Possession

Chapter Twenty-four

It was harder to go back into the parking garage than she’d thought.

As Cait entered the facility and took her pink ticket, the gate rose and … that was about it. Her foot refused to leave the brakes and her SUV stayed right where it was, as if her Lexus were afraid of what was up there, too.

The flashbacks were intense enough to have her release the steering wheel and grip her thighs, her body bracing itself even though her doors were locked and it was daylight and there was no way whoever or whatever it had been was still—

Beep!

Her eyes shot to the rearview mirror. Behind her, a woman in a minivan was looking as stressed as anybody who no doubt had a carload of kids, too many appointments, and no privacy in the bathroom would be.

Cait hit the gas and began the ascent, giving herself all kinds of pep talk. But as she got closer and closer to the top floor, her body was flooded with no. Which was really pretty crazy. Again, it was broad daylight, and people were all over the place, getting in and out of cars. No isolation, no darkness.

“Nope. Not doing this.”

Wrenching the wheel to the side, she rerouted, heading for the exit arrows that would ultimately take her down instead of up.

She had to use all her self-control to keep from punching the accelerator and going all Jeff Gordon on the escape.

At the bottom, she presented her ticket to the woman in the kiosk and began to explain to her adrenal gland that she was about to get out of here. Really. Like, for sure—

“Wait a minute,” the ticket taker said. “Did you just come in? Or am I getting another misread?”

“I, ah—I forgot my phone. Have to go home.”

The woman batted the air in front of her. “Oh, honey, I know all about that. You go through. There’s a minimum of an hour, but we’ll just pretend you were never here.”

Amen to that. “Thank you so much. It means … a lot.”

The ticket taker beamed like doing a good deed had made her day.

And didn’t that make Cait feel like crap about lying—but was she really going to explain why she was panicking?

And what do you know, it looked like God Himself approved of her decision to leave her car on the street—twenty yards past the garage entrance, there was a vacant metered space. Backing the Lexus in, she grabbed her purse and checked her new hair in the mirror.

Wow. Even after a two-hour painting class and a breezy, slightly humid day? The stuff was hanging like a champ, the color glowing, the layers bringing out the natural curl.

As scrambled as she was inside, it seemed bizarre that her image was so collected.

Getting out, she locked up and found—bonus—that there were twenty-three minutes left on the meter—so she only had to put one dollar and seventy-five cents on her credit card.

“Once more with feeling,” she said as she walked toward the Palace Theatre’s sign.

As she went along, she fussed with her yoga pants and her loose J.Crew barn coat. Chances were good G.B. would be in something casual, right? No way they would make him practice in a tuxedo.

Crossing over that mosaic stretch in the pavement, she opened the door to the foyer. The first thing she smelled was floor cleaner, and over in the corner, there was a polisher plugged into an outlet, standing at attention as if ready to be called back into service.

“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.”

Wait, she’d already hi’d him.

As she floundered, he just kept smiling, like he was honestly glad she’d come. “You look great. Can I hug you?”

When he held his arms wide, she blinked for a second and then went in for a quick embrace. “I probably smell like turpentine.”

“Not in the slightest. How was your class?” He pulled back. “Good?”

“Yeah, we’re studying shadow, light sourcing, that kind of thing.”

“Sounds fascinating.”

She lifted a brow. “Are you being charming again?”

“Maybe. It comes easily with you.” He nodded over his shoulder. “How’d you like a little tour on our way down to the break room? You’ve got to see the stage, it’s incredible—and we’re taking a breather from rehearsing.”

“Now, that would be a treat.”

Falling in beside him, she had to look up to meet his eyes, and from that angle, she was struck again by the thought that she’d seen him somewhere before. “I’ve been to a number of shows, but never behind the scenes.”

G.B. casually put his arm around her. “Let me be your guide.”

Nice gesture. Nice guy. Now, if only she could shut her mother’s voice up in her head, she might stop feeling guilty and actually enjoy this.

No doubt she needed a shrink more than a tarot card reader.

More black curtains, now falling vertically in their path so they had to push them aside. And then a preamble open space that was filled with mile-high scaffolding, and huge background props, one of which was a townscape, the other a park scene.

“It’s so vast,” she murmured, looking way, way up to a ceiling she couldn’t see. “Hey, is that what they call a catwalk over there?”

“Check you out with the theater lingo. Yup, that’s where the lighting guys do their thing. And here’s…”

He led the way around one last curtain, and then…

“Oh … my … God …” she whispered.

Stepping out onto the golden floorboards, she was astounded by the breadth of space before her, the expanse of the ceiling, the regal nature of it all: Five thousand red velvet seats rose up in three sections, the concentric rows moving away from the black orchestral pit like rings from a stone thrown in still water. Articulated plaster molding that was gold leafed ran up the side walls where the box seats were and across the balcony of the second-story seating area and all around the Greco-Roman murals that were painted on the walls. Red-carpeted aisles striped down toward the stage, and red velvet curtains hung next to all the exits…

And far, far above, directly in the center, a chandelier the size of a house hung in the midst of a glorious painted scene of cherubs.

What an honor to perform here. To just stand here, as a matter of fact.

“When was this built?” she wondered aloud as she walked around a long table that was littered with scripts and pens and Starbucks coffee mugs.

“Late eighteen hundreds, I heard someone say.”

“It’s breathtaking from the audience … but like this? It’s … awe inspiring.”

G.B. wandered around, too, hands on his lean hips, eyes searching out into the space. “I’m so glad you think that, too. I feel it every time I get onstage here. It makes me want to be a Richard Burton kind of actor.” He laughed. “I mean, the singing is great, but could you imagine doing Shakespeare from here?”

As he assumed an orator pose, she measured him. “I can totally see it for you.”

“Really?” He turned to her. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He smiled after a moment and came over to her, the sound of his hard-soled shoes rising up. “You know, they say this place is haunted.”

“By who?”

“Are you scared of ghosts?” He rubbed her arms. “People talk about all kinds of suspicious noises and feelings of dread—”

Something in her face must have given her away, because he stopped abruptly. “What’s wrong?”

Cait brushed off the concern. “Oh, I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Did you say something about a break room?”

As she went to walk away, he moved in front of her and stayed there. “Talk to me.”

“It’s nothing—I just, you know, I had … a strange thing happen to me last night.” She pushed her hair back. “It’s …” Crap. She might as well tell him. “The truth is, when I went to will-call after you left to go warm up? The ticket wasn’t there—”

“What do you mean, there wasn’t a—”

“—so I went home to wait—”

“What the hell—”

“No, don’t get angry. I’m sure it was just an innocent mix-up. Anyway, when I came back so I could meet you at the end of the performance, I parked in the garage and … someone chased me, or something—”

The change in him was so abrupt and complete, she actually took a step back: Fury in his face contorted his features, making him look like someone who could go out and put a serious hurt on a person. But it wasn’t directed at her, not at all.

“Are you okay?” he demanded.

“Yes. I wasn’t hurt because I was able to get into an elevator and lock the doors. The police—”

“You had to hide? And you called the police! Jesus Christ, why didn’t you tell me?”

“It all ended okay. I promise you.”

G.B. broke off and paced around in a tight circle. “You were smart. But for fuck’s sake, that never should have happened.”

“Well, it’s an iffy part of town.”

“I’m talking about the ticket. I gave it to—” He stopped and blew out a curse. “I just … you should have been here, with me. Not out in the dark, getting mauled by God only knows who. Come here.”

With a quick shift, he pulled her into his body and held her, dropping his head into her hair and running his hand up and down her back. “I should have been there to protect you.”

“Breathe deeply, feel the breath going in and out of your nose, down the back of your throat, expanding your lungs…”

Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me.

The demon Devina had her ass in the air, her hands and feet planted on a smelly purple mat, her hair and her double Ds in her face—and that seventy-pound Rubbermaid dumb bitch in the front of the class wanted her to breathe?

“Feel the strength in your body, but also look for the areas that can relax in the pose. Breathe. Let go in your stomach and…”

Areas of relaxation? Yeah, right. Her hamstrings felt like they were being stripped off her bones; she had so much blood in her head, her eyes were bulging; and her arms were trembling as they attempted to keep holding her in this insane, unnatural position.

Her earlobes were at ease.

Actually, only the left one was.

Downward dog? Shit, she should remember this when she had to work someone over in Hell. She’d rather have somebody come at her with a knife.

“And release into child’s pose.”

Thank fuck.

As Devina collapsed onto the mat and fell forward over her bent legs, she hated everything about the hot-yoga experience. The sweat. The cramping. The cloying stink—was that incense really necessary? Come on, this wasn’t a Catholic church.

“And now we will have our relaxation. Please lie on your back and find a comfortable position for your arms. You may do arms out or down by your sides, or even over your head. Whatever you prefer.”

At the moment, she would prefer her hands around that woman’s throat, squeezing until the teacher turned cardiac-arrest blue.

“Breathe. Close your eyes. Focus on relaxing your toes … your feet … your…”

Screw you, lady.

In a show of rebellion, Devina kept her peepers open for the sole reason that she was tired of being bossed around by that pipe cleaner-like chick.

As that annoying, pseudo-soothing voice droned on, the vocabulary working its way up the body, Devina just hung out and waited for the BS to be over. Whatever. She could have left, but she was a perverse motherfucker and kind of enjoyed getting all riled up by a silly human she could kill on a whim.

Then again, she had something pleasant to turn her attention to.

She had spent the night in Jim Heron’s arms.

Salt ’N’ Pepa old-school said it right: Whatta man, whatta man, whatta man, whatta mighty good man …

Now, it had sucked that she’d had to clothe herself in the skin of someone else—most particularly that stupid virgin—but the fact was, Devina was so used to being other people, it hadn’t been any real barrier to the bliss. Besides, the idea that she had thwarted Jim’s never-again had more than sustained her.

She’d wanted sex, of course—that wouldn’t have rung true, however.

Not on their first night together.

The way she looked at it? It was an acting challenge. She’d had to reach deep and try to behave as that Barten thing would, all the while subtly, and inexorably, starting to seduce him. Big fun, and it had really put a spark in things—she could totally see why relationship experts touted role-play as a way to spice up a couple’s love life.

This was just what the pair of them needed.

Plus, it gave her something to focus on as she was forced to follow the rules in the game—okay, well, mostly color within the lines of the war: She’d had to scare that artist last night in the parking garage—it was important to keep the woman headed in the direction she’d voluntarily gone in at the end of the evening.

Just a nudge. Nothing obvious.

And hey, demons were allowed to be in public places. It wasn’t her fault that the woman freaked out and called the cops from a locked elevator, then bolted for home … and ended up in the arms of a very hot lover.

Okay, okay, fine, she’d also caused Jim’s little “accident” in his truck.

Black cats were sometimes not really cats.

But come on, that had been personal, not anything to do with the larger fight between good and evil. She’d just been so bitched that he was all focused on and lovey-dovey supportive with the virgin that she hadn’t been able to help herself—

The yoga instructor popped into her visual field, that clueless, perma-happy, I’m-regular-’cuz-I-eat-organic expression making Devina want to force-feed her Hershey bars until she died from hyperglycemia. “Relax your eyelids. Find your inner peace. Breathe…”

Devina closed her eyes just so she didn’t do something that required a Shop-Vac to clean up—

Another interruption abruptly cut into her “relaxation” time—but it was not her phone going off or a tap on the shoulder or more cocksucking advice on the inhale/exhale thing.

Frowning, she sat up, and broke the horizontal covenant; the summoning was just such a surprise. Fortunately, the teacher picked that moment to call game-over, telling people to settle on their butts with their legs crossed, and do some sort of palm-togethering thing.

Devina waited through that bullshit, because she wanted to keep the male who had called out to her guessing for a little bit: A smart woman knew that men liked the chase, and that was the same whether they were human … or angel.

Finally the class broke up, people getting to their feet and chatting among themselves—probably about the buzz that came from mainlining smoothies made from cow flops and carrot juice.

Quelle delish.

Devina cut through them with the efficiency of a New Yorker on a sidewalk, dodging around as she made for the wall of cubbies by the door of the studio. Everyone else had Merrells or sandals. She popped her Louboutins back on her bare feet and got the hell out of there.

When she slid into her Mercedes, she shut the door and was momentarily derailed by the lack of hood ornament. Even though the thing had been sacrificed for the best possible reason, her OCD blew up its absence into a national emergency.

“You called the dealership,” she told herself. “You put the order in. Tuesday. You just have to make it to Tuesday…”

She felt like she’d lost a leg—and only half of her knew that wasn’t the case.

Then again, running at only fifty percent psychotic was an improvement. Before she’d started going to her therapist? She’d have either thrown the car out on the street, or she’d have gone to Caldwell Mercedes and forced them at gunpoint to remove someone else’s thingy and put it on her own fucking hood.

See. Progress.

Starting up her engine, she hit the gas to get out of the lot before the exit was blocked either by beaters held together with Free Tibet bumper stickers or Priuses with clean-energy logos all over them. As she headed across town, the summoning signal remained strong, and that was good. It meant she’d have enough time for a proper cleanup.

Just another delay, letting him stew in his juices.

When she got to her HQ, she went down to the lower floor and breathed out a sigh of relief to find everything in its place again. Ditching the yoga pants and skin-tight sports top into the trash, she headed for her bathroom—and once again felt trapped between her desire for marble and a Jacuzzi and multiple showerheads … and the reality that she didn’t trust anyone to work down here among her things.

Her rule was a simple one: Move in and stay put as long as she could.

Goddamn Jim. If only he hadn’t found where she’d been hiding out before this.

Great water pressure in those pipes. And Carrara everywhere.

As it was, she was stuck with a relatively anemic spray, white clinical tile, and a urinal next to the sink.

No wonder she’d been so desperate for a hotel stay.

But the good news was, the water was hot, and the soap was her favorite from Fragonard—apricot and clementine. Getting out, she grabbed one of her Porthault towels and wound her hair up tight; then she wrapped a second one around her body.

Given her imminent get-together, she waltzed over to her wardrobe and chose carefully. Short, tight skirt from Louis Vuitton’s resort collection. A Missoni blouse that was a second skin with plenty of downward draft. No hose, no bra, no panties. Same pair of Loubous she’d worn to yoga.

Devina laid everything out on her big bed, and then went to do hair and makeup at her vanity. She took her time … and still that summons hung on.

Must be important, and how delicious was that? About time she was paid some proper respect.

Dressed and ready to go, she went over to her mirror and stepped through. After a whirl of transportation, she stood at the base of her well, staring up at the viscous walls and the groaning, restless masses trapped within them.

Straightening her skirt and smoothing her hair, she went over to her stained and battered worktable … and called the angel Adrian down to her.

As he appeared before her, he was just as big as he had always been, his shoulders the kind of thing that offered plenty of acreage to claw at, his heavy arms as thick and muscled under his T-shirt as a prizefighter’s, his hips anchoring a cock that she knew well, and had missed.

The best part? He was icy-cold angry, his good eye and his milky one both narrowed and spitting out hatred, his jaw clenched, the veins in his neck standing out in sharp relief.

Ohhhhh, yeah. After a night of lying chastely with Jim, she was sexually frustrated in the extreme. This was just what she needed to tame the burn down.

“Why, hello,” she drawled with a smile. “Pining for me again?”