Crave

As Adrian reappeared in the back forty of the lawyer's house, he once again took up res next to Eddie--who was doing an excellent imitation of an oak tree.



"You send the father off?" the other angel murmured.



"Yeah. I gave us enough time for Jim to get back here. He call yet?" Like, in the five minutes he'd been out front with Isaac.



"No."



"Damn it."



Frustrated at everything, Ad brushed at his arms, which were still steaming a little. Man, he hated smelling like vinegar--and gee, what do you know, the skirmish with Devina's Disposable Posse had ruined yet another fucking leather jacket. Which pissed him off.



He'd really liked this one.



Giving up, he refocused on the back of the house. Jim's superstrength spell was all ashimmer, the red glow sparkling in the night.



"Where the hell is Jim," Eddie growled as he checked his watch.



"Maybe a fight will come find us again." Ad forced himself to crack a smile. "Or I could go get us another girlie."



As Eddie cleared his throat and made like he was all Mr. I-So-Don't-Do-That, Ad knew better. The angel was a ferocious motherfucker once he dropped the buttoned-up routine--Rachel of the perfect teeth and no last name had been floating on air as they'd sent her off at dawn. And as much as it pained Ad to admit it, he had a feeling a lot of that postcoital blissed-out shit had been from Eddie's ministrations.



Bastard had a hell of a tongue, evidently--and good job he did. Ad had tried to get into the sex, but he'd ended up just going through the motions.



Eddie rechecked his watch. Looked at his phone. Glanced around. "What did you do to the father?"



"He thinks he came here and Isaac was gone already."



Eddie rubbed his face like he was exhausted. "I hope like hell Jim gets back soon--that Isaac character is going to bolt. I can feel it."



"Which is why I hit him with my magic palm." Adrian flexed the thing. "Jim likes GPS. I don't."



"At least TomToms don't sing like you do."



"Why is everyone else in the world tone-deaf?"



"I think it's the other way around."



"Feh."



A breeze whistled through the bare limbs of the budding fruit trees and both of them stiffened . . . but it wasn't round two of Devina's disposables rolling in. Just the wind.



The long wait grew longer.



And even longer-er.



To the point where Adrian's natural tendency to be in movement itched up his spine and had him cracking his neck. Over and over again.



"How you doing?" Eddie said softly.



Oh, great. Like the caring-sharing shit would help him relax? Even on a good night, that routine gave him the urge to run around the block a couple hundred times.



"Ad?"



"I'm fine. Dandy. Yourself?"



"I'm serious."



"And we're not going there."



Little pause . . . liiiiiittle happy pause that was drenched and dripping in Eau de Disapproval. "You can talk about it," Eddie countered. "I'm just saying."



Oh, for chrissakes. He knew the guy was just being all about the buddy-I-got-your-backs, and it wasn't that he didn't appreciate the effort. But after Devina had had at him this last time, his insides were loose and sloppy, and if he didn't weather-strip his door, dead-bolt it and toss out his welcome mat, things were going to get messy. In ways that couldn't be cleaned up.



"And I'm telling you, I'm good. But thanks."



To cut off the convo, he focused on the house. God, that "low-level" spell of Jim's was so strong . . . as strong as anything Adrian and Eddie could pull off under the full leverage of their powers. Which might well mean that that angel had tricks which could seriously fuck with Devina--



The soft chiming of Eddie's phone was good news: There was only one person who could be calling and that was Jim.



Adrian glanced over when Eddie didn't accept the call. "You're not answering?"



Eddie shook his head. "He sent us a picture. Network's slow tonight--it's still coming up."



You'd think with all the shit they could do, they'd be able to communicate telepathically--and to some degree, they were able to. But long distances were kind of like shouting across to the other side of a football stadium. Also, if someone was injured or dying, the ability to pull off stuff like spells and incantations and mind thoughts--



"Oh . . . God . . ."



As Eddie's voice broke, Adrian felt a premonition pour over his head like cold blood. "What."



Eddie started to scramble with the phone's buttons.



Ad grabbed for the cell. "Don't you erase it--don't you fucking--"



A couple of quick lunges and they were in a full-out fight for the phone--and Adrian won only because desperation made him lightning fast.



"Don't look at it," Eddie barked. "Don't look--"



Too. Late.



The little image on the glossy screen was of Jim naked and splayed out on a huge wooden table, arms wide, legs wide. Metal wire was wound around his wrists and ankles to pin him down, and his skin was lit by candlelight. His erect cock had a leather strap wrapped around the base to keep it hard --but although he was technically aroused, he wasn't juiced for the sex; that was for sure. . . . and Adrian knew exactly what Devina did to get the initial blood flow where she wanted it.



That tourniquet was going to give her something to play with for hours and hours.



Adrian swallowed, his throat tightening up sure as if he were on those hard, oily boards himself. He knew all too well what was coming next.



And he knew what those shadowy figures lurking in the background were.



The texted caption under the photo: My New Toy .



"We've got to get him out of there." Adrian nearly crushed the phone from the way his hand tightened around it. "That fucking bitch."



Lying on Devina's "worktable," as she called it, Jim didn't bother looking at her--not even when she got his phone out and a flash went off. What he was primarily concerned with were the dark figures that circled the periphery like they were dogs about to get set loose: He had a feeling they were the same things he and the boys had fought outside of that lawyer's house, because they moved with that shifty, snakelike undulation. Whatever. Chances were good he was going to know one way or the other in not long at all.



Thanks to the curtain of darkness that surrounded him, he had no conception of the number of them or the size of the room: The candlelight threw only so much illumination, and the wax-and-wick numbers were set at intervals of a couple of feet around him.



So this was how a birthday cake felt: kinda worried, given that all your delicate frosting was damn close to open flames.



Plus you were on the verge of getting eaten.



Devina stepped into the light and smiled like the angel she absolutely wasn't. "Comfortable?"



"I could use a pillow. But other than that, I'm good."



Hell, if she could lie, so could he. The truth was those wires around his ankles and wrists had barbs on them, so there were bands of pain at all his pulse points. He also had a high-fashion necklace of the same shit that made swallowing just a boatload of fun. And the table under him was coated in some kind of acid--most likely the blood from the things around the periphery.



Clearly, Devina had worked out a lot of demons on these planks, too.



He was willing to bet Adrian had been here. Eddie as well.



Oh, God . . . had the blond girl?



Jim closed his eyes, and on the backs of his lids, saw that lovely innocent strung up over that tub again. Shit, to hell with saving the world. He wished he could have traded himself for her.



Cold fingers drifted up the inside of his leg, and as they got closer and closer to his cock, sharp nails scraped his skin.



A strange sound percolated up, and for some reason it reminded him of deboning a chicken--lot of loose flapping and muffled cracking. Then there was an odd smell . . . like . . . what the fuck was it?



When Devina spoke next, her voice was warped, the tone deeper . . . lower and raspy. "I liked being with you before, Jim. Remember that? In your truck . . . but this is going to be so much better. Look at me, Jim. See the real me."



"I'm good like this. But thanks--"



Nails gouged into his balls, and then his sac was twisted hard. As the driving pain hit the neuron superhighway of his pelvic girdle, its fumes created a curdling nausea in his gut. Which of course had nowhere to go thanks to the collar clamped around his neck.



Yup, dry heaves were all he had to offer, because nothing was going to evac up his throat.



"Look at me." More with the wrenching.



His gaping mouth took its own sweet time getting his reply out. Then again, it was busy trying to accommodate the gulps of air he was taking. ". . . No . . ."



Something mounted him. He didn't know who or what it was, because there were suddenly hands all over him, the gates unleashed--



No, not hands. Mouths.



With sharp teeth.



As his cock penetrated something that had all the softness and slickness of a rusted-out sink drain, the first of the cuts were made on his chest. Might have been a blade. Might have been a long fang.



And then something blunt was forced into his mouth. Tasting salt and flesh, he figured it was some kind of cock and he started to choke, air suddenly becoming a scarce commodity.



Riding the crest of suffocation, he had a moment of total, autonomic flip-out. It was, however, a case of mind over body. The faster his heart pounded, the worse the lack of oxygen was and the brighter and hotter the flaring agony inside his rib cage.



Slow down, he told himself. Slow it all down. Just sloooooooooooooow down. . . .



Higher reasoning reigned and got the reins on his body: His pounding blood cooled and his lungs learned to wait for the withdrawals from his mouth to sneak a breath.



Frankly, he wasn't impressed. Sexual shit was so unimaginative when it came to torture.



This wasn't going to be a walk in the park, for real. But Devina wasn't going to break him with this violation bullshit. Or by trying to fillet his fish with the knife work.The thing with pain was, yeah, sure, it lit up your switchboard, but really, it was nothing more than a loud sensation--and like going to a concert and having your eardrums compensate over time, eventually you got used to it.



Besides, he had vast reserves of strength: Matthias had lived another day, his boys were hanging with Grier and Isaac, and while he would have preferred a time-out at Disney World or Club Med instead, the power of doing the right thing and sacrificing himself for another's well-being was sustenance for every cell in his body.



He was going to make it through this.



And then he was going save Isaac's soul and laugh in Devina's face at the end of this round.



The bitch couldn't kill him and was not going to get the best of him.



Game on.