surprise—he was not taking any lip from the Goth aggressor who’d stepped out of line, literally. He marched right up to the vampire wannabe, his arms hanging loose, his jaw clenched, his height acerbated by the ass kicking he was clearly prepared to dish if that was the way things went.

Except what do you know. Mr. Darkness Personified with the walking cane and the pseudo-Victorian leather duster backed down, his eyes dropping away as Duke got up into his face and stayed there.

Cait braced herself for a fight, but there wasn’t one coming—once Duke had established his dominance, the drama was over. He went back to his post, and the guy with the mouth turned into a pu**ycat with an anachronistic collar.

Pulling herself out of stalker mode, she got back on the right path, heading down Trade and navigating Caldie’s grid pattern of one-ways. Her second foray through the Palace’s parking garage wasn’t quite as successful as her first. The only vacant spot she could find was waaaaaay up on the top floor that was open to the elements, and when she got out, a stiff, cold wind shaved her head. Burrowing into her coat, she hurried for cover, jogging around to the way she’d just come up because that was closer than the stairwell.

Sure, the ramp was for cars, but she was not going to ruin her blowout by staying in that stiff breeze any longer than she absolutely had to—

Shoot. She was turning into a chick.

As she emerged onto the level below, she was at the far end, the red Exit sign to the stairs and elevator glowing in the distance. But at least the wind-tunnel effect wasn’t happening down here.

With any luck, she’d gotten back in plenty of time. She’d be waiting for G.B. in the lobby if she could get inside, or the outer foyer if she couldn’t—

A second set of footsteps joined her own.

Cait frowned and looked over her shoulder. Someone had come down the ramp also, the dark figure about ten yards behind her.

She could not make out the face … or much of anything else. It was almost as if a haze had settled in and thickened the air between them.

Cait picked up her pace, the sound of the hard soles of her loafers like a heart beating faster and faster. Glancing around, she realized there was no one else in the vicinity—and there wasn’t going to be for a while. The concert didn’t end for a half hour, and no one was going to be parking or unparking a car anytime soon.

The person behind her sped up, walking more briskly. Keeping up. No, zeroing in.

As she broke into a jog, she felt a little paranoid—she’d probably been dwelling too much on Sissy Barten’s story. But then she looked back again…

They were coming even quicker.

Panic surged, and as she wrenched back around, she locked eyes on that Exit sign like it was a safety hatch—except if she got into the stairwell, what then? Would they chase her down it?

Even faster. She went even faster, her shoes smacking into the concrete, her arms pumping—and right behind her, whoever it was sped up, too. Terrified, she took her purse off her shoulder, and held it in front of herself because it was the only “weapon” she had—wait, she should go for the eyes, right? The groin of the head—

Was she really channeling Dwight Schrute at a time like this?

Just as she came up to the heavy steel door of the stairwell, the elevator next to it binged and opened. No one was in it. No one had punched the down button, either.

Who the hell cared?

Cait tripped as she jumped inside, and threw herself at the lineup of buttons on the panel to the right. Punching the number “1” over and over again, she looked out of the open doors. The dark figure was running, closing in on her—

“Please, please … please…” she gasped.