And as they wasted this energy? The game was continuing: Although there were parallels to football, there were no time-outs in this seven-round war between good and evil. And from the way things were just going in Jim’s room? The savior wasn’t giving in or seeing the light; he was just going to do whatever he damn well pleased.
His attention wasn’t on the war. It was on Sissy—and it was going to stay that way.
And Nigel’s focus? It was on wanting to beat the crap out of Jim.
Devina, however, was no doubt moving forward, circling around the soul even though she wasn’t supposed to…
The solution Ad came up with was radical and had a poor likelihood of success, but what else could he do?
The two bigger players on the team were at each other’s throats—and there was no better predictor for an enemy’s success than that kind of divided attention.
Going into his room, he pulled on some clothes, sat on his bed, and gripped his knees. As he closed his eyes, he sent out a request, the paranormal equiv of a page.
It took about two seconds to receive the summoning he was looking for.
Which meant Colin, the archangel, knew exactly why Nigel had gone earthbound—and was no happier about shit than Ad was.
Chapter Three
Victoria Beckham.
That’s who the stylist reminded her of, Cait thought as Pablo shampooed the color out of her hair. And that wasn’t an insult. It was the guy’s black hair, sharp cheekbones, and the thin legs. And that posing/pouty thing he did with one hip out.
“Okay, sitz ups fer us.”
Cait followed instructions, pulling her head out of the washing sink. Everything that was wet was immediately captured in a towel wrap, and then she was up on her feet, heading back to the chair.
“Noes oo lovf zis,” Pablo announced as she sat down.
Guess he was saying that she was going to love it?
The strange thing about that accent was that it moved around, distorting different vowels and consonants in different ways, the lack of consistency suggesting he was either posing or had an intermittent speech impediment.
As for what her opinion was going to be…
He unfurled the towel, and everything flopped onto her shoulders.
It was impossible to tell what was what. Sure, there were some lighter parts, but considering all the foils he’d folded onto her head, she expected a hell of a lot more.
Pablo pulled open the top drawer of the stand-up cupboard by his mirror and took out a square brush the size of a cutting board. Palming his hair dryer, he began fanning things out and running the hot air underneath.
“Ve dry frst und ten ve cut, cut, cut …”
Man, his eyes were dark as he worked. Not so much brown as black.
Looking into the mirror, she squirmed. This was such a dumb idea: Those three tubs of color with their separate paintbrushes? She could come out red, white, and blue for all she knew. And the hour it took for him to stripe down those tinfoil strips and origami them up against her scalp? Never getting that back. And the cost—four hundred dollars?
Maybe she was more like her parents than her chronic rebellion suggested. Because this excursion into vanity seemed like a waste on too many levels to count.
Plus she was going to have to keep it up—
“Oh … wow,” she said slowly as she turned her head.
The section he’d been working on was … really beautiful. Now dry and straight, her hair was the color it had been during her childhood, what appeared to be a hundred different shades of blond weaving in and out of the thick, shiny strands.
“Ive toll youz,” Pablo said. Or something to that effect.
And the more her hair dried out, the better it got—except then there was a pair of scissors in his hand.
“Are you sure we have to do anything?” she asked, as the blades flashed in the overhead lighting.
“Oh, chess.”
Wow, she really couldn’t place that accent of his.
Things started flying at that point, his hands spinning around her head, those sharp scissors slicing into her hair, pieces falling to the floor like feathers from a flushed bird. It looked as if she was getting layers—oh, God, bangs … she now had bangs…
Cait closed her eyes. Color could be corrected with some Clairol back home. This stuff? It was going to take a year to grow out. The trouble was, she was on the ride—no getting off in the middle of the roller coaster.
What had she done to herself…?
A tickle lit off on the back of her hand and she cracked an eyelid. A section of her hair had landed on her wrist, the three-inch length curling ever so slightly at the end. Taking it in between her fingers, she rubbed the smooth strands together.
Blond. Very blond.
When Pablo said something, she could only nod, her emotions bubbling up in her chest and distracting her from the outside world. The desperate edge to all this transformation business was not something she could ignore, not while she was busy getting turned into Veronica Lake. Not while she was paying so much for something that was entirely superficial.
Bottom line, unfortunately, was that it was so much easier to address defects in your appearance, and your car, and your apartment, than it was to dig deep and take a good hard look at your choices, your mistakes … your faults.
Like, for example, how playing it safe all your life had landed you in a prison of your own making.
The music track abruptly ended, as if the speakers had clocked out for the night, and in the silence, Pablo swapped the blades for something that looked like a curling iron, except it had two heated plates.
Straightener, she thought it was called. And the fact that she wasn’t one hundred percent sure on that made her feel her isolation from the world even further.
A rhythmic tugging started up as Pablo pulled the wand down her hair, over and over again. And as he worked his way around her head, she had too much space to think, too much time to stare at the blond strand she held.
As tears speared into her eyes, she cleared her throat. At least authorities had found Sissy Barten’s body … so those parents of hers had something to bury.
What a waste. What a further reminder that you have to live while you can—because you never knew when the ride was over.
“Look at vat vee haff.”
Pablo spun her about to face the mirror, except for a moment she couldn’t look away from what was in her hand. But then she lifted her eyes and…
“Oh … wow,” she whispered.
Soft, shimmering waves fell from the crown of her head, the frizziness gone, the new highlights popping out, the length not much different at all.
Pablo’s accent got rolling as he described the weight he’d taken off, and how that had freed her hair to express itself more completely. Blah, blah, blah—it was just vocabulary she let wash over her. What she paid attention to was how much younger she looked. Or maybe it was more … feminine? Vibrant?
This was some serious butterfly shit, as her brother would have called it.
She glanced down at the hair between her fingers, and let the strands fall to the ground. There was no rewind button you could punch, no going back … only ever forward. She had learned that when she was twelve, her first grown-up lesson at a very young age.
And Sissy’s death had recently reminded her of that fact.
“My hair is … perfect,” she heard herself say.
Cue the smiles from Pablo.
After he whipped the cape off her shoulders, she went back to the dressing room, put her clothes on, and got another load of whoa. Her hair elevated the black slacks and simple sweater to something that might have come from Saks. Even her red Coach bag took a step up, looking downright Italian all of a sudden.
As she walked out of the dressing room to pay, she felt like she had television-commercial hair, the kind that bounced with every step, and shined under even low lighting, and made men and women stop short.
At the reception desk, she got out her checkbook, and felt her eyes bulge even though she’d known how much this was going to cost.
“Vuld yoo lick ta mayb yoo next abbointment?”
Cait glanced up from the zeroes she was filling out. Right behind Pablo, there was a floor-to-ceiling mirror, and over his right shoulder, she caught sight of her new look.
Excellent marketing device, she thought, as she stared at herself and began to nod.
She left five minutes later with considerably less in her checking account, and an appointment card for a touch-up in six weeks in her purse.
As she walked out and went over to her Lexus, she couldn’t believe she’d done it. But at least she was getting familiar with this feeling of buyer’s shock. Heck, she still had it over her new car—well, the SUV was “new” to her. CarMax had given her a great deal on a used one, and she had to admit, it was the nicest thing she’d ever driven.
But she continued to have the head spins over the thing from time to time.
The second she got in her SUV, she cranked the rearview mirror down and fluffed her goldie locks. What good timing, she thought—considering that for the first time in God only knew how long, she was meeting a friend after hours.
Starting her engine, she pulled out onto the empty road and retraced her route away from the wealthy enclave. Her “date” was actually her old college roommate—
As the past began to bubble up, she turned on NPR to cut the quiet, and hit the brakes at a red light. Leaning in, she couldn’t resist glancing into the rearview again—
“Oh, crap …”
Cait turned her head to the opposite side, even though that was silly. But at least she hadn’t lost both her earrings.
The thing had probably come out in the dressing room. Her sweater had a tight neck, and those little gold shells had iffy backings. As the light turned green, she hit the gas and told herself to just leave it—
That didn’t last long.
The earrings were solid fourteen-karat, but more than that, she’d bought them on her one Bahaman vacation right after graduation.
Wrenching the wheel left, she executed an illegal turn and headed back to reclaim what was hers.
As Adrian manifested himself in Heaven, he hummed that Eric Clapton song—in tune, because there was no one around to annoy with his fake tone-deaf routine.
“… would you know my name…”
The lawn was a bright spring green, and the sky as brilliant and resonant a blue as a cathedral’s stained glass. To the left, the protective walls of the Manse of Souls stood sturdy and tall as a mountain range, the drawbridge down over a moat that shimmered in sunlight that had no obvious source.
Up on the parapet at the top of the wall, only two victory flags waved in a lazy way—one colorful banner was missing.
What the hell was Jim thinking?
Adrian kept walking. Off to the right, next to a croquet setup, there was a table set for tea, four chairs surrounding all kinds of damask and porcelain and silver. No one was sitting at it. In fact, as he looked around, he got the distinct impression he was alone.
Made no sense—Colin had summoned him here, so the archangel had to be—
The whistle was high-pitched and distant, floating across the landscape to his ear. Pivoting around, he looked toward the river, and then started marching over in the uneven gait he was still adjusting to. Funny, he hadn’t noticed before how much grass there really was—but with his bum leg, he’d been learning new things about what distance really meant.
The archangel Colin was down at the tree line, by the old-fashioned British campaign tent that was his private quarters. Standing in the stream that wound around his little slice of Heaven, he was buck-ass naked, the rushing water teeming up to his hips.
“Moving a bit slower now, mate?” the guy said as Ad got in range.
Whatever—his gimp routine was not the reason he’d come. “We have a big f**king problem.”
Typically, Colin was good for a wisecrack or two—not tonight, evidently. The archangel emerged from the river, his powerful body glistening, his strong legs leading him over to where he’d hung his white towel on a tree branch.
“How bad is it down there?” he asked as he covered up.
Ad grunted while he lowered himself onto a rock, its warm face feeling good on his sorry ass. “So you know where Nigel is.”
“But of course.”
“Then you also know why I’m not going to waste time here.” Ad held up his palms to cut the oh-no-I-couldn’t-possibly’s. “Jim’s just taken a left-hand turn off the road and into the weeds. No one down there is in the game—except for Devina, and you know what? If Jim’s distracted now? That ain’t nothin’ compared to what’ll happen if the demon gives him that girl.”
Colin’s response was just a shake of the head. And that was so not good enough.
Ad cursed. “Seriously. Before we lose this whole goddamn thing, you need to step up. I already know I can’t go to Nigel about anything—he and I are oil and water and then some.”
His attention wasn’t on the war. It was on Sissy—and it was going to stay that way.
And Nigel’s focus? It was on wanting to beat the crap out of Jim.
Devina, however, was no doubt moving forward, circling around the soul even though she wasn’t supposed to…
The solution Ad came up with was radical and had a poor likelihood of success, but what else could he do?
The two bigger players on the team were at each other’s throats—and there was no better predictor for an enemy’s success than that kind of divided attention.
Going into his room, he pulled on some clothes, sat on his bed, and gripped his knees. As he closed his eyes, he sent out a request, the paranormal equiv of a page.
It took about two seconds to receive the summoning he was looking for.
Which meant Colin, the archangel, knew exactly why Nigel had gone earthbound—and was no happier about shit than Ad was.
Chapter Three
Victoria Beckham.
That’s who the stylist reminded her of, Cait thought as Pablo shampooed the color out of her hair. And that wasn’t an insult. It was the guy’s black hair, sharp cheekbones, and the thin legs. And that posing/pouty thing he did with one hip out.
“Okay, sitz ups fer us.”
Cait followed instructions, pulling her head out of the washing sink. Everything that was wet was immediately captured in a towel wrap, and then she was up on her feet, heading back to the chair.
“Noes oo lovf zis,” Pablo announced as she sat down.
Guess he was saying that she was going to love it?
The strange thing about that accent was that it moved around, distorting different vowels and consonants in different ways, the lack of consistency suggesting he was either posing or had an intermittent speech impediment.
As for what her opinion was going to be…
He unfurled the towel, and everything flopped onto her shoulders.
It was impossible to tell what was what. Sure, there were some lighter parts, but considering all the foils he’d folded onto her head, she expected a hell of a lot more.
Pablo pulled open the top drawer of the stand-up cupboard by his mirror and took out a square brush the size of a cutting board. Palming his hair dryer, he began fanning things out and running the hot air underneath.
“Ve dry frst und ten ve cut, cut, cut …”
Man, his eyes were dark as he worked. Not so much brown as black.
Looking into the mirror, she squirmed. This was such a dumb idea: Those three tubs of color with their separate paintbrushes? She could come out red, white, and blue for all she knew. And the hour it took for him to stripe down those tinfoil strips and origami them up against her scalp? Never getting that back. And the cost—four hundred dollars?
Maybe she was more like her parents than her chronic rebellion suggested. Because this excursion into vanity seemed like a waste on too many levels to count.
Plus she was going to have to keep it up—
“Oh … wow,” she said slowly as she turned her head.
The section he’d been working on was … really beautiful. Now dry and straight, her hair was the color it had been during her childhood, what appeared to be a hundred different shades of blond weaving in and out of the thick, shiny strands.
“Ive toll youz,” Pablo said. Or something to that effect.
And the more her hair dried out, the better it got—except then there was a pair of scissors in his hand.
“Are you sure we have to do anything?” she asked, as the blades flashed in the overhead lighting.
“Oh, chess.”
Wow, she really couldn’t place that accent of his.
Things started flying at that point, his hands spinning around her head, those sharp scissors slicing into her hair, pieces falling to the floor like feathers from a flushed bird. It looked as if she was getting layers—oh, God, bangs … she now had bangs…
Cait closed her eyes. Color could be corrected with some Clairol back home. This stuff? It was going to take a year to grow out. The trouble was, she was on the ride—no getting off in the middle of the roller coaster.
What had she done to herself…?
A tickle lit off on the back of her hand and she cracked an eyelid. A section of her hair had landed on her wrist, the three-inch length curling ever so slightly at the end. Taking it in between her fingers, she rubbed the smooth strands together.
Blond. Very blond.
When Pablo said something, she could only nod, her emotions bubbling up in her chest and distracting her from the outside world. The desperate edge to all this transformation business was not something she could ignore, not while she was busy getting turned into Veronica Lake. Not while she was paying so much for something that was entirely superficial.
Bottom line, unfortunately, was that it was so much easier to address defects in your appearance, and your car, and your apartment, than it was to dig deep and take a good hard look at your choices, your mistakes … your faults.
Like, for example, how playing it safe all your life had landed you in a prison of your own making.
The music track abruptly ended, as if the speakers had clocked out for the night, and in the silence, Pablo swapped the blades for something that looked like a curling iron, except it had two heated plates.
Straightener, she thought it was called. And the fact that she wasn’t one hundred percent sure on that made her feel her isolation from the world even further.
A rhythmic tugging started up as Pablo pulled the wand down her hair, over and over again. And as he worked his way around her head, she had too much space to think, too much time to stare at the blond strand she held.
As tears speared into her eyes, she cleared her throat. At least authorities had found Sissy Barten’s body … so those parents of hers had something to bury.
What a waste. What a further reminder that you have to live while you can—because you never knew when the ride was over.
“Look at vat vee haff.”
Pablo spun her about to face the mirror, except for a moment she couldn’t look away from what was in her hand. But then she lifted her eyes and…
“Oh … wow,” she whispered.
Soft, shimmering waves fell from the crown of her head, the frizziness gone, the new highlights popping out, the length not much different at all.
Pablo’s accent got rolling as he described the weight he’d taken off, and how that had freed her hair to express itself more completely. Blah, blah, blah—it was just vocabulary she let wash over her. What she paid attention to was how much younger she looked. Or maybe it was more … feminine? Vibrant?
This was some serious butterfly shit, as her brother would have called it.
She glanced down at the hair between her fingers, and let the strands fall to the ground. There was no rewind button you could punch, no going back … only ever forward. She had learned that when she was twelve, her first grown-up lesson at a very young age.
And Sissy’s death had recently reminded her of that fact.
“My hair is … perfect,” she heard herself say.
Cue the smiles from Pablo.
After he whipped the cape off her shoulders, she went back to the dressing room, put her clothes on, and got another load of whoa. Her hair elevated the black slacks and simple sweater to something that might have come from Saks. Even her red Coach bag took a step up, looking downright Italian all of a sudden.
As she walked out of the dressing room to pay, she felt like she had television-commercial hair, the kind that bounced with every step, and shined under even low lighting, and made men and women stop short.
At the reception desk, she got out her checkbook, and felt her eyes bulge even though she’d known how much this was going to cost.
“Vuld yoo lick ta mayb yoo next abbointment?”
Cait glanced up from the zeroes she was filling out. Right behind Pablo, there was a floor-to-ceiling mirror, and over his right shoulder, she caught sight of her new look.
Excellent marketing device, she thought, as she stared at herself and began to nod.
She left five minutes later with considerably less in her checking account, and an appointment card for a touch-up in six weeks in her purse.
As she walked out and went over to her Lexus, she couldn’t believe she’d done it. But at least she was getting familiar with this feeling of buyer’s shock. Heck, she still had it over her new car—well, the SUV was “new” to her. CarMax had given her a great deal on a used one, and she had to admit, it was the nicest thing she’d ever driven.
But she continued to have the head spins over the thing from time to time.
The second she got in her SUV, she cranked the rearview mirror down and fluffed her goldie locks. What good timing, she thought—considering that for the first time in God only knew how long, she was meeting a friend after hours.
Starting her engine, she pulled out onto the empty road and retraced her route away from the wealthy enclave. Her “date” was actually her old college roommate—
As the past began to bubble up, she turned on NPR to cut the quiet, and hit the brakes at a red light. Leaning in, she couldn’t resist glancing into the rearview again—
“Oh, crap …”
Cait turned her head to the opposite side, even though that was silly. But at least she hadn’t lost both her earrings.
The thing had probably come out in the dressing room. Her sweater had a tight neck, and those little gold shells had iffy backings. As the light turned green, she hit the gas and told herself to just leave it—
That didn’t last long.
The earrings were solid fourteen-karat, but more than that, she’d bought them on her one Bahaman vacation right after graduation.
Wrenching the wheel left, she executed an illegal turn and headed back to reclaim what was hers.
As Adrian manifested himself in Heaven, he hummed that Eric Clapton song—in tune, because there was no one around to annoy with his fake tone-deaf routine.
“… would you know my name…”
The lawn was a bright spring green, and the sky as brilliant and resonant a blue as a cathedral’s stained glass. To the left, the protective walls of the Manse of Souls stood sturdy and tall as a mountain range, the drawbridge down over a moat that shimmered in sunlight that had no obvious source.
Up on the parapet at the top of the wall, only two victory flags waved in a lazy way—one colorful banner was missing.
What the hell was Jim thinking?
Adrian kept walking. Off to the right, next to a croquet setup, there was a table set for tea, four chairs surrounding all kinds of damask and porcelain and silver. No one was sitting at it. In fact, as he looked around, he got the distinct impression he was alone.
Made no sense—Colin had summoned him here, so the archangel had to be—
The whistle was high-pitched and distant, floating across the landscape to his ear. Pivoting around, he looked toward the river, and then started marching over in the uneven gait he was still adjusting to. Funny, he hadn’t noticed before how much grass there really was—but with his bum leg, he’d been learning new things about what distance really meant.
The archangel Colin was down at the tree line, by the old-fashioned British campaign tent that was his private quarters. Standing in the stream that wound around his little slice of Heaven, he was buck-ass naked, the rushing water teeming up to his hips.
“Moving a bit slower now, mate?” the guy said as Ad got in range.
Whatever—his gimp routine was not the reason he’d come. “We have a big f**king problem.”
Typically, Colin was good for a wisecrack or two—not tonight, evidently. The archangel emerged from the river, his powerful body glistening, his strong legs leading him over to where he’d hung his white towel on a tree branch.
“How bad is it down there?” he asked as he covered up.
Ad grunted while he lowered himself onto a rock, its warm face feeling good on his sorry ass. “So you know where Nigel is.”
“But of course.”
“Then you also know why I’m not going to waste time here.” Ad held up his palms to cut the oh-no-I-couldn’t-possibly’s. “Jim’s just taken a left-hand turn off the road and into the weeds. No one down there is in the game—except for Devina, and you know what? If Jim’s distracted now? That ain’t nothin’ compared to what’ll happen if the demon gives him that girl.”
Colin’s response was just a shake of the head. And that was so not good enough.
Ad cursed. “Seriously. Before we lose this whole goddamn thing, you need to step up. I already know I can’t go to Nigel about anything—he and I are oil and water and then some.”
