Rapture

Chapter Forty-one

“Hi, Mom, how are you?”

As the reply came over the connection, Mels put another French fry in her mouth. “I’m still at work, yeah. But I wanted to call to let you know I’m okay.”

Man, those simple words had connotations above and beyond the hour of the day and the reference to “work.”

Closing her eyes, she forced her voice to be level. “Oh, you know how the CCJ is. There’s always something going on….Hey, how did bridge go?”

For once, instead of feeling weighed down by the mundane, everyday conversation, she embraced it. Normal was good. Normal was safe. Normal was totally far from cold water and an invisible hold and the specter of death.

She was alive. So was her mother.

This was…really good.

And it was interesting how much the response mattered. As well as the follow-up she asked—about how Ruth, their next-door neighbor, had played. And also the laugh about the trump that hadn’t gone well. She truly listened, actually cared, and that gave her a sense of how much she had been going through the motions lately.

Guess the shock of that chilly water had further woken her up.

Opening her lids, she focused on Jim Heron, lying so still under the covers.

What had really happened down at that boathouse?

“Mels? You there?”

She gripped her phone a little tighter, even though she was in no danger of dropping the thing. “Yeah, Mom, I am.”

How would tonight have been if things had ended differently?

A wave of fear burrowed into her bones, replacing her marrow with Freon, and a sudden shivering made her feet tap under her seat, and her fingers drum on the desk next to her nearly empty plate of food.

She looked to the bathroom and wondered what Matthias was doing in there. For a little bit, there had been some kind of dull noise, like the shower was running, but now there was just silence.

“Mels? You’re awful quiet—are you okay?”

I almost died tonight….

Okay, apparently the composure she’d been sporting since she pulled herself out of the Hudson River had been on account of shock: A crying jag was suddenly threatening.

Except she wasn’t going to fall to pieces on the phone with her mother. “I’m really sorry—I’m just…glad to hear your voice.”

“That’s sweet of you.”

Other things were said, more nice and normal things, and then Mels heard herself explain that she wouldn’t be home until late.

“But I’m just downtown at the Marriott—I have my phone on and it’s never far.”

“I’m really glad you called.”

Mels looked up into the mirror that was over the desk. Tears were rolling down her face. “I love you, Mom.”

There was a stretch of silence. And then the three words came back at her, in a surprised tone that sped up the waterworks on her end.

Two times in one day. When had that happened last?

As her mother hung up, it was a miracle Mels could find the end button on her cell. Next move was to take the napkin out of her lap, drape it across both palms, and lean down into the soft cloth, pressing it to her face.

The sobs racked her, throwing her shoulders out of whack, making the chair squeak. There was no stopping the explosion, no thought, not even any images.

And the emotional snap was not just about the river or Matthias; it went further than the present, stretching all the way back to her father’s death.

She cried because she missed him and because he’d died young. She cried for her mother and herself.

She cried because she’d almost died today…and because Matthias’s leaving was like knowing that the man she loved was dying sometime very soon—

The warm weight of a hand on her shoulder brought her head up. In the mirror, she saw that Jim Heron was behind her—

“You’re glowing,” she said with a frown. “You’re—”

Wings.

The man had wings over both his shoulders, beautiful gossamer wings that rose up into the air, making him appear to be just like an—

Wrenching around, Mels looked up to confront the man, but he wasn’t anywhere near her. He remained in the bed under the covers, a still, silent mountain.

Turning back, she saw only herself in the glass.

At that moment, the bathroom door opened.

Matthias stepped out slowly, one hand gripping the doorjamb to steady himself.

The instant she saw him, she knew something was different. “Matthias?”

He came to her with careful, cautious steps, as if he’d been on a boat and his legs still thought he was on the open seas.

Then the door to the hallway opened and shut, Jim’s colleague leaving the room.

“Matthias?”

When he got in front of her, he lowered himself to his knees. As his eyes lifted to hers, she gasped….

Over on the bed, Jim picked that moment to get his act together. Anger, more than time, cleared his mind and gave him the strength to motivate. His body was still polluted as shit, but he was done lying around, waiting to feel normal again.

Throwing off the covers, he groaned as he went upright.

Naked was not good news.

Oh, man, neither was his stomach.

“Can I borrow some clothes?” he asked, knowing Matthias and Mels were over by the desk.

Someone cleared a throat. Matthias. “Ah, yeah—that bag by your feet.”

Bending forward, he picked it up. The thing was from the gift shop down in the lobby, and as he opened the neck, he told his gut to hang tight with any bright ideas. Inside, there were a couple of pairs of black sweats and some T-shirts with Caldwell’s city logo on them.

“Are you sure you’re good to go?” Matthias asked.

“Yeah—where’s Ad?”

“He just left.”

Jim sent out his instincts—his wingman was right in the hall by the door. Good.

The buck-ass-naked problem was rectified sitting down, so he didn’t flash the lady his ass. Shirt was a little tight and the sweats were high-waters, but like he was worried about his wardrobe?

As he got to his feet, he weaved and put a hand on the wall.

“You sure you don’t need to lie down some more?” Matthias asked.

“Yeah.”

“Your cigarettes, phone, and wallet are by the TV.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” Because man, the instant he saw that red pack and his black lighter, he was able to take a deep breath. Snagging the vitals, he shoved them into the sweats and headed for the door. He didn’t look back—couldn’t.

He was too pissed off for conversation right now.

“Call me if you need me—Ad knows the number,” he muttered as he hit the exit.

Out in the corridor, he looked around. “Adrian,” he barked.

The other angel became visi across the way, his powerful body propped up against a little phone/table/bouquet arrangement, his eyes on the floor, his brows down like he had a headache.

“I got a meeting to go to,” Jim said. “I’ll be back.”

The guy gave a little wave and a nod. “Take your time.”

“Roger that.”

Jim didn’t bother with hoofing it out of the hotel—good job, as he’d left his boots and socks in Matthias’s room.

Angel Airlines took him where he wanted to go.

Back to the boathouse.

Night had since fallen, and the exterior lights on the place were strong enough to create a glow inside, uneven shadows being thrown everywhere, the birds in the eaves watching him from their nests with suspicious little eyes.

Walking to the empty slip Mels had “fallen” into, he was ready to kill his enemy.

So much for that bitch turning over a new leaf. She might have gotten shanked by the Maker with Matthias’s redo, but clearly shit wasn’t sticking.

No surprise.

Closing his eyes, he sent out a summons to the demon, demanding that she come to him.

And as he waited, his body regained its full strength, like his fury was a car battery and her imminent arrival a set of jumper cables.

Naturally, Devina took her own sweet damn time to show, and as he walked up and down the dock with his bare feet chilled by the cold planks and his hands cranked into fists, all he could think of was what Matthias had said about Sissy in the Well of Souls…and how those two dead women had been made out to be like his girl—

Not that she was his.

God, he could just picture Sissy’s mother picking up the newspaper and seeing the coverage on the front page of the CCJ. Like losing her daughter in the most horrific way possible wasn’t bad enough? She had to read about a copycat killer?

“You rang,” the demon said, her voice nasty and sharp.

Jim pivoted around, and the first thing he noticed was what she was wearing: His enemy had jacked her spectacular fake body into a blue dress he’d seen before.

Well, wasn’t this a Hallmark moment. It was the one she’d had on the night they’d first met in that club across town—and he remembered her in it, standing under that overhead light, a stunningly beautiful lie that was pure evil.

In terms of the calendar, that intersection of previously divergent paths had taken place mere weeks ago. In terms of experience, it was many, many lifetimes in the past.

Hatred made him hard down below, the arousal not tied to anything he found attractive, but rather everything he didn’t.

He wanted to rip her apart and hear her scream. He want her to know what it was like to be powerless and at the mercy of someone who didn’t give a fuck.

He wanted her to beg—

As if she sensed exactly where he was at, the demon smiled like she’d been given a birthday present. “Looking for something in particular, Jim?”