Immortal (32 page)

It was the fall that lasted forever.

At first, Devina thought she was stuck in a suck zone, but as the walls of her Well of Souls appeared on all sides of her, she realized she was actually descending into Hell on a dead drop.

This was going to hurt.

And she was right.

The impact was soul-shattering, the kind of thing that made her lose breath, sight, heartbeat . . . as well as the illusion of beauty that required her conscious support. But she didn't die. Even as all the pain receptors she had screamed in agony and her rotted flesh contorted and twisted against the onslaught, she was still “alive.”

So when the flickering began high above her, she was able to witness it.

At first, she assumed that it was stars dancing in front of her eyes from a head injury, but then she realized . . . no.

It was a kind of shimmering snow.

Except . . . no.

It was her collection. Filtering down through the stagnant air of the well, all the pieces of metal she'd collected over the millennia drifted in a descent, as if they sought to stay with her even though she was in some kind of eternal prison now.

Sitting up, she held out her arms, ready to catch the beautiful shower as it rained—

None of the objects reached her.

From out of the viscous walls of the prison that was now her jail as well, the tortured hands of the damned reached out and retook whatever was theirs, claiming the objects, grabbing them back, reestablishing ownership.

Stealing from her.

That was when the loss of the war hit home. And the demon wept tears that became black diamonds that skipped and jumped on the ragged stone floor by her worktable.

She let the emotion have its way with her because she had no choice. She had lost her shot at domination. She had been cheated of an eternity that was rightfully hers. Her collection was gone. God only knew if she had any minions left to listen to her.

Cupping her skull in her hands of bone, she wept so hard she thought she would shatter all over again, just as her beloved mirror had.

But she did not.

Eventually, the heaving and the tears stopped, and she sniffled and tried to mop herself up—although that was hard to do with the raw bones of her arm.

Marshaling up some strength, she called on the illusion she had been relying on to make herself beautiful, thinking that at least that would cheer her up.

Nothing happened. Her flesh did not reknit and rekindle its color and warmth. Her luxurious brunette hair did not sprout from her bald skull. Her legs did not magically appear smooth and luscious.

She cried again at that point.

Except then the sound of something clattering next to her brought her head up. It was a shoe. It was . . . one of her sparkling—

The other half of the pair of Louboutins dropped right beside her.

Sniffling, she reached out and brought them close, wiping off black smudges from the creamy-colored crystals . . . all of which were in metal settings.

Proof positive that if you buy quality, it'll last through everything. Including the portal into Hell.

Looking them over, watching as the ambient light caught on those minute facets and reflected back to her, she prized them all the more because they were the last of her life up above, the final dredges of her precious collection. As it was now? All she had was that stained worktable of hers and this busted, rotting body.

She stretched out and put one on, then the other. The fact that they were a size too small worked well now that there was little to no meat on her feet.

As she turned her ankles this way and that, the shoes gleamed in spite of how ugly she was, the red soles still vibrant because she'd barely worn them.

But soon she lost interest in admiring them.

It turned out that therapist—who she was now convinced hadn't been a human female at all, but rather the Creator Himself—was right. The stilettos were just objects. And anything that had truly mattered was out of reach now: her work doing evil, her love for Jim, her freedom to roam where and when she wanted.

Just shoes.

The Creator had been trying to get her to see a truth she had learned too late.

The things? Were not the thing.

But come on, she was evil. What else was a girl to do?

Leaning her head back, she stared up, up, up . . . and wondered what Jim was doing. Probably celebrating with that Sissy.

God, she hated him; she really did.

Maybe someday, if she ever got out of this place . . . she could find herself a real man, someone who appreciated her for who and what she was. Someone who was sick and twisted, but had good traditional values, a nice bank account, and a sense of humor.

And could go for hours in the sack.

Probably nobody like that existed. But considering she had nothing else to do for . . . well, shit, maybe forever . . . she might as well live in fantasy.

Memories and her mind were all she had now.

The following afternoon . . .

Up in Heaven, Nigel rolled the tea cart over to the knoll by the walls of the Manse of Souls. Typically, the table was willed into being, but with naught to occupy himself, he wanted to do things more manually.

He was the one who flipped free the damask tablecloth from its careful folds, and he set the plates out, and the cups and saucers. He arranged the teapot and the caddies of sugar and cream and also the rounder that held the assortment of scones and biscuits.

All right, fine, he had conjured the edibles—but he was no baker.

Leaning down, Nigel lined up the silverware precisely along with the napkins. Adjusted things so they were perfect. Fiddled with the flowers—

“That for me?”

He hid a small smile as he turned around and saw Jim. “You are welcome to join us, savior.”

The angel seemed awkward, as if he didn't know how to handle having done his job well. “You don't have to call me that anymore.”

Nigel inhaled deeply. Straightened his white suit. And walked around the table.

Without preamble or artifice, he hugged Jim and said roughly, “I do believe we shall call you that forevermore.”

Jim returned the embrace and they stayed there for a moment. Then they both stepped back. By that time, the other archangels had appeared with Tarquin—who bounded up to Jim and nearly knocked him down.

As the group spoke of victory and praise, Nigel stood on the periphery and witnessed the exchange of congratulations: Byron and Bertie threw their arms about the savior as much as their dog did, and even Colin joined in, the warrior archangel going so far as to pop a smile that reached his beautiful eyes.

Unable to bear the sight of that, Nigel glanced up to the parapet. There were seven flags waving in the breeze, Jim's final win laying claim to all the rounds, even the ones Devina had prevailed in. The colors were varied and looked as a rainbow up in the sky.

“—Nigel?”

“I'm terribly sorry,” he said, shaking himself back into focus. “What was that?”

“Mind if I ask you something in private?” Jim repeated.

Nigel glanced over his table. The three archangels had sat down, Byron and Bertie chatting like songbirds in a spring tree, their innate energy boosted by the fact that the fear was gone, the stress was gone, and all that remained was the place and the job they loved best.

“There is no need,” Nigel murmured. “Your answer is yes.”

Jim's eyes closed and he weaved in his boots.

“You okay, mate?” Colin asked.

The savior nodded and rubbed his face. Then he looked at Nigel. “You sure?”

“Do you think I would do aught to jeopardize the souls of the righteous?”

“Okay, then. Thank you.”

“Not my doing, but your own.” Then he relented. “But I am . . . so happy for you. So very happy for you both.”

“Thanks.” Jim hesitated. “One last thing . . . the souls like Sissy? The innocents who've been slaughtered over the centuries by Devina to protect that mirror of hers—”

“They have joined the righteous herein. The Creator saw to it immediately after Devina was banished to her Well of Souls.”

“So that's where she is.”

“And that is where she shall stay.”

“Good deal. That's . . . good.”

The savior left a moment later, and Nigel stared at the spot where he had stood. There was so much to be grateful for, so much to rejoice in . . . and yet he was sad to the point of despair.

“If you will excuse me,” he said without meeting anyone in the eye. “I shall retire to my quarters.”

Byron smiled. “But of course. There is much to recover from.”

Bertie nodded as he slipped Tarquin a bit of a biscuit. “By all means, we shall watch o'er it all for you.”

Nigel nodded and turned away. There was no reason to wait for any response from Colin, even though the archangel was the only one he truly cared about having one from.

As he made his way across the grass, he thought of the humans down below, living, dying, falling in love, getting their hearts broken. They were stronger than he had ever known, he realized—for all these millennia he had wrongly pitied them their mortal coil.

Now he viewed them as triumphant.

They had to not just fear loss, but live through the reality of it . . . and the victory that had transpired was not going to change that. With evil gone out of the world, they still had death to contend with, and how he respected them for their resilience.

When he reached his tent, he pulled back the flap and stepped inside to the luxury he had once found so intrinsic to his well-being. Now, it was all simply trappings of a colorful sort.

His eyes went over to the chaise longue where he had done his terrible act, and although he hated the thing, he'd kept it for a reason. The reminder of his arrogance and his faulty thinking was necessary to—

“Do you know what I am?”

Nigel wheeled around. Colin was standing just inside the tent, his eyes remote, his body filling the entrance.

“I-I-I . . .” Nigel required a moment to contend with his surprise. “I'm sorry, whatever do you mean?”

Colin entered and did a little turn, holding his strong arms out from his body. “Do you know what I am?”

You are the love of my existence, Nigel thought.

“You are Colin,” he said instead.

The other archangel made a non-committal sound in his throat—such that there was no telling whether the inquiry had been answered correctly. “There is a saying, down upon the earth about one such as myself. I'm certain you have heard of it?”

“I'm afraid I am not a mind reader.” Nigel touched his own head. “This does not work as well as it used to.”

Colin came a little closer, and closer still. And then he did the most miraculous thing. He reached out and touched Nigel's face, brushing down his cheek. “The saying that is so often tossed about among the souls down below is . . . ‘To err is human, to forgive is divine.'”

Nigel's heart began to pound. And then his head became dizzy. “Yes, yes, I have heard this.”

Please do not break my heart, he thought. Even though I broke yours.

“And what am I,” Colin prompted.

“You are . . .” Tears made things go wavy. “You are an archangel. You are God's favored warrior, protector of Heaven and earth. You are . . .”

He couldn't get the last word out. So Colin finished for him. “I am divine.” Colin leaned in and kissed him. “I am divine. And I forgive you.”

Nigel was not gallant at all as he threw himself into his lover's arms. He knew not to question the gift of this reunion. He did not care what conclusions Colin had wrestled over and come to terms with. He didn't dwell on what precise realization had changed everything.

In the past, he would have insisted on knowing the particulars.

Now? He took what he was offered and held on for dear life.

There were other human sayings that came to mind, ones involving gifts and horses and mouths, even one involving “happily” and “ever” and “after.”

But as he eased back in Colin's arms, he went with the most powerful human saying of them all.

“I love you,” he said softly. “I love you . . . forever.”

As Adrian let himself into the back of the old house, he had about thirty-five thousand calories of Dunkin' Donuts between the three bags and the box of twenty-four assorted that he'd just bought. It was around four in the afternoon, and even though some might have considered the load breakfast material only, he was far less judgmental—and because he was a good guy, he'd even tested the lot for poison, eating two jellies and a chocolate-covered on the way home. Talk about whetting the appetite. He was so looking forward to noshing a dozen more, drinking his coffee, and so then crashing with Eddie to recover from the night before.

“You got my java?” he said over his shoulder.

Eddie looked at him stupidly for a second. And then got with the program. “Yeah, um . . . yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Yup, Eddie had had his brains fucked out.

Ad smiled and headed right for the table. They'd done a trio of women throughout the course of the evening—or had it been four? It was the good ol' days back again—made all the more intense because of the almost-lost-it's that had happened.

Now? For once in their immortal lives, he and his buddy were going to take a vacay. Maybe head somewhere warm, where the ladies wore thongs and nothing else, the beer was cold, and the fishing was spectacular—

The sound of something scratching at the back door brought his head around. Eddie opened things back up and the little scruffy dog that limped in was a welcome sight.

Dog had disappeared during this last round.

But now the little guy had returned, running in circles around Eddie's ankles, jumping up into Ad's lap.

“Hey, you wanna share?” Ad asked. When he got a bark in return, he popped the top of the box and hunted around for something that didn't have nuts. Although considering that Dog was not actually a dog, it probably didn't matter—

“What's that smell?” he said, recoiling.

And that was when he saw the smoke rising from the surface of the table. Dog had jumped up and out of his lap and was putting a paw down . . . under which a pattern was burning.

Ad slumped in his chair. “No. Uh-uh. No way. We need a break—”

“Oh, fuck me,” Eddie breathed.

When Dog finished with his little picture, the “animal” shuffled back and barked twice. Then planted his paw down again like he was pointing.

Ad leaned over and felt all the blood leave his head. “No. Anyone but him.”

“Where is he?” Eddie asked. “I thought he was in Purgatory—”

Dog cut that off with a bark.

“Well, shit,” Ad said, putting the lid on the box down. “No doughnuts for you.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he pouted and didn't give a fuck if that made him an asshole.

“Please,” Eddie implored. “Not Lassiter. Anybody but Lassiter—he could be anywhere on the planet, doing anything.”

Dog just leveled his eyes at the two of them.

“Can we take the weekend off, at least?” Ad muttered.

“As opposed to what?” Jim said from the doorway.

As the savior came into the room, he was freshly showered and for once didn't have massive black circles under his eyes. In fact, he actually looked about a quarter of a century younger than he had the night before—but that was what twelve hours of good loving could do for a guy.

Ad should know.

Dog leaped off the table and into Jim's arms, tail going a mile a minute, tongue licking, looking every bit the canine showing adoration. And Jim returned the shit, ducking his head, talking softly, petting.

When Jim put him down, the two stared at each other for the longest time, and then Dog let out a soft whine . . . before turning around and heading for the door as if he'd said a difficult good-bye.

On his way past, the SOB glanced at him and Eddie as if to say, Chop, chop, boys . . . go get me that fool I just burned into the table.

With Dog gone, Ad traced the face. The lines that had been made were still hot.

“Who is that?” Jim asked.

“A nightmare,” Ad muttered.

“Our next assignment,” Eddie cut in.

“That fast? Really? Don't you get some vacation or shit?”

Ad nodded to the box he'd closed. “We get doughnuts. Yay.”

There was a moment of silence. And then Eddie said softly, “You're leaving, aren't you.”

Ad looked up in time to see Jim's eyes go to the window over the sink. He seemed to be picturing things as he stared out there, things that were not actually in the backyard.

“It was all about her to begin with,” the guy said. “And I don't mean Sissy.”

“Yeah.” Eddie nodded. “I know, but what about—”

“All taken care of.” The savior's stare swung around to the two of them, and he was quiet for a time. Then he said, “You know, when this whole thing started, I didn't want the pair of you involved. I'd always been a solo operator”—he glanced at Ad—“and your singing really fucking got on my nerves.”

“Annnnd my job is done,” he replied with a nod.

“But you know, when we were trying to get the evil out of Sissy, and I couldn't do it alone . . . you two were there. If you hadn't been? I'd have lost her. You two . . . saved her with me.”

Okay, now Ad was the one ducking his eyes. It was just too much, and he did
not
do misty. He just . . . did. Not. Do—

Fuck, his eyes were watering.

Jim was still talking, mentioning things like sacrifice and putting the common good first, all of which in his opinion, Eddie and Ad had apparently done.

Oh, man, the motherfucker had to stop. He really had—