Envy

CHAPTER 50

It was two and a half hours after Veck arrived at St. Francis Hospital before he was finally free to go see Reilly . . . two and a half frickin’ hours.

Then again, when de la Cruz had pulled up to the entrance next to the emergency room to drop him off, he’d thrown open the car door and found that he wasn’t able to stand up.

Kind of a rate-limiting issue.

So instead of going through the revolving doors of the inpatient building and heading up to Reilly’s room—which he had the number of thanks to a call into hospital information—he’d ended up in the ER himself. Where, of course, they wouldn’t give him any details about her or her condition.

Damn HIPAA rules.

And, man, they crawled all over him.

After he’d been poked, prodded, and X-rayed, they’d tried to suggest he needed an IV for fluids, but he’d shut that one down and informed them he was leaving. By way of compromise, they’d wrapped an Ace bandage around the thigh that hurt more, thrown another mummy special on his opposite ankle, and told him to go home and expect to feel worse the following day.

Thanks, Doc.

The cane was helpful, however. And as the elevator dinged and he stepped off onto the seventh floor of the inpatient building, he used the thing to help get his sorry ass out into the corridor.

He looked in both directions. Had no idea which way to go.

At random, he picked right and figured that at some point he’d run into a staff member or a map or the unit he was looking for.

As he hobbled along, he glanced down at his clothes. Filthy. Sweated out. Torn. Hell of an outfit, but it wasn’t like he was going to take time to go back home and change.

And when he got to the nursing station, he had no intention of being hit with any kind of no-visiting-hours, comeback-later crap.

Reilly had told him she loved him.

And he’d shut his woman down.

Yeah, okay, he hadn’t been the one to actually slam the door in her face—technically, that had been the medics. But he’d let her go—and that was the sort of mistake you wanted to rectify as soon as you got the chance.

Even if you needed a cane to get there and looked like you should be hosed off.

Turning another corner, he faced off against a long corridor that had directions in both English and Spanish, as well as a lot of arrows, and a map. Too bad none of the shit made any sense—and not just because he was exhausted. Did they purposely make patients hard to find here—

Down at the far end of the hall, a huge, dark figure appeared and began striding toward him.

Closer. Closer still. Until Veck could make out the leather pants, and the shitkickers, and the black coat.

Instantly, a sharpshooter drove through his brain. To the point where he wondered whether he hadn’t thrown a clot with all that running up the quarry slope.

Except . . . as he looked up into a hard face, he knew who it was. This was . . .

Veck cursed and listed into the wall as the pounder in his head wiped out all thought.

And meanwhile, the man just kept approaching. Until he stopped right in front of Veck.

As Veck focused through his pain on that incredible face, he knew he would never forget it.

“I’m going to make it right,” the man said in a foreign accent that wasn’t quite French, wasn’t quite Hungarian. “Worry not, my friend.”

God, those rolling Rs were pleasing in the ear, curiously smooth and aristocratic.

And then Veck realized who the guy was talking about: “Kroner . . .”

With a gallant, affirming nod, the foreigner resumed his walk, the footfalls of his boots a death knell if Veck had ever heard it. And then halfway down the hall, the figure flat-out disappeared . . . like a ghost.

More likely, though, he’d just turned another corner.

To go find Kroner . . . holy shit.

Veck rubbed his eyes, thought about the cave, and realized he’d missed a piece in all of this: He’d seen the serial killer hanging in front of him, except that hadn’t been anything but an image, had it. An image projected onto his Reilly.

That was the only explanation. Because she had been the one hanging from those cuffs after the dust settled, and God knew there hadn’t been time to switch the pair of them.

Abruptly weak-kneed, he leaned hard onto the cane as it dawned on him exactly what had gone on. Or rather, what could have. If he had stabbed who he had believed was Kroner . . . he would have killed her.

In the rush and panic of the aftermath, that hadn’t even dawned on him.

Christ, his choice at that crossroads had saved both of them, hadn’t it. Because he never would have recovered if he’d done what he’d been set up to do.

And as for Kroner . . .

Jerking his head over his shoulder, Veck refocused on the direction that figure of death had gone in. The serial killer must still be alive and in his hospital bed, then—and how much you want to bet, his room was down there somewhere?

By all rights, Kroner’s life was still not Veck’s to take. But that didn’t mean he was going to stop whatever was about to happen. Shit, angels, demons, small dogs with bad perms . . . the world was full of crap he’d only heard rumors about before. So for all he knew? That was the Grim Reaper upright and in person—and in that case, Kroner’s life was being snatched the right way.

Just to be sure, though, Veck limped over to a ceiling light and checked his shadow—even though he felt like a fool.

Only one.

“Ready for this to be over,” he muttered to himself. “Soooooo ready.”

Eventually, he found the right ward, and fortunately, maybe because the nurses took pity on him, he didn’t get any no-visitors backchat. He was just sent down five doors and told if he needed anything to holler.

Like maybe they expected him to fall over in a dead heap at any moment.

When he got to Reilly’s room, he didn’t rush inside in case she was asleep. He just leaned in a little so he could peek past the door.

In the dim glow seeping from the bathroom, it was clear she was out like a light: Even though her head was turned away from him, her breathing was deep and even, her body small and still under the blankets. She was on an IV, and there was a monitor attached to her that was beeping regularly. Probably her heart—

Her head whipped around on the pillow—and then she winced, her hand coming up to her temple. “Veck . . .”

As he rushed over, he said, “Are you all right?” What a dumb-ass question, he thought.

“You’re here.” Then she obviously saw the wristband he’d been given. “Are you okay?”

“Just don’t ask me to run a marathon tomorrow.” When she tried to sit up, he pulled a chair over to the bed. “No, no, lie back. I’m going to park it right here.”

“I didn’t think you were coming,” she said.

As he thought about a response to that, she murmured, “Neither did you, huh.”

He shook his head. “I . . .” God, where to start? “You know, since the first moment I met you, I’ve brought a lot of shit into your life. And then I nearly got you killed tonight—”

“No, you didn’t. We both got set up by Bails and that . . . Who was that woman?”

“I don’t know. But I can tell you this: She’s not coming back.” He believed Jim on that one. “Ever.”

“You took care of that, didn’t you.”

“Guess so.”

“I didn’t mention her when I was questioned.”

“Neither did I.”

Cue a pause. And then he cleared his throat, eager to talk about something, anything other than what had happened in the cave. Maybe later, with distance, they could cover all that what-the-fuck-happened, but not tonight.

“Did your parents come by?”

“They wondered where you were.”

“So you didn’t tell them about me.”

“Oh, I told them everything. How you were framed, how you came after me—”

“I love you.”

That stopped her dead. To the point where he wondered if maybe he shouldn’t apologize. Except then she teared up and reached for his face.

“I love you, too.”

Bending down, so she could reach him more easily, he murmured, “I just want to do right by you. It’s all I’ve ever wanted for us.”

“Then, as you said”—her voice was rough—“no running tomorrow. Or ever.”

“That’s what a friend of mine told me.”

“Jim . . .” When he nodded, she whispered, “That man is an angel.”

“You got that right.”

He didn’t mean to intrude, but somehow he ended up crawling onto the bed and lying next to her. She fit against him so perfectly, and as he held her, he shuddered. They had nearly missed this—not just with what had happened in that cave, but the rest of the shit Bails had been trying to engineer.

Leaning in, Veck kissed her carefully and then just stared into her eyes for the longest time. He’d never had a clean slate before. Hadn’t even been born with one. But at this moment? He saw the fresh start he’d never expected to get in the hazel flecks of those perfect green eyes of hers.

And it was then that he noticed the weight was gone. He’d lived with his heavy burden for so long, it had become something that he wasn’t aware of anymore. Now, though, in the absence of that taxing pressure inside every square inch of him, he felt . . . free. Fresh. Reborn.

The only trouble was that that new-man syndrome had him thinking crazy things, and deciding they seemed entirely reasonable.

Smoothing her beautiful red hair back, he said softly, “So your father asked me a question that night I went for dinner with you all.”

Reilly smiled. “Did he? I just remember him telling you he knew CPR.”

“It was right before that,” he whispered. “You think maybe I could give him an answer someday?”

Her breath hitched. And then a brilliant joy shone out of her face. “If I understand what you’re saying, I think you’re going to have to ask him something first.”

“Your parents free for dinner tomorrow night?”

She started laughing and then so did he. “I think I can arrange that.”

“Perfect.” He got serious. “You’re just . . . perfect.”

Cradling her against his chest, Veck let a peaceful exhaustion claim him: All was right in his world. He had his woman, his life, and his soul back.

Didn’t get any better than this.

Up in heaven, Nigel’s feet took him on a trip around the castle. The ambulation was not to admire the unfurled grace of Jim’s latest victory. Nor was it to check for security. Nor was it to take the air.

Although if asked about his stroll, he would have offered all of those lies in response.

Indeed, perhaps Jim and he were closer than he thought.

And yet if he had proffered such explanations to any person or dog, what he held upon his flattened palm would have announced him as a liar: He carried with him a plate with a damask napkin draped over it—and beneath the fine cloth, there was a currant scone, two biscuits, and a fresh strawberry.

As he walked along with his pastry load, he had in his heart a vague sense of distaste at this butler-like activity. But he needed a tangible excuse to go where he was headed, not just for any others with inquiring minds, but for the intended recipient of what had been plated.

That being said, however, it was not just sweets for the not-so-sweet that he was bringing with him. He had news to share.

Approaching Colin’s tent, he felt like a royal arse, but the archangel had not presented himself for the collective gathering and had missed the missive, so to speak. He was also likely to be hungry after his time away.

Excuses, excuses . . . Nigel wanted to see the jammy sod.

Damn them both.

And so much for clean breaks.

At the entry flap, he cleared his throat. “Colin.”

Waiting for a response, he tugged at the damask napkin to make sure it was still covering the goodies.

“Colin.”

Oh, enough with this polite restraint.

He pushed his way inside and stopped. Upon the modest cot, there were three suits laid out, each with coordinating ascots, stockings, and shoes.

The middle combination of black and pale grays would compliment him best, Nigel thought.

Putting the plate down, he reached out to stroke the fine cloth of the sleeve. Odd that the archangel had lined these up. Colin was not particular about his vestments.

Turning away, Nigel looked at the leather-bound books. The trunk. The oil lamp that burned with gentle light.

Where was the angel going with such dress?

And then he recalled: Colin had been down with Edward, and wherever Edward was, so too was Adrian.

That cocksure angel with the fetish for piercings had never been known to affiliate with members of his own sex before, but it wasn’t as if Nigel got into that portion of his subordinates’ lives in any detail. Besides, Colin was irresistible. Which was what had landed Nigel in the position he was in now.

Such a fool he was, Nigel thought. Such a fool.

He strode out, but closed the flap behind him softly. The last thing he needed to do was get caught—

A cheerful whistling tune brought his head about.

Sneaking behind the tent, his breath caught. In the midst of the stream’s rushing current, Colin stood with his back to the bank, a soft rubbing cloth passing over his shoulders and leaving a trail of suds that eased between the winged muscles of his torso, following a path e’er downward. . . .

Colin’s head came ’round, and then the top half of him followed.

Nigel swallowed hard as their eyes met. The male was a vision such as he had seen afore, and yet was e’er new.

“Good evening,” the other archangel said, before resuming his soapy ministrations across his chest.

As Colin worked his skin over, he didn’t swivel away, but instead continued that soft cloth down, down . . . down. . . .

“Going somewhere?” Nigel said bitterly.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

The archangel pivoted all the way about . . . and given what the male’s body was up to, Nigel felt like cursing. The outfits. This washing. Skipping the meal as if he were preparing for something special.

That arousal.

If it wasn’t Adrian, could it be a human suitor? Or a soul on the safe side of the castle walls, mayhap?

“I have news,” Nigel forced himself to say smoothly. “That was shared over dessert, in fact.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“Indeed.”

As they conversed, Nigel’s peripheral vision was proving achingly acute: Although he focused upon Colin’s face, he was all too well aware of the careful attention the archangel was paying to his manhood.

And to think cleanliness was a virtue.

More like a torture.

“Nigel?”

“You also missed the victory flagging, and Jim’s appearance.”

“For which I give my apologies.” Colin hissed a little in pleasure and then seemed to refocus. “Now, tell me, what is your news.”

“The Creator has decreed for whom the next bell tolls. It is not whom we were told at first.”

This got the archangel’s attention—and froze that damnable cloth. “I thought all the souls were agreed upon before the game began?”

“They were. And it was assumed, at least by me, that there were but six because one side or the other would win early.”

“But now?”

“Oh, this soul was approved of. I was just unaware that there would be a second inning upon him.”

Colin’s surprise was satisfying; at least it proved Nigel could still get a reaction out of him.

With a powerful thrust, the archangel took a smooth dive into the waters and then stepped out of the river. As he emerged, dripping and still hard in that essential place, Nigel obliging proffered the male the toweling that hung upon the closest branch—it was not to save the archangel from a chill, however.

More because Nigel did not need to incinerate on the spot.

However, although Colin did dry off, the bastard merely looped the thing around the back of his neck when he was finished.

“Weren’t you getting dressed?” Nigel interjected.

“Aye.”

“Now?” Please.

“Who is the soul?”

“Matthias.”

Colin frowned. “Is the Creator redacting Devina’s victory, then?”

“The decision from on high is that the loss to her shall stand, but that Jim will have a second attempt to influence the man.”

“This is unprecedented.”

“The game is unprecedented.”

As the pair of them stared at each other, Nigel’s heart ached to the point of actual pain. Which was his cue to leave, wasn’t it.

“At any rate, I thought you should like to know,” he said briskly. “I bid you adieu, and . . . good evening. Clearly, you intend to have one.”

“I do.” Colin’s lids went low. “Indeed I shall.”

Nigel nodded stiffly and walked with no greater grace back to his tent. As he passed the tea table that had since been cleared, he was glad that the other two and that grand dog had returned to their quarters. He did not wish for even Tarquin’s canine stare to witness this walk of private humiliation.

He had gone o’er to present a gift, only to witness preparations for a tryst that obviously didn’t involve him.

Stupid.

Fool.

In his quarters, Nigel stripped down, but he did not retire to the bath—too many memories. Instead, he donned a new satin robe that he had never worn in the presence of Colin and stretched out upon his chaise longue, looking about his luxurious appointments.

Even with all the colorful drapery and the comfortable bedding, it seemed such an empty place.

Beside him, the flame atop a beeswax candle idly wafted to and fro, and he envied it its easy job. Unfortunately, the thing offered little in the way of company, so he just watched it cannibalize itself in silence, the tears of consumption dripping slowly down its ever-shrinking body.

How depressing: Even something as romantic as candlelight he interpreted in a vocabulary of loss—

“This scone is fantastic.”

Nigel looked up. Colin was standing in the entryway of the tent, his strong arm holding the tarp curtain aside, his long, lean form filling the space.

He was wearing the black and the gray.

Nigel went back to focusing on the candle. “I am glad it sustains you.”

“Thoughtful of you.” The archangel came in whilst finishing the thing. “You know, you haven’t paid me a visit in quite a while.”

Actually it had been very recently, but that hardly served to be mentioned.

“Were you not heading out somewhere?” Nigel muttered.

“Oh, aye.” When Nigel glanced over, Colin circled in a masculine way. “Do you like this?”

“The clothing?” Nigel waved his hand. “Not for me to judge.”

“I wore it for you.”

Nigel’s eyes shot back. “Surely you don’t mean to be that cruel.”

“Cruel?” The archangel seemed honestly confused. “For whom else would I wear such useless garb?”

Nigel frowned. “I thought maybe Adrian or . . .”

Colin’s laugh was immediate. And grating as all get-out. “You think that angel . . . and I . . . ?”

“He is fit.”

“Aye. But he is not whom I want.”

Nigel swallowed hard, and tried to hide his reaction by looking away. “It . . . is for me?”

“Aye. So what say you, lover mine.”

Eventually, he swung his eyes back and the two of them stared at each other for the longest time.

Then Nigel sat forward and brushed his hair back with a shaking hand: The desire for composure did not win, not here and in private. Not with Colin.

Never with that archangel, he feared.

Reaching out his hand to his love, Nigel said hoarsely, “I say . . . it was the one I would have chosen.”

The archangel came forward with a smile. “And that,” Colin murmured, “was why I put it on.”