Covet - A Novel of Fallen Angel Part 1

COVET.

A Novel of the Fallen Angels.

J. R. Ward.

With thanks to:

Kara Cesare, Claire Zion, Kara Welsh, Leslie Gelbman, and everyone at NAL. As always.

Thank you also to Steven Axelrod, my voice of reason.

With love to Team Waud: Dee, LeElla, K, and Natha"without whom none of this would be possible. Thank you also to Jen and Lu and all our Mods and Hall Monitors.

And with total grat.i.tude to Doc Jess (aka Jessica Andersen), Sue Grafton, Suz Brockmann, Christine Feehan and her wonderful family, Lisa Gardner, and Linda Francis Lee.

And with all love to my husband, my mother, the better half of WriterDog, and my whole family.

Prologue.

Demon was such a nasty word.

And so d.a.m.ned old-school. People heard demon and they conjured up all kinds of Hieronymus Bosch helter-skeltera"or worse, Danteas stupid-a.s.s Inferno c.r.a.p. Honestly. Flames and tortured souls and everyone wailing.

Okay, maybe h.e.l.l was a little toasty. And if the place had had a court painter, Bosch would have been at the head of the pack.

But that wasnat the point. The Demon actually saw itself as more of a Free-Will Coach. Much better, more modern. The anti-Oprah, as it were.

It was all about influence.

The thing was, the qualities of the soul were not dissimilar to the components of the human body. The corporeal form had a number of vestigial parts, like the appendix, the wisdom teeth, and the coccyxa"all of which were at best unnecessary, and at worst capable of compromising the functioning of the whole.

Souls were the same. They, too, had useless baggage that impeded their proper performance, these annoying, holier-than-thou bits dangling like an appendix waiting for infection. Faith and hope and loveaprudence, temperance, justice, and fort.i.tudeaall this useless clutter just packed too much d.a.m.n morality into the heart, getting in the way of the soulas innate desire for malignancy.

A demonas role was to help people see and express their inner truth without their being clouded by all that bulls.h.i.+t, diverting humanity. As long as people stayed true to their core, things were going in the right direction.

And lately, that had been relatively true. Between all the wars on the planet, and the crime, and the disregard for the environment, and that cesspool of finance known as Wall Street, as well as the inequalities far and wide, things were okay.

But it wasnat enough and time was running out.

To go with a sports a.n.a.logy, Earth was the playing field and the game had been going on since the stadium had been built. The Demons were the Home Team. Away was made up of Angels pimping that chimera of happiness, Heaven.

Where the court painter was Thomas Kincaid, for f.u.c.kas sake.

Each soul was a quarterback on the field, a partic.i.p.ant in the universal struggle of good against evil, and the scoreboard reflected the relative moral value of his or her deeds on earth. Birth was kickoff and death was game-overa"whereupon the score would be added to the larger tally. Coaches had to stay on the sidelines, but they could put different complements of players on the field with the human to influence thingsa"and also call time-outs for pep talks.

Commonly known as the anear-death experience.a Here was the problem: Like a spectator who had been watching a postseason game in a cold seat with one too many hot dogs in his belly and a screamer sitting right behind his ear, the Creator was eyeing the exit.

Too many fumbles. Too many time-outs. Too many ties that had led to too many unresolved overtimes. What had started out as a gripping contest had evidently lost its appeal, and the teams had been given their notice: Wrap up the play, boys.

So both sides had to agree on one particular quarterback. One quarterback and seven plays.

Instead of an endless parade of humans, they were down to seven souls in the balance between good and evilaseven chances to determine whether humanity was good or bad. A tie was not possible and the stakes wereaeverything. If Team Demon won, it got to keep the facility and all the players that had ever been or ever would be. And the Angels became slaves for eternity.

Which made torturing human sinners seem like nothing but a bore.

If the Angels won, the entire Earth would be nothing but one giant Christmas frickina morning, a choking wave of happiness and warmth and caring and sharing taking over everything. Under that hideous scenario, the Demons would cease to exist not just in the universe, but in the hearts and minds of all of humanity.

Although considering all the happy-happy, joy-joy, that was the best outcome in that scenario. Short of getting stabbed repeatedly in the eye with a pole.

The Demons couldnat bear losing. It just wasnat an option. Seven chances were not a lot, and the Away Team had won the metaphysical coin tossa"so they got to approach the quarterback who was going to drive the seven ab.a.l.l.s,a as it were.

Ah, yesathe quarterback. Not surprisingly the choice of that key position had led to a lot of heated discussion. Eventually, though, one had been selected, one who both sides found acceptableaone who both coaches expected to rock the plays according to their values and goals.

Poor fool didnat know what he was in for.

The thing was, though, the Demons werenat prepared to leave such a momentous responsibility on the shoulders of a human. Free will was malleable, after alla"which was the basis of the whole game.

So they were sending someone onto the field as a player. It was against the rules, of course, but true to their naturea"and also something the opponent was incapable of doing.

This was the edge the Home Team had: The one good thing about the Angels was they always colored within the lines.

They had to.

Suckers.

CHAPTER.

1.

aShe wants you.a Jim Heron lifted his eyes from his Budweiser. Across the crowded, dim club, past bodies that were clad in black and hung with chains, through the thick air of s.e.x and desperation, he saw the ashea in question.

A woman in a blue dress stood beneath one of the few ceiling lights in the Iron Mask, the golden glow floating down over her Brooke s.h.i.+elds brown hair and her ivory skin and her banging body. She was a revelation, a standout slice of color among all the gloomy, neo-Victorian Prozac candidates, as beautiful as a model, as resplendent as a saint.

And she was staring at him, though he questioned the wanting part: Her eyes were set deep, which meant as she looked over, the yearning that stalled out his lungs could just be a product of the way her skull was built.

h.e.l.l, maybe she was simply wondering what he was doing in the club. Which made two of them.

aIam telling you, that woman wants you, buddy.a Jim glanced over at Mr. Matchmaker. Adrian Vogel was the reason head ended up here, and the Iron Mask was definitely the guyas scene: Ad was dressed in black from head to toe and had piercings in places most people didnat want needles anywhere around.

aNah.a Jim took another swig of his Bud. aNot her type.a aYou sure about that.a aYup.a aYouare a fool.a Adrian dragged a hand through the black waves on his head and the stuff eased back into place like it had been trained well. Christ, if it werenat for the fact that he worked construction and had a mouth like a sailor, youad wonder whether he trolled the womenas mousse and spray aisles.

Eddie Blackhawk, the other guy with them, shook his head. aIf heas not interested, that doesnat make him foolish.a aSays you.a aLive and let live, Adrian. Itas better for everyone.a As the guy eased back on the velvet couch, Eddie was more Biker than Goth in his jeans and s.h.i.+tkickers, so he looked as out of place as Jim dida"although given the hulking size of the guy and those weird-a.s.s red-brown eyes of his, it was hard to imagine him fitting in with anyone but a bunch of pro wrestlers: even with his hair in that long braid, n.o.body razzed him at the construction sitea"not even the meathead roofers who gave the biggest lip.

aSo, Jim, you donat talk much.a Adrian scanned the crowd, no doubt looking for a Blue Dress of his own. After focusing on the dancers who writhed in iron cages, he flagged their waitress. aAnd after working with you for a month, I know itas not because youare stupid.a aDonat have a lot to say.a aNothing wrong with that,a Eddie murmured.

This was probably why Jim liked Eddie better. The SOB was another member of the Spare Club for Men, a guy who never used a word when a nod or a shake of the head could get his point across. How head gotten so tight with Adrian, whose mouth had no neutral on its stick s.h.i.+ft, was a mystery.

How he roomed with the f.u.c.ker was inexplicable.

Whatever. Jim had no intention of going into all their hows, whys and wheres. It was nothing personal. They were actually the kind of hardheaded smart-a.s.ses he would have been friends with in another time, on another planet, but here and now, their s.h.i.+t was none of his businessa"and head only gone out with them because Adrian had threatened to keep asking until he did.

Bottom line, Jim lived life by the code of the disconnected and expected other people to leave him to his I-am-an-island routine. Since getting out of the military, head been vagabonding it, ending up in Caldwell only because it was where head stopped drivinga"and he was going to hit the road after the project they were all working on was finished.

The thing was, given his old boss, it was better to stay a moving target. No telling how long it was going to be before a aspecial a.s.signmenta popped up and Jim got tagged again.

Finis.h.i.+ng off his beer, he figured it was a good thing he owned only his clothes, his truck, and that broken-down Harley. Sure, he didnat have much to show for being thirty-ninea"

Oh, manathe date.

He was forty. Tonight was his birthday.

aSo I gotta know,a Adrian said, leaning in. aYou have a woman, Jim? That why youare not picking up Blue Dress? I mean, come on, sheas smokina hot.a aLooks arenat everything.a aYeah, well, they sure as h.e.l.l donat hurt.a The waitress came over, and while the others ordered another round, Jim shot a glance at the woman they were jawing about.

She didnat look away. Didnat flinch. Just slowly licked her red lips like shead been waiting for him to make eye contact again.

Jim refocused on his empty Bud and s.h.i.+fted in the booth, feeling like someone had slipped lit coals into his shorts. It had been a long, long time for him. Not a dry spell, not even a drought. Sahara Desert was more like it.

And what do you know, his body was ready to end that stretch of nuthina but left-handers.

aYou should go over there,a Adrian said. aIntroduce yourself.a aIam cool where I am.a aWhich means I may have to rea.s.sess your intelligence.a Adrian drummed his fingers on the table, the heavy silver ring he wore flas.h.i.+ng. aOr at least your s.e.x drive.a aBe my guest.a Adrian rolled his eyes, clearly getting the picture that there was no negotiating when it came to Blue Dress. aFine, Iall lay off.a The guy sat back into the sofa so that he and Eddie were striking similar sprawls. Predictably, he couldnat stay silent for long. aSo did you two hear about the shooting?a Jim frowned. aThere another one?a aYup. Body was found down by the river.a aThey tend to turn up there.a aWhat is this world coming to,a Adrian said, throwing back the last of his beer.

aItas always been this way.a aYou think?a Jim leaned back as the waitress planted fres.h.i.+es in front of the boys. aNope, I know.a aDeinde, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sanctia.a Marie-Terese Boudreau lifted her eyes to the confessional boothas lattice window. On the other side of the screen, the priestas face was in profile and heavily shadowed, but she knew who he was. And he knew her.

So he was very aware of what she did and why she had to go to confession at least once a week.

aGo, my child. Be well.a As he closed the panel between them, panic nailed her in the chest. In these quiet moments when she laid out her sins, the degrading place where shead ended up was exposed, the words she spoke s.h.i.+ning a brilliant spotlight on the horrible way she spent her nights.

The ugly images always took a while to fade. But the choking feeling that came from knowing where she was headed next was just going to get worse.

Gathering her rosary together, she put the beads and links in her coat pocket and picked her purse up off the floor. Footsteps right outside the confessional stopped her from leaving.

She had reasons for keeping a low profile, some of which having nothing to do with her ajob.a When the sound of heavy heels dimmed, she pulled open the red velvet curtain and stepped out.

Caldwellas St. Patrickas Cathedral was maybe half the size of the one down in Manhattan, but it was big enough to inspire awe in even the casually faithful. With gothic arches like the wings of angels and a lofty ceiling that seemed only inches away from Heaven, she felt both unworthy and grateful to be under its roof.

And she loved the smell inside. Beeswax and lemon and incense. Lovely.

Walking down by the chapels of the saints, she weaved in and out of the scaffolding that had been erected so that the clerestoryas mosaics could be cleaned. As always, the racks of flickering votive candles and the dim spotlights on the still statues calmed her, reminding her that there was an eternity of peace waiting at the far end of life.

a.s.suming you were allowed past the pearly gates.

The cathedralas side doors were closed after six p.m., and as usual, she had to go out the main entrancea"which seemed like a waste of the thingas effort. The carved panels were much better suited to welcoming the hundreds who came for services each Sundayaor the guests of important marriage ceremoniesaor the virtuous faithful.

No, she was more of a side-door kind of person.

At least, she was now.

Just as she leaned all her weight on the thick wood, she heard her name and looked over her shoulder.

No one was there, as far as she could see. The cathedral was empty even of people praying in the pews.

ah.e.l.lo?a she called out, voice echoing. aFather?a When there was no reply, a chill licked up her spine.

On a quick surge, she heaved herself against the left side of the door and burst out into the cold April night. Holding the lapels of her wool coat together, she moved fast, her flats making a clip, clip, clip sound down the stone steps and over the sidewalk as she hustled to her car. The first thing she did as she got in was lock all the doors.

As she panted, she looked around. Shadows curled on the ground beneath leafless trees, and the moon was revealed as thin clouds drifted. People moved around in the windows of the houses across from the church. A station wagon went by slowly.

There was no stalker, no man in a black ski mask, no attacker lurking. Nothing.

Reining in her tailspin, she coaxed her Toyota into starting and gripped the steering wheel hard.

After checking her mirrors, she eased out into the street and headed deeper into downtown. As she went along, lights from streetlamps and other cars flared in her face and flooded the inside of the Camry, illuminating the black duffel bag on the pa.s.senger seat. Her G.o.d-awful uniform was in there, and as soon as she got out of this nightmare, she was burning it along with what shead had to put on her body every night for the last year.

The Iron Mask was the second place shead aworked.a The first had blown up about four months ago. Literally.

She could not believe she was still in the business. Every time she packed that duffel, she felt as if she were getting sucked back into a bad dream, and she wasnat sure whether the confessions at St. Patrickas were making things better or worse.

Sometimes she felt like all they did was stir up c.r.a.p that was better left buried, but the need for forgiveness was too strong to fight.

As she made a turn onto Trade Street, she started past the concentration of clubs, bars, and tattoo parlors that made up the Caldie Strip. The Iron Mask was toward the far end, and like the others, it was hopping every night with its perpetual wait line of wannabe zombies. Ducking into an alley, she b.u.mped over the potholes by all the Dumpsters, and came out into the parking lot.

The Camry fit nicely in a spot along the brick wall that was marked STAFF ONLY.

Trez Latimer, the owner of the club, insisted that all the women who worked for him use the designated s.p.a.ces that were closest to the back door. He was as good as the Reverend had been about taking care of his employees, and they all appreciated it. Caldwell had a seedy side, and the Iron Mask was right in the thick of it.

Marie-Terese got out with her duffel and looked up. The bright lights of the city dulled the few stars that twinkled around the patchy clouds, and the heavens seemed even farther away than they were.

Closing her eyes, she took long, deep breaths and drew the collar of her coat in tight. When she went into the club, she would be in the body and mind of someone else. Someone she didnat know and wouldnat care to remember in the future. Someone who disgusted her. Someone she despised.