Crave

More than anything, Grier was furious at herself. As she pounded over to her Audi, weeding through the other cars and getting heckled by a knuck dragger or two, everything came into sharp focus: where she was, what she'd done earlier at the courthouse, who she was trying to save.



Isaac had broken that guy's arm. In front of her and a hundred other people. And treated it with the same degree of shock and panic as someone hanging up a phone.



Like he did that every day.



And then he'd accepted money for it.



Coming up to her sedan, she got her key fob out and deactivated the alarm. And as she caught her reflection in the glass of the driver's-side door, she thought of her brother.



The kind of wild buzz that had driven her to come out here reminded her of the night he'd died.



Grier had been the one to find his body and her resuscitation efforts had made no difference . . . because he'd been dead before she'd started them. But she'd kept up the pumping on his chest and the breathing into his mouth anyway.



The paramedics had had to drag her off his body. Screaming.



And the thing was, in death, as well as in life, he hadn't cared about all her efforts to save him. He'd been transfixed by his final fix, a haunting look of ecstatic pleasure frozen on his pasty gray face, his driving addiction fulfilled.



Recklessness took a variety of different forms, didn't it.



She'd always prided herself on being the responsible one out of the pair of them, the one who had excelled at school, and worked hard to get ahead, and never done anything that her parents would have disapproved of. She'd certainly never, ever tried illegal drugs. Not even once.



And yet here she was, putting herself and her career at risk on the off chance she could talk a total stranger into going straight. If the police had shown up--or did, there was still time for that--getting arrested as a spectator would have had her booted from the Massachusetts bar faster than she could say, "But, Judge, I was only there for my client." She'd already put up twenty-five grand, which would hardly break her bank . . . except how much farther could those funds have gone if put to use on some program for at-risk youth?



As her head started to pound, she regarded her actions since around nine a.m. with a clear eye. And what do you know, she saw not so much someone doing good in the world, but an out-of-control woman who was--



Daniel appeared on the far side of her car, his ghostly face dead serious. Get in, Grier. Get in the car and lock the doors.



"What?" she said. "Why--"



Do it. Now. Her dead brother seemed to focus on the air behind her right shoulder. Damn it, Grier--



"I remember who you are."



She squeezed her eyes shut. Oh for God's sake, this just kept getting better, didn't it. The meth head was back.



Turning around to give her erstwhile suitor another--



The man grabbed her arms, and with a shove that left her teeth singing, pushed her up against the car face-first. As he held her in place with his body, she was reminded that men were in fact built differently from women: They were a hell of a lot stronger. Especially when they were high and desperate.



"You're Danny's sister." The breath on her cheek was hot and smelled like roadkill in August. "You showed up a couple of times at his place. What happened to him?"



"He died," she croaked out.



"Oh . . . God. I'm sorry. . . ." The addict seemed honestly sad. In a Tim Burton, distorted-netherworld kind of way. "Listen, can you spare some cash? Rich girl like you . . . hafta have some cash on you. But only if you can manage it."



Uh-huh, right. She knew she was going to give him what he wanted whether she liked it or not--which was how, in spite of the way he phrased it, a mugging worked.



Rough hands rummaged around and her purse was ripped off her shoulder. She thought about yelling, but the weight bearing down on her rib cage made anything more than shallow breaths impossible, and besides, she had parked way around the side in the shadows. Who was going to hear her?



As her wide eyes tracked the departing cars and trucks that were so close and yet so far away, she had an absolutely absurd memory of the opening scene from Jaws--where the woman was being dragged under by the shark and saw the glowing lights of houses on the shore.



"I'm not gonna hurt you. . . . I just need money."



With his body still forcing her against the car, he dumped the contents of her bag on the muddy ground, her cell phone, wallet, keys, everything pouring free. And then he tossed her sixteen-thousand-dollar Birkin bag over the hood of the Audi.



Stupid bastard. He could have gotten more for that on eBay than any cash he'd find in her wallet.



Half of her mind was in a panic, the other part icy calm, and she went with the latter, because she was nothing if not her father's daughter: This freaked- out addict was going to spin her around at some point because he was going to want her jewelry, and when he did, she had a good chance of kneeing him where it counted.



Even if she had to pretend she wasn't about to throw up all over her shoes--



The weight crushing against her wasn't so much removed as it was vaporized, gone as if it had never been: One second she couldn't breathe. The next, she had all the oxygen in the world.



As she dragged in a tremendous gulp of air and held on to the car roof to keep standing, grunts sounded next to her.



Pushing herself around, she had to blink a couple of times to understand what she was looking at--but no amount of wait-maybe-I'm-not-seeing-this- right changed what was going on: Isaac had come out of nowhere, pinned her assailant to the ground, and was giving the guy a root canal the hard way.



Namely with his fist.



"Isaac--" Her voice cracked and she coughed. "Isaac! Stop it!"



Louie the PI's voice echoed through her head: That SOB could be a murderer.



"Isaac!"



She was expecting to have to jump on him or call for help to get him to stop the beating, but as soon as it started, it was over. Isaac quit the Rocky routine on his own, flipping the man onto his stomach and wrenching his arms back to immobilize him.



Nothing was broken this time.



And Isaac wasn't even breathing hard as he glanced over at her. "Are you okay?"



His eyes were sharp, his expression deadly and calm, his voice even and polite. It was obvious that he was in total control of himself and the situation . . . and it dawned on her that he might possibly have saved her from something awful. With addicts, you never knew what they were going to do.



"Did he hurt you?" Isaac said. "Are you okay?"



"No," she answered roughly, not sure which question she was answering.



With sheer, brute strength, Isaac picked the man up and gave him a shove and there was no argument, not even a comment. Her attacker scrambled away like he was damned well aware he'd narrowly missed the beat-down of his life.



And then Isaac picked up her things. One by one, he gathered what had been in her purse, wiping off the mud on his own sweatshirt, lining everything up on the hood of her car.



Falling back against the driver's-side door, she was captivated by how very careful he was, his bloody hands gentle.



Daniel appeared right beside him, seemingly struck by how he treated what was hers. Let him take you home, Grier. You're in no condition to drive.



"He hasn't asked me," she mumbled.



"Asked you what?" Isaac said, glancing over.



When she waved the words away, he went and got her bag, putting everything into it before holding the thing out to her. "I'd like to drive you home. If you'll let me."



Bingo, her brother said.



She opened her mouth to shut up Daniel, but just didn't have the energy to follow through with it.



"Ms. Childe?" With her client's Southern accent, that came out as one word, MzChiiiiilde.



God, what to do. And of course, Hell, no, was the healthiest response--in spite of Daniel's opinion.



Trust me, Daniel said.



Isaac's voice dropped. "Just let me get you home safe. Please."



For some unknowable reason, her instincts were telling her to trust this stranger with a bad past and a criminal present who was on the run. Or was it just a case of her savior complex overriding better judgment?



Or . . . was it the look on a ghost's face? Like Daniel was seeing something she couldn't in this collision between her and a dangerous stranger with a soft Southern drawl.



"I don't need a driver. That I can do myself." She took her bag from him. "But I do need you to stick around and face your charges."



Isaac scanned the area. "How about we talk at your house."



"I carry Mace, you know."



"I'm glad."



"And a stun gun." For all the good it had done her just now.



Good Lord, she couldn't believe she was even thinking about going home with Isaac. The meth head had been a twitchy amateur . . . and her client sure as hell seemed like a professional.



His pale gray eyes bored into hers. "I'm not going to hurt you. I swear it."



With a curse, she wrenched open the car door. "I'm driving."



The question was, Where the hell was she going? And with whom?



Jim watched the Audi drive off, its milky exhaust rising up behind both cold tailpipes. He was utterly unconcerned about where the pair went--he'd slipped transmitters into both Isaac's sweatshirt and the bag with the money.



"You could have just let me do a locator spell," Eddie muttered.



"I'm used to working with the GPS shit from my old job." And who could have guessed he'd ever suffer from technology nostalgia?



Speaking of intel--it was time for some clarity in that department: Although he could see how and why Isaac might be up next on the list of seven souls, a little face-to-face time with his English dandy of a boss was the only way to be certain.



Lot of pressure off him if it turned out saving Isaac's ass had a larger purpose.



He swiveled his head toward Eddie. "Tell me how to get over to the Four Lads. Do I have to die again?"



If he did, he had a Beretta on him and he already knew what kicking the bucket from a gunshot was like. Snore.



"Don't bother." Adrian cracked his knuckles. "They're not going to tell you anything. They can't."



What the fuck? "I thought I worked for them."



"You work for both sides, and they've given you all the help they can."



Jim looked back and forth between the two angels: Each of them had the tight expression of a guy with a shoestring noosing up his balls.



"Help?" he said. "Where's my goddamned help?"



"They gave you us, asshole," Adrian snapped. "And that's all they can do--I've already gone over and asked them who's supposed to be next. I figured it would help you, you ungrateful bastard."



Jim popped his brows at the Mr. Thoughtful routine. First time through the park with Adrian, the guy had silver-plated Jim to the enemy--to the point where he'd ended up fucking Devina in the parking lot of a club. In his truck. Without knowing she was a demon.



"Times have changed since then," Ad said gruffly. "You know they have."



In a flash, Jim remembered what the guy had looked like just a day or so ago after Devina had finished using and abusing him in a variety of ways. He'd given himself over to her so that Jim had had half a chance at winning the first round.



"Yeah, they have." Jim offered his knuckles in guy-speak for, Sorry I insinuated you're dog shit.



As Ad gave them a pound, Eddie said, "We're technically against the rules."



Jim shrugged. "If it'll help me win, I'll take it. Rules are relative."



Which was why he'd been chosen, wasn't it. He was hardly a frickin' Boy Scout--



Jim's head snapped around at a metal-on-metal squeaking sound. The portable octagon had been dismantled and was being shoved through the door by four guys who then carried it over to a U-Haul van. Next trip in and out they were carrying the eight concrete corner weights and poles and then no one was left but him and Eddie and Adrian.



Which was a metaphor for the sitch he was in, wasn't it.



Fine. This was how the game was played? Cool. He was used to relying on himself and his instincts in the field . . . and everything was pulling him toward Isaac.



The question was: where was Devina? Assuming she was after Isaac, she'd be searching for a way into him so her parasitic nature could take him over and she could ultimately own him forever in Hell after she killed him.



Jim refocused on his angels. "If Devina is possessing someone, is there a way to tell? Any markers? Reference points?"



At least then he could get a bead on her.



"Sometimes," Eddie said. "But she can wipe away her fingerprints, so to speak--and now that she knows me and Ad are with you, she'll be extra careful. However, there are some clean souls she'll never touch, and those glow."



"Glow? You mean like . . ." Shit, that blond attorney who'd taken Isaac home with her had had a light all around her body--which was why when Jim had seen her, he'd stared at her as he had. "Like a halo?"



"Exactly like that."



Well, at least there was one thing working in their favor. He'd assumed he'd just been seeing things. Turned out he was--and thank God for it.



Jim took out his GPS receiver and called up Isaac's two little blinking dots. Sooner or later, if Devina was fucking with the guy, she was going to make an appearance in one form or another--and they were going to be there when she did.



"Are there such things as protective spells?" he asked. "Anything I can put around Isaac to keep him safe from her?"



"We can work something out," Eddie said with an evil little smile. " 'Bout time to start teaching you that stuff."



You got that right, Jim thought.



Closing his eyes, he unfurled his wings, their great weight settling on his spine and shoulders as they became visible. "They're heading into town. Let's go--"



"Hold up," Eddie said, his wings appearing. "We need to go by the hotel and get some supplies. Assuming you don't want us going inside the house?"



"As long as Devina doesn't show, I'll stay on the out."



"This won't take all that long."



"It'd better not."



As he grabbed a couple of running steps to get the momentum working for him, he felt the irony of everything like a great gust under his body: He never would have believed that angels existed or that the eternal battle between good and evil was not only real, but something he'd be fighting in.



Then again, when you weighed in at about two hundred and twenty pounds of solid muscle and were able to haul yourself off the ground with a network of metaphysical feathers . . . the crazy-ass reality you were in had a fuckload of credibility.



He was going to be goddamned if Devina got her claws into Isaac--in whatever form she was currently copping to. Isaac was his boy, and the idea of that man falling into his enemy's hands was not acceptable--especially if that demon happened to be wearing a familiar face.



Which just happened to have an eye patch.