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

The two bigger players on the team were at each other’s throats—and there was no better predictor for an enemy’s success than that kind of divided attention.

Going into his room, he pulled on some clothes, sat on his bed, and gripped his knees. As he closed his eyes, he sent out a request, the paranormal equiv of a page.

It took about two seconds to receive the summoning he was looking for.

Which meant Colin, the archangel, knew exactly why Nigel had gone earthbound—and was no happier about shit than Ad was.

Chapter Three

Victoria Beckham.

That’s who the stylist reminded her of, Cait thought as Pablo shampooed the color out of her hair. And that wasn’t an insult. It was the guy’s black hair, sharp cheekbones, and the thin legs. And that posing/pouty thing he did with one hip out.

“Okay, sitz ups fer us.”

Cait followed instructions, pulling her head out of the washing sink. Everything that was wet was immediately captured in a towel wrap, and then she was up on her feet, heading back to the chair.

“Noes oo lovf zis,” Pablo announced as she sat down.

Guess he was saying that she was going to love it?

The strange thing about that accent was that it moved around, distorting different vowels and consonants in different ways, the lack of consistency suggesting he was either posing or had an intermittent speech impediment.

As for what her opinion was going to be…

He unfurled the towel, and everything flopped onto her shoulders.

It was impossible to tell what was what. Sure, there were some lighter parts, but considering all the foils he’d folded onto her head, she expected a hell of a lot more.

Pablo pulled open the top drawer of the stand-up cupboard by his mirror and took out a square brush the size of a cutting board. Palming his hair dryer, he began fanning things out and running the hot air underneath.

“Ve dry frst und ten ve cut, cut, cut …”

Man, his eyes were dark as he worked. Not so much brown as black.

Looking into the mirror, she squirmed. This was such a dumb idea: Those three tubs of color with their separate paintbrushes? She could come out red, white, and blue for all she knew. And the hour it took for him to stripe down those tinfoil strips and origami them up against her scalp? Never getting that back. And the cost—four hundred dollars?

Maybe she was more like her parents than her chronic rebellion suggested. Because this excursion into vanity seemed like a waste on too many levels to count.

Plus she was going to have to keep it up—

“Oh … wow,” she said slowly as she turned her head.

The section he’d been working on was … really beautiful. Now dry and straight, her hair was the color it had been during her childhood, what appeared to be a hundred different shades of blond weaving in and out of the thick, shiny strands.

“Ive toll youz,” Pablo said. Or something to that effect.

And the more her hair dried out, the better it got—except then there was a pair of scissors in his hand.

“Are you sure we have to do anything?” she asked, as the blades flashed in the overhead lighting.

“Oh, chess.”

Wow, she really couldn’t place that accent of his.

Things started flying at that point, his hands spinning around her head, those sharp scissors slicing into her hair, pieces falling to the floor like feathers from a flushed bird. It looked as if she was getting layers—oh, God, bangs … she now had bangs…

Cait closed her eyes. Color could be corrected with some Clairol back home. This stuff? It was going to take a year to grow out. The trouble was, she was on the ride—no getting off in the middle of the roller coaster.

What had she done to herself…?

A tickle lit off on the back of her hand and she cracked an eyelid. A section of her hair had landed on her wrist, the three-inch length curling ever so slightly at the end. Taking it in between her fingers, she rubbed the smooth strands together.

Blond. Very blond.

When Pablo said something, she could only nod, her emotions bubbling up in her chest and distracting her from the outside world. The desperate edge to all this transformation business was not something she could ignore, not while she was busy getting turned into Veronica Lake. Not while she was paying so much for something that was entirely superficial.

Bottom line, unfortunately, was that it was so much easier to address defects in your appearance, and your car, and your apartment, than it was to dig deep and take a good hard look at your choices, your mistakes … your faults.

Like, for example, how playing it safe all your life had landed you in a prison of your own making.

The music track abruptly ended, as if the speakers had clocked out for the night, and in the silence, Pablo swapped the blades for something that looked like a curling iron, except it had two heated plates.

Straightener, she thought it was called. And the fact that she wasn’t one hundred percent sure on that made her feel her isolation from the world even further.

A rhythmic tugging started up as Pablo pulled the wand down her hair, over and over again. And as he worked his way around her head, she had too much space to think, too much time to stare at the blond strand she held.

As tears speared into her eyes, she cleared her throat. At least authorities had found Sissy Barten’s body … so those parents of hers had something to bury.

What a waste. What a further reminder that you have to live while you can—because you never knew when the ride was over.

“Look at vat vee haff.”

Pablo spun her about to face the mirror, except for a moment she couldn’t look away from what was in her hand. But then she lifted her eyes and…

“Oh … wow,” she whispered.

Soft, shimmering waves fell from the crown of her head, the frizziness gone, the new highlights popping out, the length not much different at all.

Pablo’s accent got rolling as he described the weight he’d taken off, and how that had freed her hair to express itself more completely. Blah, blah, blah—it was just vocabulary she let wash over her. What she paid attention to was how much younger she looked. Or maybe it was more … feminine? Vibrant?

This was some serious butterfly shit, as her brother would have called it.

She glanced down at the hair between her fingers, and let the strands fall to the ground. There was no rewind button you could punch, no going back … only ever forward. She had learned that when she was twelve, her first grown-up lesson at a very young age.

And Sissy’s death had recently reminded her of that fact.