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 f**king 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 f**kload 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.
Chapter Thirteen
Isaac had been in the Boston vicinity only twice, and both times had been for pass-through trips on his way overseas--the kind of thing where all he did was walk across a tarmac at Otis Air Force Base down on Cape Cod.
That being said, as Grier hung a left off something called Charles Street, he didn't need to have had a guided tour of the city to know they were in prime real estate-land. The town houses on both sides of the hill they went up were all pristine brick with glossy black shutters and doors. Through clean windows, he could see interiors that were antiqued up to within an inch of their lives and had enough crown molding to crush a king's head.
Clearly, he was in the natural habitat of the blue-blooded Yankee.
As ancient Saturday Night Live sketches of Dan Aykroyd doing Kennedy impressions about "chowdah" rolled through his head, Grier took a left into a small square that was demarcated by a wrought-iron fence and brick lanes on all four sides. In the middle, its little park had graceful trees with tiny buds already showing, and the surrounding walk-ups were the best of the best in this bestest-ever neighborhood.
So not a surprise.
After she parked her Audi parallel to the fence, they both got out. She hadn't said much on the trip here, and neither had he. But then again, he wasn't a big talker to begin with--and she had a fugitive for a passenger. Not exactly a so-how-about-this-weather? kind of gig.
The house she indicated was hers was a bow-front on the corner and had white marble steps up to its black front door. Fluted black planters the size of Great Danes sat on either side of the entrance, and the brass knocker was as big as his head. One light glowing on the third floor; several on the exterior. And as he surveyed the area, there appeared to be nothing out of place--no unmarkeds trolling by, no sounds that were wrong, nobody suspicious lurking.
As they walked over the uneven bricks of the street, he wanted to reach out and steady her, given her heel situation--but he didn't dare. First of all, she probably still wanted to slap him . . . and second, he had palmed up both his guns inside his windbreaker on a just-in-case.
He was always careful with himself. Having her in tow? He took vigilance to a whole new level.
Besides, Grier handled the trip to her front door just fine, in spite of the fact that she was walking in stilettos and had been attacked by some drugged- up asswipe.
Too bad they hadn't met in a different world. He would have really liked to--
Yeah, right. Take her on a date?
Whatever. Even if he had gone the law-abiding, I'm-not-an-assassin route, they were from opposite ends of the spectrum: he was all farm boy and she was all fabulous.
And he really had to cut the double-think when it came to how attractive she was.
Her security alarm went off the moment she opened the way in and he was glad, although he didn't approve of her letting riffraff like him in the house. And how was that for f**ked-up?
As she punched in her code at the ADT panel, he looked down at the soles of his combats--which were caked with chunky mud and fuzzy sod. Bending down, he unlaced them, slipped them off, and left them outside.
Her black-and-white marble floor was warm under his socks--
Looking up, he found her staring at his feet with an odd expression on her beautiful face.
"I didn't want to track in," he muttered, shutting the door and locking it.
After he took off his windbreaker, he got out the Star Market bag with his life savings in it and they just stood there: her in her black designer coat and her soiled purse that had one strap hanging loose; him in his sweatshirt with a load of dirty money in his bloody hand and two guns she didn't know about in his pockets.
"When was the last time you ate," she said softly.
"I'm not hungry. But thank you, ma'am." He glanced around, looking into a tall-ceilinged room that was painted a rich red. Over the regal marble fireplace was an oil painting of a man sitting up straight in a gilded chair with a pair of old-fashioned spectacles perched on his nose.
It was so quiet here, he thought. And not just because there weren't any sounds.
Peaceful. It was . . . peaceful.
"I'll make you an omelet, then," she said, putting her bag down and starting to shrug out of that coat.
He stepped up to her to help, but she moved back. "I've got it. Thanks."
The dress underneath . . . Dear God, that dress. Modest and black had never looked so sexy, as far as he was concerned, but then that was more about her than the design or the fabric.
And those legs. Fuck him, but those legs with the sheer black stockings . . .
Isaac snapped his man-whore back into place with a reminder that it would be an open question whether someone like her would let him so much as wash her car--much less allow him take her to bed. Besides, would he have any clue what to do to a woman like her? Sure, he was good at raw f**king --he'd been begged for repeats enough times to have confidence on that front.
But a lady like her deserved to be savored--
Damn him to hell. He had a feeling he was licking his lips.
"Kitchen's in the back," was all she said as she picked up her bag and walked away.
He followed her down the hall, taking note of the rooms and the windows and the doors, noting escape routes and entryways. It was what he did in any space he went through, his years of training with him sure as the skin on his back. But it was more than that. He was looking for clues about her.
And it was weird . . . the peaceful thing kept at it, which surprised him. Old-fashioned and expensive usually meant tight-assed. Here, though, he breathed deep and easy--even though that made no sense.
In contrast to the rest of the house, the kitchen was all about the white and stainless steel, and as she set to work pulling out bowls and eggs and cheese, he put his money down on her counter and couldn't wait to get out of the room: Across the way, there was a wall of windowpanes that were probably six by eight feet apiece.