Rapture: A Novel of The Fallen Angels Page 11

  Matthias just stayed where he was, squaring off for the longest time. “I could shoot you right now.”

  “So do it.”

  Matthias frowned and brought his free hand to his temple like his head hurt. “I…shot you, didn’t I….”

  “We’ve got a long history. And if you want to find out about it, you will stick with her—no arguments. I’ve got you by the short hairs, and I’m calling the shots. Nice fucking change of pace, if I do say so myself.”

  Jim went back to the stairs and ascended, leaving Matthias stuck between a rock and his reporter. At the top of the landing, he snapped his fingers for show and then disappeared into the studio. From behind the drapes, he watched the woman come back on line and the pair of them talk it out.

  “So Matthias is the soul,” Ad said from between bites of his Reuben.

  “Looks like it.”

  “You sure you want to drag that woman into all this?”

  “Did you see the way he looks at her?”

  “Maybe he just wants to get laid.”

  “Good luck with that,” Jim muttered. “And yeah, she’s going to be an asset for us.”

  The question now was, Where were the crossroads. Sooner or later, Devina was going to set up a choice, and Jim had until then to get a completely conscienceless, power-hungry despot to do a one-eighty.

  Great. Juuuust great.

  He was so completely surrounded by job satisfaction at the moment that he was positively choking on the shit.

  “Let’s get down to that hotel,” he said.

  “What hotel?”

  “The Marriott.” He went for his wallet. There was a credit card in it under the Jim Heron name that was up-to-date—and MasterCard wasn’t going to know he was technically dead because he hadn’t told them.

  Adrian wiped his mouth with a Goldstein’s Deli napkin. “Are you sure you want this to be so public? Lot of people downtown, and Devina loves to be the center of attention.”

  “Yeah, but the lack of privacy will tie her hands—first of all, she’ll have to clean up any messes. And second, she’s going to have to be very careful about how she proceeds in this round—and I can’t believe that killing innocent civilians of the human variety is going to put the Maker in His happy place.”

  Jim went over to the dresser, such as it was, and got his holsters out. Slipping them on, he put his dagger in on one side and another of his guns in the other. Checking his pockets, he went to see how many cigarettes he had—

  The folded piece of paper in the ass of his jeans stopped the hunt, and he closed his eyes briefly.

  There was no reason to take the newspaper article out; he knew it by heart. Every word, every paragraph—and especially the picture.

  His Sissy.

  Who wasn’t really his.

  Always with him. Never forgotten.

  Making sure Adrian couldn’t see, he outted the piece of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven, unfolded the page, and sneaked a peek at her face. Nineteen when she was taken by the demon, eternal down below in that wall of souls—

  Jim frowned and looked to the door. Matthias had been in that vicious hell. What had he seen inside of it….

  Or, fuck, what had he done there?

  The idea that that girl was in there suffering was enough to make Jim see white with rage.

  “Hurry up, Ad,” he muttered. “We got to go.”

  Riding in the passenger seat of the Toyota, Matthias felt like things were going at a dead run. In fact, not only was Mels obeying all the traffic laws, but they were creeping along at five miles an hour through a construction zone full of jackhammers and paving trucks.

  He glanced over at her. Behind the wheel, she was fine, calm, normal, even with the not-a-clue about Jim Heron.

  What the hell had the guy done to her?

  Man, ordinarily Matthias would have called bullshit on the whole thing. Hypnosis his ass. Except…well, he was kind of in the same situation, although instead of losing a couple of minutes, he’d pulled a blank on his whole fucking life.

  And what did he know from “ordinary” anymore anyway?

  As they stopped at a red light on the far side of the assault on asphalt, he stared through his window. “I don’t do well with being out of control.”

  “Not many people enjoy it.” Mels took a deep breath. “I’m glad you’re letting me take you back to your hotel.”

  If you’re with her, then you can make sure I leave her alone, right?

  He pushed his fingers underneath the rims of the Ray-Bans and rubbed his eyes.

  “Almost there,” she said. Like she thought he was going to pass out or something.

  He wasn’t sporting a case of the vapors, though. “You make me feel…powerless.”

  “I don’t think that’s me. I think that’s your situation.”

  “No, it’s you.” He had the sense if she were not around, things would be clearer, even if he never remembered another event from his life: In that hypothetical, all he’d have to worry about was himself, and one problem was definitely better than two.

  “I’ve tried to do the right thing,” he muttered, and then wondered who he was talking to.

  “And you are—by going somewhere you can rest. Things have been chaotic as hell for you in the last twenty-four hours. You need to sleep.”

  Letting his head fall against the headrest, he closed his eyes and thought of facing off against Jim, fully prepared to pull the trigger and kill the guy.

  Sleep did not appear to be what he needed. More like handcuffs and a psych eval: In that moment when his finger had been on the trigger, there had been no hesitation on his part: not with the speed that he’d put the muzzle to the guy’s jugular, not because there had been witnesses, and not from any sort of moral hmmm-this-is-a-human-life.

  Had he been a soldier? Because that shit was nothing civilian, everything military.

  Yeah, he thought, that was it. And he’d been one of the most dangerous kinds of fighters…those who had a dead space in the center of their chest. Which meant they were capable of anything.

  You hated the man you were.

  As the light turned green, Mels took them past a section of minimalls, the stores like LEGOs linked together on the far sides of narrow parking lots. It was everything he never noticed, the cutesy coffee shops, the places that peddled folklore gifts, the low-end jewelers and dollar stores. So banal. So day-by-day. So normal—

  “I tried to commit suicide.”

  Mels hit the brake for a hairbreadth, even though traffic was flowing evenly down the four-lane stretch of byway.

  “Did you…” She cleared her throat. “Is your memory coming back?”

  “Bits and pieces.”

  “What happened? I mean, if it’s not too personal.”

  Thinking back to Jim Heron, he answered with the other man’s words. “I didn’t like who I was.”

  “And who were you?”

  Dark as night, cold as winter, cruel as a blade. But he kept that to himself. “You’re tenacious, you know that.”

  She touched her sternum. “Reporter. It’s part of the job description.”

  “I’m learning.”

  Matthias closed his eyes again and listened to the rise and fall of the engine. When something warm and soft covered his wrist, he jumped. It was her hand, her elegant hand.

  On some level, he couldn’t believe she wanted to touch him.

  Swallowing hard, he gave her a squeeze and then retracted from the contact.

  They came up to the Marriott about ten minutes later. The hotel was your typical big-city shindig, looming high over trimmed hedges and a shallow lawn, smack in the center of the business district. Entering the porte cochere, they got tangled in a mess of porters and cars and people with luggage. Then again, it was after three o’clock, which was rush hour for travelers.

  “Will you come up?” he heard himself ask, as he wondered who might have followed them—and exactly what kind of relationship he had with Jim Heron.


  The word help had been tossed around by the guy, except you had to wonder what the motivations were, and it wasn’t smart to take anything for granted.

  “I’ll see you get settled—how about that.”

  “That’s…good.” He would still have preferred a clean break, but that was no longer possible.

  Thanks to Heron.

  Although…it was no hardship to have an opportunity to be with her a little longer.

  Mels idled past all the rolling brass trolleys and the uniformed guys who were humping suitcases out of trunks, and headed down into the parking garage. Through the Toyota’s vents, the smell of exhaust bubbled into the car interior, and he cracked a window—but how stupid was that. The air they had entered was the source of the bad smell.

  They gave her buddy’s car over to a valet, who didn’t look too excited to park the POS, and shuffled through a revolving door into a lower-level lobby that was decorated with bloodred carpeting and gold walls. Unfortunately, and in spite of all the flocking—or maybe because of it—the decorations were more bordello than business-class, a grasp for the luxury of a Four Seasons that didn’t quite make it.

  “I’ve always thought this place tried to be like the Waldorf,” Mels said as she punched the button for the elevator. “But this is Caldwell, not Manhattan.”

  “Funny, I was just thinking that.”

  “’Scuse any bitterness, by the way,” she said. “I’m a transplant.”

  “From New York?”

  “Well, I was born here, but I belong there. I’m just waiting to go back.”

  “What’s keeping you in Caldwell?”

  “Everything. Nothing.” She glanced over. “In a weird way, I envy you your amnesia.”

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

  Yeah, he really didn’t want that for her, and not because he was being a gentleman. Standing beside her, he would have killed to know about her, her family, where she grew up, everything that had brought her to this quiet, fragile moment in time.

  “Mels…”

  Before he could start asking, a family joined them in the wait for the elevator, the daughters running around, the parents looking like they were stuck in a version of hell that smelled like bubble gum, and was populated by short demons in matching fairy princess outfits that asked for ice cream every three minutes.

  Ding!

  As the doors opened, he put his hand on the small of Mels’s back and led her into the elevator. He didn’t want to stop touching her, but he dropped his arm, and endured the stares of the children.

  Up at the main level’s lobby, the hustle and bustle of the porte cochere had invaded the reception area, a line of people snaking out from a bell captain who stood guard at a set of velvet ropes.

  “This is a nightmare,” Matthias muttered dryly.

  “It could be worse. You ever heard of Motel 6?”

  “Good point.”

  When they finally got up to the front desk, he gave his name, and wasn’t sure how it was going to work. Typically, you had to present the credit card you made the reservation with to get a room—

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Hault, you’re already checked in.” The woman typed fast on the computer. “I just need your driver’s license, please.”

  Matthias glanced around the lobby. How the hell had Heron managed to get here with his credit card and do the deed? Traffic had been bad, but not that bad on the route he and Mels had come in on—unless of course the guy had pulled a helicopter out of his ass.

  And about the credit card, had it been Heron’s own? The SOB was supposed to be dead, so you had to wonder how the company was going to send the bill to Pine Grove. Then again, CC numbers were as easy to get as library cards if you knew the right people—and given the look of Heron’s roommate, black market access was no doubt a no-brainer.

  “Sir? Your license?”

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  As he handed the thing over, the receptionist smiled at him professionally, her expression the equivalent of a facial welcome mat. “Okay, here are your room cards. Just take the elevators over there to the sixth floor. You’re in room—”

  Not six sixty-six, he thought for no apparent reason.

  “—six forty-two. Would you like someone to help you with your bags?”

  “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

  “Enjoy your stay, sir.”

  As he and Mels headed to the other elevators, he scanned the lobby without moving his head. The people striding around were nothing special…just normals dragging their suitcases behind them, or talking on their cell phones, or arguing with their wives/husbands/boyfriends. No one was paying him any attention, and that was why public venues were sometimes the safest places you could be if you were in hiding.

  Still, he was glad he had that gun he’d taken from Jim’s.

  The wait for their second round with an elevator was longer than the first, and when it arrived, Mels stepped forward as did another couple.

  He touched her arm and eased her back. “We’ll take the next one.”

  The doors closed as she glanced over at him. “Claustrophobic?”

  “Yeah. That’s it.”

  This time he let his hand linger a little. Standing behind her, he was much taller than she was, even though she wasn’t short by any stretch—and he wondered what she would feel like against him.

  Odd thought to have for so many reasons.

  But it led to an undeniable picture in his head—

  “Here’s another one,” she said, stepping out of his hold. “And we’ll be alone this time.”

  Man, when it came to Mels Carmichael, alone had a nice ring to it, it really did.

  The trip up to his room was uneventful—assuming he left out the direction his thoughts had turned. And the other positive newsflash was that six forty-two was not far from an emergency exit. Perfect. Inside, the twenty by twenty stretch of bed-bureau-desk-chair was standard issue, although as the door shut itself behind them, he focused on the king-sized mattress.

  Except she wasn’t looking for an affair with a stranger, and he couldn’t perform anyway.

  As he walked over and closed the drapes, Mels turned on the bathroom light and leaned inside. “You’ve got a nice tub.”

  Without meaning to, his eyes did an up-and-down on her, and yeah, he really liked the way she filled out those slacks of hers.

  Shit. He wanted her—bad. Wanted her naked and underneath him, her legs spread wide, her sex taking him inside as he pounded, hard.

  Clearing his throat, he said roughly, “Can I buy you dinner? I know it’s a little early, but I’m hungry.”

  For her. Screw the food.

  Straightening, she glanced at him, and he was glad he had those glasses of hers on. Nothing good could come out of what was no doubt in his eyes. Lust wasn’t appropriate, not in this circumstance—

  Hey, check him out. He might be a casual killer, but at least he had some sense of decency.

  “Yeah.” She smiled a little. “Sure. I could eat something.”

  As Matthias went over to the built-in desk and rooted around for the room service menu, he told himself he was just doing what Jim Heron had suggested: As long as he was with her, he knew she was okay.

  Because he might not know his past, but he was sure about one thing.

  He would die to protect this smart, kind woman…and her perfect ass.

  Mels finally got to finish an order of French fries.

  They came with a hamburger that was done to a perfect medium, a sliver of a pickle with enough bite in it to make her sinuses hum, and an ice-cold Coke that was right out of a commercial, frosted glass and everything.

  Over in the mahogany console, the television was on WCLD, the local NBC affiliate, the five o’clock news anchor just starting his reports.

  “I have to say,” she murmured, picking up the last fry and dragging it through a smudge of ketchup, “these are much better than the ones at the Riverside.”

  Over on the b
ed, Matthias was working on his club sandwich, but she could tell he was looking at her. Even through the sunglasses.

  He did that a lot, his eyes staying on her as if he liked the way she moved, even when she was sitting down—and for some reason, that made him even sexier…to the point where she found herself wondering what it would be like to have that without any barriers.

  The looking, that was.

  Without the Ray-Bans, she meant—

  Shoot, she was making herself flustered.

  “You know, you can take those off,” she said softly. “The sunglasses.”

  He froze. And then resumed chewing. After he swallowed, he said, “I’m more comfortable with them on.”

  “Okay, suit yourself.”

  He hadn’t said a thing about his search for Jim Heron, or how he’d found the address they’d met at. He’d just gotten in Tony’s car and let her drive him here.

  She wasn’t about to argue with the change of heart.

  “Don’t you have someone waiting at home for you,” he said casually.

  “Ah, not really. Not much of a personal life, I’m afraid.”

  “I know how that is—” He stopped himself. “Shit, I actually do…know that part.”

  She waited for him to finish. Instead, he just sat there staring at his plate of half-eaten food like the thing was a TV set.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  He shrugged. “No wife. No kids. No one permanent. Which is why nobody’s looking for me—well, at least not in a family sense.”

  “I’m sorry. What about your parents?”

  Matthias winced and then seemed to catch himself.

  “No?” she prompted.

  “I have nothing on them.”

  In the silence that followed, she made work out of picking up her tray and putting it out in the hall. Back inside, she knew that it was time to go.

  Probably time to let go, too.

  Jim Heron was dead—at least according to the not-so-distant archives of the CCJ, if not that damn headstone-on-a-grave routine. She’d found his home address through one of the sources that had commented on the story—but of course, he hadn’t been there—