Straightening, she went back over to her bag and took out an iPhone. After dialing, she put the thing up to her ear.
When the call was answered, she said grimly, “Hello, Sissy.”
Her eyes locked on his as he tried to fight against the nonexistent bars that held him down.
“I think you need to come see me.”
Jim gritted his teeth and struggled so hard his bones hurt—and the only thing that happened was that the Kleenex in the ashtray moved ever so slightly.
“Penthouse. Freidmont Hotel downtown—I’ll let the front-desk supervisor know you’re expected up here. Why?” Her eyes narrowed. “Because Jim’s about to arrive here any second, and I figure enough with the bullshit. You need to see this for yourself. And before you ask, no, it’s not a trap. In fact, I’ll bet you Jim already told you he had to go somewhere tonight, didn’t he. So get your ass down here—and be the strong female I know you want to be.”
Devina terminated the call and shook her head in something close to amazement. “You are so fucking pissed off right now, aren’t you. But you can’t say a thing, you can’t do a thing about it. You know, I should have tried to run you over with my Benz weeks ago. This is so good for our relationship.”
She tossed her phone back in her purse and looked his body up and down. “And now for a change of clothes.”
With a wave of her hand, he was left naked, his threads dematerializing as cleanly as smoke cleared by a draft of fresh air.
And then something utterly horrific happened.
A surge of nausea hit him right in the gut, and it was followed by a strange vertigo, one that seemed to affect his head as well as his body.
“Holy … shit,” Devina breathed. “I am so fucking hot.”
It took a second to piece together what she was saying. Oh … fuck …
“We’re going to have to allow you a little movement, I don’t want me to look dead.” She directed a stare at the ashtray … and suddenly he could, if he really tried, lift his head about an inch off the carpet. “Besides, I want you to admire my handiwork.”
Jesus Christ, no …
He had become Devina. He had her naked body, with her breasts and her hair, her mile-long legs, those goddamned shoes.
No! he screamed without making a sound.
“And now for my costume.”
In the blink of an eye … she became him. Everything from his growing-out fade to his broad shoulders to his heavy legs.
“What do you think?” she asked in his voice. “We should totally remember this for Halloween, right?”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Adrian could not find out she was leaving, Sissy thought as she padded down the creaky stairs, sticking to the far edges where the nail heads were to cut the noise.
On the first floor, she moved through the shadows silently, zeroing in on the kitchen. It was physically painful to see the table and its four chairs, and pass by the counter Jim had cleared off to get at her. But the keys, oh, yes, the keys to the Ford Explorer were right where Ad had put them when he’d emptied his pockets of his wallet, the Home Depot receipt, and his own phone.
She slipped outside and carefully shut the door. When she hit the lawn, she looked up, way up, to the attic. No lights glowing there. Ad had to be asleep.
And he needed to stay that way.
This was something she needed to handle on her own. Because if she got down to that hotel and found Jim hooking up with the demon? She was not going to be responsible for what she did to him. If that was what he was doing, then Jim was pure evil—what the hell else would you call a man who could say what he’d said to her, do what he’d done to her … and then go out to some other woman’s bed. Some demon’s bed.
The SUV had been parked right at the head of the driveway so that they could unload the plywood sheets, and fortunately, Ad had not locked the thing so she didn’t have to worry about the chirp of the alarm deactivating. Once she was behind the wheel, she moved the seat up so she could reach the pedals … and prayed to God the sound of the engine starting didn’t disturb the angel.
The headlights came on automatically, but the engine was relatively quiet—especially as she coasted out into the street, did a slow K-turn, and accelerated cautiously. In the rearview mirror, she double-checked the third floor.
Still no lights. And Ad was not a vampire who could see in the dark.
Thank God.
As she headed off, she knew where she was going. The hotel Devina was at was the super-fancy one downtown where the senior prom had been held. The trouble was, she wasn’t sure which exit it was off the highway. There were, like, half a dozen that dumped out into those dense city blocks full of skyscrapers.
But she was going to frickin’ find the thing.
Out of the neighborhood. Onto a surface road that took her to the Northway. And then she was speeding in the direction of Caldwell’s twin bridges.
Curling her hands on the steering wheel, her head played tennis with itself, batting contradictions back and forth: The way he touched her. What Devina said. The look in his eyes as they’d had sex. What Devina said. The sense of belonging when they were together. What Devina said.
It was like having the Williams sisters on her mental court, the opposite sides slamming balls back and forth, neither giving an inch. On some level, she couldn’t believe she was doing this, going downtown in the middle of a war for humanity’s future, just to see whether her “boyfriend” or “fuck buddy” or whatever the hell they were to each other was cheating on her with someone else.
Then again, she’d wanted normal and this was it; this precise drama happened to regular people who hadn’t done the sacrificial-virgin thing and ended up in Hell and been rescued only to go and watch their own funeral. There were millions of women across the globe who had to deal with this.
It was just … for frick’s sake … why couldn’t the “normal” she’d gotten have been more like a good steak dinner, or a night where, instead of worrying about life and death or goddamn portals to Purgatory, she watched reruns of The Big Bang Theory and ate Oreo ice cream out of the carton?
She got off I-87 one exit early and became trapped in the maze of one-ways. A few left turns later, however, and she was pulling up to the front of the hotel. Three flags waved above its grand entrance: an American, one for the state of New York, and a third with the place’s logo in maroon and gold on it.
There were no valets out front, but, because it was … one sixteen in the morning … there was a metered space directly across from the revolving doors.
She got out, locked the Explorer, and straightened her clothes. Although, come on, like the sweatshirt and yoga pants were going to look any less schlubby? Or be any closer to the chain mail she wished she were wearing?
It was like she was about to go to war or something.
Jogging across the four-lane street, she took the red-carpeted stairs two at a time and shoved her way into the marble lobby. The first thing she saw was the biggest flower arrangement on the planet. The thing was nearly a full story high, and it was not made of silk: the lilies and roses released a delicate fragrance that reminded her of Eddie.
“Are you Miss Barten?”
Her sneaker let out a squeak as she pivoted toward the marble-topped bays where guests checked in. There was a lone man in a black suit standing behind one of the computer stations, his hair slicked back from his forehead, his shirt so blindingly white it made her think of bleached teeth.
“Yes.”
“Please go right up.” He smiled at her like he was much, much older than she was—even though he had to be only in his mid-twenties. “The elevators are on the left. You can take any one of them.”
“Thanks.”
The ride all the way to the penthouse took a while, and she really could have done without the four walls of mirrors. The last thing she wanted to see was her face and wondered whether Jim avoided his reflection when he came here, too. Or had he no conscience? Well, whatever, she certainly wasn’t enjoying her own view: She’d been under some delusion, as she’d made it out of the house apparently without waking Ad, and gotten down here okay, that she was in full-on handle-it mode. Instead, even in her peripheral vision, her eyes looked crazed in her pale face, and her hands were shaking so badly, the sleeves of her sweatshirt were vibrating.
Ding!
The doors slid open and she stepped out onto lush carpet. Crystal sconces shed gentle butter-yellow light over walls that had a sheen of wealth to them, and real paintings were hung at intervals in both directions. There were a couple of doors to choose from, and she went over and read one of the plaques. FRAMINGHAM LOUNGE. Another one farther down read, STAFF ONLY.
She found the PENTHOUSE sign all the way at the far end.
There was a little doorbell button under the sign—but before she went to push it, the door opened of its own volition, as if a draft or, more likely, some unseen hand was at work.
And there it was.
Exactly what she had come to see, but hoped not to.
In a seating arrangement in the center of a room with a lot of glass windows, in a chair that faced the view, Devina was buck-ass naked, her long brunette hair spilling down nearly to the floor … because her head was thrown back in ecstasy.
Bathed in candlelight, Jim was looming over her, his naked body poised above his bowed arms as he kissed her.
Sissy must have made a noise. A curse. A something—because he suddenly looked up at her. Instantly, the red-hot passion in his face was replaced with shock and then panic.
“Sissy!” he barked. And then he had the colossal nerve to leap back from the woman, demon, whatever she was like he hadn’t just been caught red-handed.
He was fully aroused.
Between one blink and the next, the rage inside of her leaped free and she was no longer in control.
As she stepped over the threshold, Jim was holding his hands out like he wanted to stop her from coming into the penthouse. Then he was backing up as if looking for his clothes. The whole time, he was talking to her, his mouth moving.
She didn’t hear a thing.
But her sight worked just fine: She saw everything about him and everything about Devina, too. For her part, the demon just sat back in that low-slung chair, her hands lying on the armrests, her hooded eyes following every move that Sissy made.
Then again, what was there to say, really.
There was, however, a knife. On the coffee table by the chair. With an eight-inch blade. Absently, she noted that it was like the fancy one her dad had gotten for Christmas two years ago, the one he treated like it was a work of art. Funny, the Henckels was totally out of place in the room, looking like something that had been left behind by a caterer.
She went for it before she knew what she was doing.
Picking the blade up, she felt its weight in her right hand, and turned to Jim.
“—me get some clothes on, okay?” he was saying. “Sissy? Can you hear me? Let me just get dressed, all right?”
He wheeled around as if looking for a pair of pants.
Something registered in the back of her mind, but she didn’t give it even one brain cell of thought. There were none to spare. That rage had taken over everything in her and around her.
“I can’t believe you fucking lied,” she said. “You bastard.”
Jim put those hands in front of himself again and backed up even further—until there was a crash like he’d knocked over a lamp, although she didn’t pay any attention to that.
“Sissy, you got this wrong—”
“You fucking bastard!”
All at once, everything that had happened to her since she’d gone out to that Hannaford supermarket came back to her—as she stalked Jim, all of the unjustness of each succeeding horror was made manifest in him. The pain and terror of death. The centuries of quasi-time suffering in Devina’s well. The raw mourning of her family and her lost life.
It was the perfect storm that created the super-wave in the ocean.
And that wave was going to come crashing down on Jim Heron.
Right now.
As if destiny agreed with her, he took one final step back and came up against the bar. He was still talking to her, and he twisted around as if attempting to judge which side to try to get around.
That Grim Reaper tattoo of his was yet another reminder of why he needed to die.
The rage lifted her arm up, the blade flashing in the candlelight.
She was going to kill him. Even though he was bigger and stronger, she knew that if she made one stabbing motion … it was going to be game-over.
Her fury was that great.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Jim watched through the eyes of another as the end of the war happened right in front of him. And there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about it.
Trapped in Devina’s illusion of herself, frozen to the chair in the position she had arranged him in, he was roaring—but only on the inside. Outwardly, he was imprisoned and mute and unable to move, and as he watched with horror, he knew exactly how this was going to play out. Sissy was going to take that kitchen knife, lift it high over her head, and drive it right into Devina’s chest—and that demon was going to make sure there was a good target to hit.
As soon as that blade made contact with the demon? The war was over, and Devina won. After all, it was the choice that counted; it was the intent, not the outcome of actual death that mattered. That knife wasn’t going to do shit to the demon, but it was everything that counted: Sissy’s crossroads, even though engineered by Devina, was the test she was going to fail. That rage and hatred, the shit Nigel had been talking about, were carved into the tight lines of her face and her body, and she wasn’t just going to give in to them.
When the call was answered, she said grimly, “Hello, Sissy.”
Her eyes locked on his as he tried to fight against the nonexistent bars that held him down.
“I think you need to come see me.”
Jim gritted his teeth and struggled so hard his bones hurt—and the only thing that happened was that the Kleenex in the ashtray moved ever so slightly.
“Penthouse. Freidmont Hotel downtown—I’ll let the front-desk supervisor know you’re expected up here. Why?” Her eyes narrowed. “Because Jim’s about to arrive here any second, and I figure enough with the bullshit. You need to see this for yourself. And before you ask, no, it’s not a trap. In fact, I’ll bet you Jim already told you he had to go somewhere tonight, didn’t he. So get your ass down here—and be the strong female I know you want to be.”
Devina terminated the call and shook her head in something close to amazement. “You are so fucking pissed off right now, aren’t you. But you can’t say a thing, you can’t do a thing about it. You know, I should have tried to run you over with my Benz weeks ago. This is so good for our relationship.”
She tossed her phone back in her purse and looked his body up and down. “And now for a change of clothes.”
With a wave of her hand, he was left naked, his threads dematerializing as cleanly as smoke cleared by a draft of fresh air.
And then something utterly horrific happened.
A surge of nausea hit him right in the gut, and it was followed by a strange vertigo, one that seemed to affect his head as well as his body.
“Holy … shit,” Devina breathed. “I am so fucking hot.”
It took a second to piece together what she was saying. Oh … fuck …
“We’re going to have to allow you a little movement, I don’t want me to look dead.” She directed a stare at the ashtray … and suddenly he could, if he really tried, lift his head about an inch off the carpet. “Besides, I want you to admire my handiwork.”
Jesus Christ, no …
He had become Devina. He had her naked body, with her breasts and her hair, her mile-long legs, those goddamned shoes.
No! he screamed without making a sound.
“And now for my costume.”
In the blink of an eye … she became him. Everything from his growing-out fade to his broad shoulders to his heavy legs.
“What do you think?” she asked in his voice. “We should totally remember this for Halloween, right?”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Adrian could not find out she was leaving, Sissy thought as she padded down the creaky stairs, sticking to the far edges where the nail heads were to cut the noise.
On the first floor, she moved through the shadows silently, zeroing in on the kitchen. It was physically painful to see the table and its four chairs, and pass by the counter Jim had cleared off to get at her. But the keys, oh, yes, the keys to the Ford Explorer were right where Ad had put them when he’d emptied his pockets of his wallet, the Home Depot receipt, and his own phone.
She slipped outside and carefully shut the door. When she hit the lawn, she looked up, way up, to the attic. No lights glowing there. Ad had to be asleep.
And he needed to stay that way.
This was something she needed to handle on her own. Because if she got down to that hotel and found Jim hooking up with the demon? She was not going to be responsible for what she did to him. If that was what he was doing, then Jim was pure evil—what the hell else would you call a man who could say what he’d said to her, do what he’d done to her … and then go out to some other woman’s bed. Some demon’s bed.
The SUV had been parked right at the head of the driveway so that they could unload the plywood sheets, and fortunately, Ad had not locked the thing so she didn’t have to worry about the chirp of the alarm deactivating. Once she was behind the wheel, she moved the seat up so she could reach the pedals … and prayed to God the sound of the engine starting didn’t disturb the angel.
The headlights came on automatically, but the engine was relatively quiet—especially as she coasted out into the street, did a slow K-turn, and accelerated cautiously. In the rearview mirror, she double-checked the third floor.
Still no lights. And Ad was not a vampire who could see in the dark.
Thank God.
As she headed off, she knew where she was going. The hotel Devina was at was the super-fancy one downtown where the senior prom had been held. The trouble was, she wasn’t sure which exit it was off the highway. There were, like, half a dozen that dumped out into those dense city blocks full of skyscrapers.
But she was going to frickin’ find the thing.
Out of the neighborhood. Onto a surface road that took her to the Northway. And then she was speeding in the direction of Caldwell’s twin bridges.
Curling her hands on the steering wheel, her head played tennis with itself, batting contradictions back and forth: The way he touched her. What Devina said. The look in his eyes as they’d had sex. What Devina said. The sense of belonging when they were together. What Devina said.
It was like having the Williams sisters on her mental court, the opposite sides slamming balls back and forth, neither giving an inch. On some level, she couldn’t believe she was doing this, going downtown in the middle of a war for humanity’s future, just to see whether her “boyfriend” or “fuck buddy” or whatever the hell they were to each other was cheating on her with someone else.
Then again, she’d wanted normal and this was it; this precise drama happened to regular people who hadn’t done the sacrificial-virgin thing and ended up in Hell and been rescued only to go and watch their own funeral. There were millions of women across the globe who had to deal with this.
It was just … for frick’s sake … why couldn’t the “normal” she’d gotten have been more like a good steak dinner, or a night where, instead of worrying about life and death or goddamn portals to Purgatory, she watched reruns of The Big Bang Theory and ate Oreo ice cream out of the carton?
She got off I-87 one exit early and became trapped in the maze of one-ways. A few left turns later, however, and she was pulling up to the front of the hotel. Three flags waved above its grand entrance: an American, one for the state of New York, and a third with the place’s logo in maroon and gold on it.
There were no valets out front, but, because it was … one sixteen in the morning … there was a metered space directly across from the revolving doors.
She got out, locked the Explorer, and straightened her clothes. Although, come on, like the sweatshirt and yoga pants were going to look any less schlubby? Or be any closer to the chain mail she wished she were wearing?
It was like she was about to go to war or something.
Jogging across the four-lane street, she took the red-carpeted stairs two at a time and shoved her way into the marble lobby. The first thing she saw was the biggest flower arrangement on the planet. The thing was nearly a full story high, and it was not made of silk: the lilies and roses released a delicate fragrance that reminded her of Eddie.
“Are you Miss Barten?”
Her sneaker let out a squeak as she pivoted toward the marble-topped bays where guests checked in. There was a lone man in a black suit standing behind one of the computer stations, his hair slicked back from his forehead, his shirt so blindingly white it made her think of bleached teeth.
“Yes.”
“Please go right up.” He smiled at her like he was much, much older than she was—even though he had to be only in his mid-twenties. “The elevators are on the left. You can take any one of them.”
“Thanks.”
The ride all the way to the penthouse took a while, and she really could have done without the four walls of mirrors. The last thing she wanted to see was her face and wondered whether Jim avoided his reflection when he came here, too. Or had he no conscience? Well, whatever, she certainly wasn’t enjoying her own view: She’d been under some delusion, as she’d made it out of the house apparently without waking Ad, and gotten down here okay, that she was in full-on handle-it mode. Instead, even in her peripheral vision, her eyes looked crazed in her pale face, and her hands were shaking so badly, the sleeves of her sweatshirt were vibrating.
Ding!
The doors slid open and she stepped out onto lush carpet. Crystal sconces shed gentle butter-yellow light over walls that had a sheen of wealth to them, and real paintings were hung at intervals in both directions. There were a couple of doors to choose from, and she went over and read one of the plaques. FRAMINGHAM LOUNGE. Another one farther down read, STAFF ONLY.
She found the PENTHOUSE sign all the way at the far end.
There was a little doorbell button under the sign—but before she went to push it, the door opened of its own volition, as if a draft or, more likely, some unseen hand was at work.
And there it was.
Exactly what she had come to see, but hoped not to.
In a seating arrangement in the center of a room with a lot of glass windows, in a chair that faced the view, Devina was buck-ass naked, her long brunette hair spilling down nearly to the floor … because her head was thrown back in ecstasy.
Bathed in candlelight, Jim was looming over her, his naked body poised above his bowed arms as he kissed her.
Sissy must have made a noise. A curse. A something—because he suddenly looked up at her. Instantly, the red-hot passion in his face was replaced with shock and then panic.
“Sissy!” he barked. And then he had the colossal nerve to leap back from the woman, demon, whatever she was like he hadn’t just been caught red-handed.
He was fully aroused.
Between one blink and the next, the rage inside of her leaped free and she was no longer in control.
As she stepped over the threshold, Jim was holding his hands out like he wanted to stop her from coming into the penthouse. Then he was backing up as if looking for his clothes. The whole time, he was talking to her, his mouth moving.
She didn’t hear a thing.
But her sight worked just fine: She saw everything about him and everything about Devina, too. For her part, the demon just sat back in that low-slung chair, her hands lying on the armrests, her hooded eyes following every move that Sissy made.
Then again, what was there to say, really.
There was, however, a knife. On the coffee table by the chair. With an eight-inch blade. Absently, she noted that it was like the fancy one her dad had gotten for Christmas two years ago, the one he treated like it was a work of art. Funny, the Henckels was totally out of place in the room, looking like something that had been left behind by a caterer.
She went for it before she knew what she was doing.
Picking the blade up, she felt its weight in her right hand, and turned to Jim.
“—me get some clothes on, okay?” he was saying. “Sissy? Can you hear me? Let me just get dressed, all right?”
He wheeled around as if looking for a pair of pants.
Something registered in the back of her mind, but she didn’t give it even one brain cell of thought. There were none to spare. That rage had taken over everything in her and around her.
“I can’t believe you fucking lied,” she said. “You bastard.”
Jim put those hands in front of himself again and backed up even further—until there was a crash like he’d knocked over a lamp, although she didn’t pay any attention to that.
“Sissy, you got this wrong—”
“You fucking bastard!”
All at once, everything that had happened to her since she’d gone out to that Hannaford supermarket came back to her—as she stalked Jim, all of the unjustness of each succeeding horror was made manifest in him. The pain and terror of death. The centuries of quasi-time suffering in Devina’s well. The raw mourning of her family and her lost life.
It was the perfect storm that created the super-wave in the ocean.
And that wave was going to come crashing down on Jim Heron.
Right now.
As if destiny agreed with her, he took one final step back and came up against the bar. He was still talking to her, and he twisted around as if attempting to judge which side to try to get around.
That Grim Reaper tattoo of his was yet another reminder of why he needed to die.
The rage lifted her arm up, the blade flashing in the candlelight.
She was going to kill him. Even though he was bigger and stronger, she knew that if she made one stabbing motion … it was going to be game-over.
Her fury was that great.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Jim watched through the eyes of another as the end of the war happened right in front of him. And there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about it.
Trapped in Devina’s illusion of herself, frozen to the chair in the position she had arranged him in, he was roaring—but only on the inside. Outwardly, he was imprisoned and mute and unable to move, and as he watched with horror, he knew exactly how this was going to play out. Sissy was going to take that kitchen knife, lift it high over her head, and drive it right into Devina’s chest—and that demon was going to make sure there was a good target to hit.
As soon as that blade made contact with the demon? The war was over, and Devina won. After all, it was the choice that counted; it was the intent, not the outcome of actual death that mattered. That knife wasn’t going to do shit to the demon, but it was everything that counted: Sissy’s crossroads, even though engineered by Devina, was the test she was going to fail. That rage and hatred, the shit Nigel had been talking about, were carved into the tight lines of her face and her body, and she wasn’t just going to give in to them.
