The Sinner
“No, I don’t,” she got out between pants.
He looked in the direction they’d come from, as if they were being chased. Or were about to be.
“I cannot leave you here.”
There was an accent to his words. Not quite French, not really German. Not really Italian.
He lowered his head and his nostrils flared. Then he cursed. “You need me—”
Jo stepped back sharply. “Leave me alone—”
“I can’t. You’re going to die.”
Fear curled inside Jo’s chest, and it wasn’t because she was scared of him. “You don’t know me—”
The man cursed again. “You’ve got to listen to—”
That helicopter crested over the building next to them, the light swinging in a wide circle and heading in their direction.
“The police aren’t going to help you,” he said. “They’re going to arrest you. And I know where to go. You can trust me.”
“I’m not going to run from the—”
“They saw you holding a gun to my chest. They know what you look like. Do you want to end up in jail tonight? Or do you want to get out of here.”
As Jo looked up, the blast from the blades peeled her hair back against her head. To keep things together, and because she didn’t want to be recognized, she yanked the hood of her windbreaker up and tied it in place.
“I don’t trust you,” she yelled through the wind currents.
“Good. You shouldn’t. But I’m all you got right now.”
“Sonofabitch,” she muttered.
When he took her hand again, she expected to be pulled behind him once more. Instead, he stayed where he was, his huge body tense, his eyes fierce, his aura that of such urgency, you’d have sworn he was rescuing her from a serial killer.
She thought of what she’d look like in her mug shot. Then she pictured how thrilled Dick would be that she’d gotten herself arrested. Finally, she considered her bank account. She might have been the adopted daughter of the grand and glorious Philadelphia Earlys, but the estrangement she had effected with her parents years ago had hit her bank account hard.
“Well,” she snapped, “where are we going.”
And still he did not move. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
“Great, now stop talking and start moving, or I will.”
He nodded, as if they’d struck some kind of deal, and then they were off, pounding down the alley, going further into the maze of downtown as the helicopter swung around again overhead. The corners they took were made with decisive turns on his part, as if he knew exactly where he was taking her, and she kept up with him now, the desire to evade the police making her go track star with the running.
Skidding into a right turn, he shot them down a narrow artery between two apartment buildings, and then he—
Took them right into the path of a Caldwell Police Department patrol car.
As the headlights hit them both, he stopped. And so did she.
Maybe it was McCordle, she thought—
“Drop your weapon!” the female officer barked as she opened her door and stuck her gun out around the jamb of the windshield. “Drop your weapon—now!”
Jo put both her hands up.
And that was when she realized that the cop wasn’t talking to the man next to her. Jo was the one who was armed; she still had her gun in her palm.
“Guess you don’t know which way to go as well as you thought,” she muttered as she ordered her grip to release the nine millimeter.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Devina, the immortal who wanted to be a woman, put her palms together, stuck out her forefingers, and extended both her thumbs up, making like she had a gun. Aiming her red painted nails at the night sky, she pretended she was leading the helicopter that was circling like a fly trying to land in someone’s soup. It was hard to judge whether her extrapolations of speed and direction were correct, however, without actually sending a bullet into that annoying tin can with its loud, thumping rotors.
Her virtue for a handheld missile launcher.
Now that might be fun. And for a second, she thought about conjuring one out of thin air, just for shits and giggles. It would be exciting to see a fireball explode under those rotator arms, and then watch as the twisted, no-longer-flight-worthy carcass careened into a building. Or maybe the thing would pull a Ping-Pong ball and ricochet into a couple of skyscrapers, the flanks of the stone and glass constructions like rackets to send it back and forth.
People would definitely be killed, and not just the pilot. Maybe a transformer would get overloaded and become a secondary source of fun and games. Chaos. Sirens. Humans tripping over each other, trampling puppies and kittens, babies rolling like melons down the street.
Yay. Rah.
She should get right on it.
Or maybe… she would just keep wandering.
As she resumed her promenade, she played with her short skirt. It was vintage Escada, a poufy, poppy-colored, polka-dotted flounce that was only long enough to cover her thong. She’d put it on along with a little muscle shirt and fifteen “Like a Virgin” sautoirs, the crosses and beads and chains tangling in a mesh over her breasts. For shoes, she went straight-up Carrie Bradshaw—Jimmy Choos from 1991. In a pink that ever so slightly clashed with the skirt. No purse because she had just plain forgotten, and she didn’t need a coat in the cold because, hello, demon.
It was a good outfit. Chosen from her wardrobe with forced care.
An attempt to self-medicate with fashion.
In the back of her mind, she heard Dr. Phil say, And how’s that working for you?
Not well, Phil. Not at all, actually.
She took another pretend shot at the helicopter, and then her child’s version of an autoloader disappeared as she sneezed and had to cover her lower face for decorum. Fuck. That smell. It was like someone had tied a dead raccoon to a stick and sprayed the bloated nose-nightmare with drugstore perfume—
Devina stopped, her senses threading out.
In slow motion, her head turned on its spine and she narrowed her eyes on an alley, about which nothing seemed remarkable: There were fire escapes spiderweb’ing down the back sides of some older buildings, a couple of dumpsters… and miscellaneous pavement trash that collected in doorways, the city’s version of dandruff.
None of that mattered. What held her attention were the two male figures about a block down from the intersection she was standing in. One was lying faceup in a classic pose of supplication, arms flopped out to the sides, boots lolling at the ends of his ankles. The other was bending over as if he intended to kiss the first, but not with passion. It was more like the Grim Reaper coming to claim a soul, menace and death marking the exchange, something consumed from the one who was a victim by the one who was a predator.
As a tingle curled in Devina’s gut, the sensation was at once achingly familiar and utterly alien. It had been that long.
And it wasn’t just that two men getting it on was awesome.
Something swirled around the tableau of dominance and submission, and it wasn’t the stench.
Evil. Pure, high-octane evil was down there in that alley. It was… her, but not her, her essence captured and held within the flesh of the one that was on the ground… and yet he was not what interested her. No, she was enthralled by the one who was now opening his mouth. Now beginning to inhale. Now… drawing up and out of the parted lips of the supplicant a black ether, breath, but not breath.