Possession

Chapter Seven

“—godforsaken, miserable piece of shit!”

As Jim faced off at the stove from hell, he thought about giving the cast-iron nightmare a swift kick in the oven door—but with the way things were going, he’d either break that little glass window or his foot.

Which would be the perfect fucking nightcap to an absolutely magical fucking evening.

All he wanted was a couple of eggs—scrambled, over easy, fried, he didn’t give a good goddamn. He couldn’t remember the last time or thing he’d eaten, and when Ad had made a food run to Hannaford earlier in the day, the guy had had the brains to pick up some Eggland’s Best.

It wasn’t like he was after truffles or twelve kinds of fancy, culinary crap.

Eggs. Just eggs.

Except like everything else, he couldn’t make it frickin’ happen: The only thing the burners on the cooktop seemed to do was burp gas; the pan he found looked like it had been forged by hand in the Middle Ages; and he wasn’t sure, but he thought that the refrigerator was doing the death rattle of something about to meet its maker.

Which in this case was … General Electric, going by the logo on its off-kilter door.

Giving up, he sat down at the table and lit a cigarette, figuring the nicotine might perk his immortal ass up. At the very least, holding the Marlboro would give his right hand something to do other than make a fist and test the structural integrity of the walls.

“What a dump,” he muttered as he looked around at the ancient appliances, the pitted countertops, the cracked floor, the stained ceiling.

Last time he ever took a rental without seeing it first.

But, really, resolutions about his real estate accommodations were pretty far down his list of priorities.

You are endangering the outcome of the entire war.

Exhaling, he watched the smoke rise through the cold air and curl up around the ancient light fixture hanging above him. The chandelier dangled at the end of a corroded black chain and had five arms, although only three of the bulbs were working. Probably a good thing. Bright illumination would only make the kitchen look worse—like hitting a ninety-year-old with headlights.

“Devina, where are you,” he gritted before taking another drag. “Where the fuck are you…”

He tapped his ash into an ashtray.

Waiting … waiting…

He wasted more time glancing around, like maybe something had changed in the point-three seconds since his last observation.

In his previous life, before he’d been electrocuted on a job site and recruited for this dumb-ass, thankless job, he’d have loved to have tackled a place like this. It was the carpenter in him. Room by room, he would have gone through and replaced floors and replastered walls and sealed and repainted ceilings. Stripped moldings back down to the original wood and revarnished. Swapped out 1940s appliances and fixtures for things that had been made in the current century, but looked old and weren’t fire hazards. Made the cabinets and cupboards himself.

For a moment, his blood pressure dropped as he entertained the fantasy, the smell of pine being cut on a circular saw filling his nose, the sound of nails being hammered home ringing in his ears, the rhythmic scratching of sandpaper tightening his arm muscles.

So much more satisfying than anything else he could do with his life: What was great about home renovation was that the improvement was immediate and lasting—and absolutely measurable, no backsliding, no double standards. You had a toilet that ran all night? Take it out, get a new one, do an install. Heating didn’t work? Run some fresh ductwork and get yourself the right unit. Upstairs drafty? R-19 insulation, baby.

It is utterly reckless to give away—

I’m not giving dick away, Nigel! For fuck’s sake, I’ve got to get her out of there.

One girl cannot be more important than the victory.

She didn’t deserve what she got.

You simpering fool! The exigencies of fate are not always just—surely you are not so naive as to believe otherwise. And your role is not to balance the scales. You are here to win.

Fuck you, Nigel. You don’t need to remind me what my job is—and I’m done talking about this. Those flags are my possessions. You told me so yourself. What I do with them is my business, not yours.

Yup, that had been a fun conversation. Productive, too—they’d both been even more worked up and angry at the end of it.

“So you gave up on the eggs?” Adrian said from behind him.

Jim shut his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about Nigel.”

“I thought I was asking about breakfast protein?”

“And I’m not interested in your opinion.”

“Well, you already heard it—because I agree with Nigel.”

Jim took a long drag. “Do us both a favor and back out of this room—”

The bomb went off in the front of the house, the thunderous noise rattling the shelves in the cupboards and rocking that light fixture.

Jim was out of his chair before the noise faded, shooting through the dining room, pounding into the foyer…

The fact that the door was still intact was a shocker, but there were cracks in the leaded glass windows on either side of it. As he yanked open the heavy oak panels, he had a crystal knife in hand—that shit had not been made by a human, and that meant he’d do better with something that had a little more kick to it—

Jim stopped dead.

Lying on the weathered floorboards of the front porch, a female form was tucked in on itself, a dirty shift covering pale skin, thin legs pulled in to the belly as if to protect against a beating.

Long blond hair fanned out, the strands catching the light that flowed from the open doorway.

Jim fell to his knees, his body weight slamming down on itself. He felt no pain from the impact, a stunning numbness taking him over.

His hands were shaking as he reached out and touched the ends of the blond strands. Between one blink and the next, he saw a drain, a pool of blood, a red stain on the golden waves.

“Sissy?” he croaked in a voice he’d never heard come out of his mouth before.

“Where’s my fucking flag.”

Jim jacked his head up.

The demon Devina was standing over them, hands on her hips, Sofia Vergara body filling out something black and leatherish. Her eyes were gleaming, but not with satisfaction.

Jim ignored her. “Sissy…?”

That bitchy voice came from above, sharp and demanding: “Excuuuuuuse me. Leave that stupid-ass little girl alone and give me what I’m—”

Wrong tone. Wrong attitude. Wrong motherfucking words.

Jim attacked before he was aware of moving, his body exploding up, his left hand locking on the demon’s throat, his massive strength throwing Devina back against the side of the house so hard he didn’t just break the shutter behind her back; he shattered it into splinters.

Devina just purred. “How nice to have your full attention.”

Jamming his face into hers, he put the tip of that crystal knife right to her temple. And then for a moment, all he could do was pant, his brain jammed up with what she had done to Sissy, what she had forced that innocent to see down in Hell … what he wanted to do to the demon in payback.

Instead of her fighting to get free, her thigh inched in between his braced legs. “Maybe we can seal this deal properly—”

Jim shoved his palm against her mouth, pushing it in so hard, he distorted her fake beauty into an echo of how ugly she really was.

As she began to struggle, he bared his teeth and thought about biting her somewhere, anywhere.

“Adrian,” he growled in an inhuman way. “Get the flag.”

When uneven footfalls began to retreat, it was clear that the other angel was on the case.

Devina began to fight in earnest, wrenching her head, clawing at his arms. Except as she got her mouth free, she just whispered, “Someone’s watching you.”

Jim frowned.

Oh, fuck, Sissy.

He dropped his hold and leaped out of the demon’s range.

Sissy had pushed herself up and was cowering in the far corner of the porch, her knees drawn in against her chest, her arms locked around them. From behind a veil of tangled blond hair, she stared out with horrified eyes.

And she was looking at him that way. Not Devina.

Jim dragged a hand through his hair. “Shit.”

In his peripheral vision, Devina yanked her clothes back into position and stamped her heels like her panties had gotten into a wad and she was hoping gravity would do the work.

Tossing her hair, she addressed Sissy. “Are you scared of him? You should be—”

Jim put his body in the way. “Don’t talk to her.”

“What. Like you fucking own—”

Ad picked that perfect moment to reappear with the flag. “Take it and get the hell out of here,” the angel said in an exhausted voice.

For a split second, Devina’s real face showed through the skin she wore, the decaying flesh and glowing bone surging through the lie.

That hideous spectacle cranked over in Jim’s direction. “We’re not through. Not by a long shot.”

As Jim’s chest pumped up and down, he didn’t trust himself to reply—he just prayed that for once in her horrible life, the bitch took someone else’s advice and disappeared without another syllable leaving her mouth.

After all, the last thing he wanted was for Sissy to be exposed to more trauma. And yet even with that hanging over him … he wasn’t sure it was enough to keep him from ripping that demon limb from limb.

The cold, clear air felt good on Cait’s face, her sinuses tingling, her mind clearing. It had been hot in the café—and not just because of the body heat from the crowd.

You’ve made my night.

She shook her head. “Stop it.”

Unfortunately, the command was oh, so easy to follow: In the work of a moment, thanks to all kinds of heavily forged neuropathways, her mother’s religious narrative took over, mowing down the nice fact that a very attractive man had asked for her number—not because she’d dressed inappropriately or said anything provocative or behaved badly. Not even necessarily for sex. It was just two adults who might get to know each other better and see where things took them.

Cait struggled against the tide, but she was tired … and yes, ma’am, being guilty for no good reason at all was a custom-made hair shirt. Fit her just perfectly.

Then again, across town, a family was in mourning. And her response? Go out and get her hair done, and cap the night off flirting with a stranger.

Real classy.

As she hoofed it down the shallow alley and entered the rear parking lot, other stragglers were also going for their rides, the women talking in quick bursts, like the afterburn of those songs and that singer was still revving them up. In contrast, Cait felt totally apart from them, in spite of the fact that they’d all seen the same performance and been in the same mind-set inside the café.

She spent a lot of years walking this stretch of isolation.

By the time she came up to her car, the temperature had gone from refreshing to chilly, and she made fast work of the unlock-and-open thing. Getting in, she shivered as she shut the door, and immediately hit the start button. Heat, heat would be good, but … shoot, it was going to be a while coming: Three other cars had their white reverse lights on and were inching around, trying to navigate the cramped space. All at the same time.

She was going to be stuck in place for a while…

Later, she would wonder what exactly had made her turn her head to the left. Not a sound, no. Or a flash of movement. Or anything of outward significance.

But sure as if someone had called her name, her head swiveled and her eyes searched the darkness.

There was a truck parked next to her, a rough, rangy vehicle that seemed like it belonged more in farm and forest territory than at a city-dweller café. And behind its wheel, sitting with eerie stillness, was a man. A big man.

She could not see his face, but his sharp profile cut through the ambient glow of the lot’s security lights, carving a black path through the illumination. His head was nearly shaved, his brow heavy, as if he were frowning, his hard chin giving the clear impression that “uncompromising” was probably not just something he was familiar with, but an operating principle.

The other thing she noticed? His shoulders were tremendous, although that was likely some kind of coat or something against the cold.

Without warning, his head whipped around.

She could see nothing of his eyes, but oh, God … she felt them crossing the distance, doing away with the car doors, melting through the glass, tearing down any and every barrier between them.

Cait told herself to look away. Pointed out that the idea there was any kind of connection was ridiculous. Made a list of all the reasons that women who lived alone should never, ever encourage strange men—especially ones who were built like that.

Wait, she wasn’t encouraging anything—

Oh, really? Then why hadn’t she looked away, backed away, driven off? ’Cause those other cars had left and the lot was clear.

The man went for his door.

Before she knew what was happening, he got out of his truck and prowled around the front of it, his huge body moving like…

Maybe the word was … erotic.

Take out the “maybe.”

Cait did not look away. Couldn’t. In the sweeping headlights of one more car that had a more sensible driver than her, she got a clear shot at him—much taller than she’d thought, and the body was … even stronger than it had looked through the glass. And that heft? Not a jacket or a coat, nope. It was just muscles in a T-shirt.

As for the face? His was completely in shadow, the light shining from behind him.

So she couldn’t tell.

Her heart pounded as he came up to her car, except it was not from fear. Probably should have been. As things stood, it was more as if an electrical charge was coursing through her rib cage.

Her window went down. Sure as if something other than her mind controlled her arm, her hands, her fingertips.

It was as if she were possessed.

Looking up, her first thought was that she recognized him from somewhere. Maybe it was another case like Pablo and Victoria Beckham? Or, God, had he been on the front page of the newspaper for some horrible crime?

No … something else.

“Do I know you?” he asked in a low voice.

Before she could reply, a car horn went off and his head shot to the left—and that was how she saw his face properly. Holy Mary, mother of—

He was … breathtaking. Absolutely stunning.

He had the looks of a fighter, and not as in the puffy distortion of a boxer, but the shrewd, hawkish features of a man who might have been in the military. Eyes were blue, brows were dark as his hair, and that hard, heavy jaw was, yup, a very clear indicator that you tangled with him at your own risk.

On that note, when he turned back, she said, “No, you don’t—and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”

Even though she couldn’t see, she felt his eyes narrow, as if he were testing the statement for truth.

“It’s okay,” he murmured.

“I have to go.” Except she didn’t have any impulse of the sort. She just kept staring up at him. To fill the silence, she blurted, “I really just came to hear the singer. With my friend.”

“And did you like him.”

Not a question. It was as if he already knew the answer.

“Yes. Very much.”

“You’re missing an earring.”

So he was staring at her as much as she thought.

“I lost it earlier tonight. At the hair salon.” Okay, maybe she’d better put the SUV in reverse before she told him her life’s story. “I went back, but … it wasn’t in lost and found or anything.”

Shut it, Cait.

“It was gone,” he filled in.

“Yes.”

“That happens.”

“Did you come here to listen to G.B., too?”

“No.”

She nodded. “I can imagine that’s not your kind of music.”

“Quick read on me, huh.”

“Yes. I have to go.”

“But you’re still here, aren’t you.”

“I don’t want to run over your feet.”

He shrugged. “Steel-toed boots. Wouldn’t feel a thing.”

FFS, that probably would have been true even if he’d been in flip-flops. Not that he’d wear that kind of thing.

“I could swear I know you,” she whispered.

“I don’t get that a lot.” He leaned in. “Tell me something.”

“What…”

“Do you like what you see?”

Cait’s mouth parted so she could breathe.

“Do you,” he repeated. When she didn’t reply, he said in that very, very deep voice, “Cat got your tongue?”

“Okay. Well … good-bye.”

He laughed, the sound a rumble through his chest. “You’re still not leaving.”

“I need to go.”

She put up her window more to cut herself off than anything else, and she was relieved that as she began to back out, he did step back. It didn’t stay that way. As she put things in drive, he came forward, her headlights making a stage for him, illuminating him as he stood with his legs locked, his head up, his hands on his hips.

A challenge directed to her, even though they were strangers.

And God help her, her body responded: Lust, unrestrained and unrepentant, went through her, waking her up in places that were not just dormant but previously nonexistent.

Run, some inner voice told her. Run fast and far—and pray that he doesn’t choose to follow you.

There was no saying “no” to a man like that. Not at all. Not even if he wasn’t good for you. Not even if your parents would insist you’d be a sinner.

Cait hit the gas so hard her tires scrubbed out, but he didn’t jump out of the way. He took a single step away so that she all but struck him.

Probably would have left a dent in her car before he got hurt.

Shooting through the narrow slot between the café and the art gallery, she had to slam on the brakes when she came out to the main road.

It wasn’t until she was on the highway, heading for her residential neighborhood, that her heart began to slow down.

Leaning into the front windshield, she looked up at the night sky. Naturally, she caught nothing of the stars, not even a faint glow. But sure as she knew where she lived, and how to drive her car, and what she was going to be doing in the morning, she was convinced someone up there was weaving out a destiny for her.

Too many strange things in one night—

When her phone went off, she let out a bark and grabbed for her heart. Had G.B. called her so fast?

Nope. According to her nav screen, Bluetooth had Teresa on the line.

Cait was too rattled to be let down. “Hey.”

“I want the name of your hairdresser. Right now. And yes, I’m thinking about going blond, too.”

As Cait started to laugh, some of the tension bled out of her—but not all of it. In the back of her mind … that man lingered.

And not the singer…

… the other one.