Possession (Fallen Angels #5)(57)
Author: J.R. Ward

“Careful,” a man in a navy blue uniform said as he came out of the lobby. “Just finished waxing it.”

“Thanks.” She hiked up her purse on her shoulder. “Hey, I’m sorry to bother you. But I’m supposed to be meeting someone here? I’m a little late—”

“Yes, you are.”

Cait turned. It was the receptionist from the night before, the one from the glass office who’d lost it all over G.B. Dressed in something short and tight, she was propping open the door of that staff-only corridor next to will-call—and the good news was, she didn’t appear to be as angry as she had been, but she wasn’t any sort of Suzy Sunshine, either.

Matter of fact, that expression of haughtiness and superiority rubbed Cait like barbed wire.

“Follow me,” the woman said in a bored voice.

You know, you had to wonder why people did jobs they hated, Cait thought as she headed across the slippery floor.

Although in this economy, you took what you got, she supposed as she stepped through into the corridor.

“He’s very busy, you know,” the receptionist announced as she strode off like something was on fire down the hall. “G.B. is a very busy guy.”

Then why did he ask me to come, Cait thought dryly. “I can imagine.”

“He’s the most talented one here. But then, he works so hard.”

“Uh-huh.”

By this time, they were already passing by the glass office, the receptionist’s high heels making like a snare drum—to the point where you had to wonder how she stayed upright.

Thank God for flats. And the gym.

As they went deeper and deeper into the theater complex, things began to clutter the hallway, a controlled chaos of props, stray chairs, and lighting equipment taking up space as the corridor widened. Double doors began to crop up with signs like REHEARSAL I and MUSIC III mounted over them, and then a fleet of bulletin boards appeared, one every ten feet or so, their faces covered with schedules, notices, ads for take-out places.

Suddenly, the receptionist with the attitude disorder stopped short with no notice. As she pivoted on her stillies, she smiled with enough condescension to strip paint off a car door. “You can’t go any farther—they’re doing a read-through onstage. But I’ll let him know you’re here.”

As she sauntered off, her chin was up, her body moving with a sinuous strut—like she was used to being stared at.

“Wow,” Cait muttered as she leaned in and checked out the nearest bulletin board. “I can so see why they hired that for reception.”

But at least how the woman behaved was her own issue. And with any luck, Cait would never have to see her again.

Lifting a production schedule out of the way, she eyed a flyer for a Chinese place, and then a B.C. comic strip that made her smile, and … a couple of business cards from a psychic down on Trade Street.

For no good reason, she thought of the vibe from the night before as she’d run for that elevator.

Funny, there had been two times in her life when she’d been as afraid as that. One had been a couple of summers ago, when she’d been waterskiing on Saratoga Lake and had gone outside the boat wake just as they were heading into a turn. Momentum being what it was, she had shot forward, her speed overtaking her skill in the work of a moment. When she’d lost her balance, the initial impact had been so violent, it had felt as though she’d crashed into pavement—and then things had gotten nasty. The skis had popped off her feet in a messy fashion, twisting her ankles, wrenching her in midair as she had bounced like a skipping stone across the water’s surface.

The PFD had kept her from sinking when things had eventually slowed down, but she’d ended up facedown in the water. Stunned, in pain, unable to coordinate her arms or legs, she had opened her mouth for air and gotten nothing of the sort.

A friend had dived in at just that second and rolled her over in the nick of time.

The terror had come that night. Lying in a bed at that stuffy cabin she and Teresa had rented for the week, she had passed out from pain meds, discomfort, and exhaustion—only to wake up screaming in panic.

The dream had been that she was trapped on her stomach, and instead of help coming and flipping her over for air, she’d breathed in water until she was choking, drowning … dying.

Same sensation as she’d run from whoever had been chasing her last night.

And the other time she’d felt that scared? It had been much earlier, back when she’d been twelve. She’d been standing in a hospital corridor, waiting for news about her brother’s condition. As things had gotten worse, the fear had been about reality setting in. No matter how bad the accident had seemed, she’d never thought they would lose him—and when that had been a possibility? True terror.

In both those situations, there had been a good reason to feel as she had. And yes, getting chased in a parking garage would also do it—but there had been more to the experience than that.

She had sensed evil last night. Her bones had recognized it, sure as her eyes could catch a flash of movement or her ears could pick up the sound of distant thunder.

She knew what she knew.

And she wished she had been able to see more. In her parents’ lexicon, evil came in all guises—and she wasn’t sure why, but she wanted to know what it had looked like. A man, tall or short, light or dark, slim or heavyset, armed or not … she just wanted to know.

Because in the absence of knowledge, her mind had been making up some pretty weird stuff.

Demon, for example. Although where that came from, she had no clue. Maybe it was her parents, yet again, talking in her head?

Cait reached up and pulled out the thumbtack that was holding the cards to the cork. Three fell free, fluttering to the floor, and when she picked them up, she stared at the purple print. YASEMIN OAKS. PALM READINGS, TAROT, DREAMSCAPING, PSYCHIC INSIGHT. Her logo was an open hand.

Cait put two back. The third she slipped into her purse—

“Hi!”

Spinning around as if she’d been caught stealing, she put her hand to her throat. “G.B., hi.”

As he smiled at her, he looked really good in his jeans and his loose black shirt, his hair tied back, his shoes leather and long toed. Oh, and yup, same cologne—and just as delicious.

For a moment, she was a little starstruck, just as she’d been before, the idea that he was actually standing in front of her, talking to her, seeming strange and wonderful.

She shook herself. “Sorry, hello.”