Rapture (Fallen Angels #4)(114)
Author: J.R. Ward

The land that the thing was on covered some twenty-five acres, a ragged meadow running out in all directions to a thin tree line.

Off in the distance, other mammoth houses could be dimly seen—none of which was in a decrepit condition.

Bet the neighbors loved this place.

“Does it have running water?” Ad asked.

“Yeah. And electricity.”

“Will miracles never cease.”

Jim walked over to the mailbox. When he went to open the flap door, the thing fell off the hinges into his hand. “Here’s the key.”

“You mean they bother to lock this POS up?”

When he’d made the call on the property during the police raid, the owner had seemed stunned, as if she’d never expected to rent the house out. While they’d talked, he’d been concerned that she’d ask for references and he might not be able to hypnotize her over the phone, but she hadn’t gone there. All she cared about was the security deposit, first and last month’s rent, and an electronic debit—and he’d been more than happy to fall in line with all that: An exchange of account details later, and she was going to leave the key in the mailbox. Which she had.

Boom. Done.

Jim walked up the flagstone path to the front entrance, his boots making no sound, as if the slate were eating up his footfalls. Dog didn’t follow him. Neither did the two men.

Scaredy-cats, all of them.

The key was not your humdrum Schlage variety—the thing was made of old brass and had a shaft thick as a finger. He expected to have to force it into the lock and then fight with the mechanism…but it went in like butter and opened smoothly.

Almost as if the house wanted him inside.

He expected the interior to be covered with cobwebs and dusty sheets, like an old-fashioned Abbott & Costello movie. Instead, the grand foyer was wilted, but clean, the scuffed floors and faded wallpaper and musty antiques testifying to a wealth that had been long lost.

Over to the left, there was a drawing room, and behind that, what looked like a living room. Dining room was to the right. Massive staircase straight ahead. And underneath the twin sets of steps, a solarium that opened out to the terraces behind the house.

Glancing upward, he thought, Yeah, this footprint could generate the eight bedrooms that had been advertised.

He twisted around, and looked through the open door. “Are you boys coming in? Or have you not finished pissing in your pants yet?”

Bitching. Whining. His name taken in vain.

Whatever.

“Bring some shit with you, wouldja,” he called out.

Clomping through to the back of the house, he found a kitchen that was out of the forties, and a backyard that went on forever.

Must have been some kind of mansion in its heyday—

As the slow, rhythmic gonging of a grandfather clock started to ring out, he wondered where the damn thing was.

One, two, three, four…

Idly, he counted the measure of hours as he went back out to the front and looked around for the big daddy in charge of keeping time.

Eight…nine…

Frowning, Jim headed over to the base of the stairs and ascended, thinking the clock had to be on the big flat landing, halfway between the floors.

It wasn’t.

Ten.

Just as his freak meter went off, Adrian and Matthias brought a load in, their voices echoing around the house.

Instead of going to help them, Jim went up farther on the steps, heading for the second story foyer.

Eleven.

He put his combat boot on the final step.

Twelve.

Not up there, either—at least, not that he could find. All he saw were open doors that framed the boxy space, the bedrooms clustered around an Oriental rug and sitting area the size of the garage’s entire studio apartment—

Thirteen.

Or had that one just been in his imagination?

Rubbing the back of his neck, he contemplated calling the whole thing off. But that was a bullshit, pu**y move—and the clock had not struck one hour too much.

Period.

Shaking his head, he jogged back to the first floor. “I gotta go,” he told the guys.

Adrian didn’t reply, and didn’t look happy. Which suggested the angel might have guessed the destination. And what do you know, the guy muttered a quick, “Be careful.”

Matthias put down a laundry hamper full of dirty—no, wait, clean?—clothes. “I’m not going to be here for long.”

Jim felt a pull in the center of his chest, like someone had fisted his heart for a split second. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I’m not going to see you again, am I?”

“No, you’re not. That’s the way it works.”

“Just like an XOps operation, huh. You go in, do the job, get out.”

“Something like that.” Even now, after the round, Jim hadn’t told Matthias exactly how things worked—and the guy hadn’t asked, either. But his old boss wasn’t stupid.

The two of them stared at each other for the longest time, until Jim felt like he couldn’t stand the tension.

“Good luck with your girl,” Jim said.

“Back at you with…” The guy looked around. “Whatever the hell you’re doing here.”

“Thanks, man.”

Matthias cleared his throat. “I still owe you.”

“Nah. After last night, we’re even.”

Matthias stuck out his hand, and Jim clasped it tight. Funny, they had met on a handshake, back when they’d started XOps training together, neither of them having a clue what they were in for. Same thing now, except this was a goodbye, not a hello.

“If you need me—” Matthias started.

“Just take care of yourself.”

They embraced at that point, one of those hard-muscled, manly-man, chest-to-chest numbers that lasted only long enough for them to pound the crap out of each other’s shoulder. And then they separated.

Jim didn’t say good-bye. He just turned away…and disappeared himself.

Down below, in the depths of Hell, Devina sat upon her worktable, her rotting legs dangling off the end, her head down, her clawed hands gripping the edge of the wood so tightly, they sank in past the stained surface to the meat.

She had violated the rules—and lost.

She had tried to play by the rules—and lost.

One more win and Jim had wrapped up the game.

The embarrassment was nearly worse than the specter of not prevailing in the war: She had always prided herself on her ability to get under the skin of the Maker’s flawed creations—and Jim should have been no different. In fact, after they’d f**ked at the boathouse, she’d been overjoyed, feeling like she was making progress with her man, and certain that she’d was going to win with Matthias.