Rapture (Fallen Angels #4)(57)
Author: J.R. Ward

He was armed for godsakes. And staying in a hotel where someone had been shot—

“But you do.”

Mels popped her lids and frowned at the guy. “Be honest with me. Did you follow me here tonight?”

“Yeah, I did. I wanted a chance to talk to you, but wasn’t sure how to approach you without freaking you out.”

“Well, you nailed that one,” she said dryly. “Just save my life.”

“So in that sense, you owe me, right?”

She had to laugh. “I cannot believe you’re laying that on me.”

“Like I said, I will do anything in my power to save him.”

“Save him? Interesting choice of words, Mr. Heron.”

When the guy said nothing further, she stared into his face for the longest time. “Goddamn it.”

“Is that a yes?”

Turning away and heading for the exit, she expected him to follow her out to the cabs lined up at the curb. And he did.

“Tell me something, Mr. Heron—and that is your name, right? Jim Heron.” He didn’t answer; then again, he didn’t have to. “Do you believe that bad luck comes in threes?”

As a taxi rolled into position in front of them, Heron got the door for her. “I don’t know about numbers. But lately, the shit’s been coming in brunette.”

With another curse, Mels squeezed past him…and got in for the ride.

28

Matthias was in the dark. And it wasn’t the kind of dark that came with a room that didn’t have any lights on or when you were walking around at night in the country. This was not even the kind you got when you shut your eyes and wrapped your head in a blanket.

This was the one that seeped in through your skin and filled the spaces between your molecules, the one that polluted your flesh into a permanent state of rotting, the one that wiped clean your past and your future, suspending you in a choking, adhesive solution of sorrow and despair.

He was not alone in this horrible prison.

As he writhed in the weightless void, others did the same, their voices mixing with his own as pleas escaped from cracked lips and the endless begging for mercy rose and fell like the breathing of a great beast. From time to time, he was chosen for special attention, clawed monsters with fanged maws latching on, yanking and pulling. The wounds they imparted always healed as quickly as they were wrought, providing an ever-fresh canvas for their masticating artwork.

Time had no meaning; nor did age. And he knew he was never getting out.

This was his due.

This was his eternal payment for the way he had lived his life: He had earned this place in Hell through his sins upon the earth, and yet still, he argued the unfairness to the others he was trapped with. Tough debate, though. There was little on the good side to support his bid for freedom; more to the point, nobody was listening.

He had had his mortal shot. He had chosen his path.

But oh, God, if he’d known, he would have fought the tide in himself, derailed his actions, shifted the consequences away from where they had taken so many lives—including his own.

Trapped in the darkness, tortured with his fellow sinners, desolate and despairing to a degree that even the worst nightmare couldn’t approach, a great uncorking occurred, his emotions bubbling up and over—

“Matthias?”

He woke up with a shout, his head flipping off the pillow, his arms punching forward as if he had something to fight.

But there was nothing in front of him. No one tangled with him.

And there was light.

In the dim glow from the bathroom, Mels…his beautiful Mels…was standing at the foot of the bed in his hotel room. She had her coat on and her purse hanging off her shoulder, as if she had just arrived from work…and her expression was nothing remote, everything involved.

Bad dream, he told himself. It had been a bad…

The f**k it had been a dream—

“Matthias,” she said gently, “are you all right?”

At first he couldn’t fathom why she was asking him that. Yeah, he’d had a nightmare, but—

Ah, shit, was he crying?

Wiping his cheeks with flat palms, he scrambled off the bed and excused himself for the bathroom. Crying in front of her? Yeah, f**k that for a laugh.

“Just gimme a minute.”

Shutting himself in, he braced his hands on the counter and hung his head over the sink. As he cranked the faucet to make it seem like he was doing something other than trying not to be a pu**y, he sagged into the modest strength of his arms, attempting to shed the conviction that where he’d been in that dream was in fact not a place he’d actually been to.

Wasn’t working.

The Hell he’d just seen was a memory, not a nightmare. And wasn’t that enough to get his hands shaking.

Splashing water on his face didn’t do shit, and neither did a hard scrub with a white towel. After he used the loo, he went back out—had to. Any longer in the bathroom and Mels was liable to think he’d hanged himself by the belt or something.

As he emerged, he found her sitting in the chair by the windows, her hands in her lap, her head tilted down like she was assessing whether or not she needed to trim her nails.

Aware that he was just in the T-shirt and boxers that he’d bought in the lobby gift shop—and that his ruined legs were on display from midthigh down—he got back under the covers.

“I’m surprised you’re here,” he said softly as he put the Ray-Bans on.

“Jim Heron’s so-called brother brought me over in a cab and let me in.”

Damn that man, Matthias thought.

Mels shrugged, like she knew he was pissed. “And you know what?”

“What.”

“I don’t buy the twin crap for a second. I think that is Jim Heron, and that he faked his death for some reason—and I think you know why.”

In the pause that followed, it was obvious she expected him to fill in the details, but his brain had pretty much shut down. He didn’t want her around the guy, much less alone with him—because he couldn’t trust anyone. Especially not with her.

“You were meeting with him when I came out and found you at that garage. Weren’t you.”

“It’s complicated. And as for his name, that’s not my story to tell.”

“He told me you two had served in the military together.” She waited again for him to fill in some information. “It’s clear he feels responsible for you.”

As the past churned behind the shroud of his amnesia, at least he didn’t have to lie to her. “So much of it is…a haze. Nothing more.” He traced her with his eyes. “I’m glad you came.”