J Ward - Crave

And that scurrilous demon was cheating.

The rules of the game provided that Nigel and Devina were to choose the souls “in play” and then sit back and watch Jim Heron interact and steer the course of events such that the resolution was either redemption or condemnation.

Seven chances. And the first one had been resolved in Nigel’s favor.

The next six were to be conducted in the true arena. And in the course of events, Nigel and Devina were allowed a certain amount of “coaching”: As Nigel had won the coin toss, so he had been permitted to approach Jim first-and for parity to be preserved, Devina had been likewise allowed to interact with the man. But now they were supposed to be off the field and on the sidelines for the most part, with interaction limited to the occasional time-out and the end-of-match recap by whoever’s side won.

Devina was down there, however. Down there and mucking about.

“You interfered as well.”

Nigel stopped, but did not turn around to face Colin. “My dear boy, do go fuck yourself.”

Colin’s laugh was deep and for once lacking in sarcasm. “Ah, there’s the lad we know and love. I’d wondered where you’d gone, given how badly you’d played.”

Keeping his back to his best mate, Nigel stared across the lawn at the high castle walls of the Manse of Souls. Beyond the vast stone fortification, in an infinite mansion of fine appointments and leisurely accoutrements, were the life-lights of those who had proven themselves of good and fine nature during their time on Earth.

If the angels did not prevail, all of those who so deserved what they had now would be lost to the pits of Hell. As would all else-including himself and his three associates.

“Adrian and Edward are not in the rules,” Colin pointed out.

“They take direction from him. It is a far sight different from what she is doing.”

“Granted. But we are not unrepresented down there.”

“She is toying with the fundamentals of the conflict.”

“Are you truly surprised.” Colin’s tone, always sharp, turned deadly. “We have battled her too long to be taken unaware by her duplicity. Which perhaps is why the Creator allows you to persist with our two emissaries.”

“Perhaps also the Creator wishes us to win.”

Nigel forced himself to start walking again, and his eyes could not depart from the bridge over the moat and the stout entrance to the manse. The sight of the massive, locked portal, to which only he had the metaphysical key, reassured him-but alas it was for no good reason. The souls were safe only if these contests were won.

“Are you going to take further action?” Colin asked as they made a fat loop over the lawn and headed toward the table upon which tea had been set out.

“How can I?”

“You’re willing to risk losing just to be honest?”

Nigel waved at Bertie and Byron, who were seated off in the distance before a teapot and a carousel of tiny sandwiches. As was proper, they had neither poured nor partaken, and they would not until the other two chairs at the table were filled. Meanwhile, Tarquin, Bertie’s beloved Irish wolfhound, was curled into a sit at the archangel’s side, the great beast staring over at Colin and Nigel, his wise, calm eyes missing nothing.

Nigel fussed with his cravat. “Victory and deceit are incompatible. And Adrian and Edward were your idea. I don’t know why I’m allowing it.”

Colin cursed, his aristocratic intonation adding precise corners to the naughty words. “You know damn well we don’t stand a bloody chance unless we bend the rules as well. That’s why you’re consenting.”

Nigel’s form of reply was but a quiet coughing sound, his signal that the conversation was over and done with. And upon his lead, the two of them went to the table that was arranged at his will and would disappear in the same manner.

Nigel, as with the others, neither lived nor breathed; he simply was. And the food was the same, neither necessary nor extant-as was the landscape and all that the four of them did to pass their eternity. But the trappings of a gracious life were of value. Indeed, the quarters that he shared with Colin were well kitted-out and the sojourns they took therein were not for any sleep necessity, but for recharging of a different kind.

War was exhausting, its burdens ne’er-ending, and at times, one needed physical succor.

As Nigel took his place at the table, he pulled his strength about him and resumed the mantle of leadership whilst Byron smiled and poured. In front of the other two, he was ever who he had to be. Colin, however, was different-although only when they were alone.

Never when there were others present.

As he lifted his fine bone china cup off its saucer, the perfumed steam from the Earl Grey wafted into his nose, and he worried beneath his calm exterior.

They could not risk losing even one of these contests, but a gentleman did not play dirty.

He had his standards of gamesmanship.

Damn it.

Out in the Boston suburb of Malden, Jim and Adrian and Eddie were nothing but shadows in the dense darkness as they approached a half-finished office building. The structure was part of a shaggy, abandoned development that had some fifteen or more of the suckers… and not a single one of them was in use or even completed. Which suggested the financer/owner was bleeding mortally from his bank account.

Assuming he hadn’t already toe-tagged himself with Chapter 7 paperwork and jumped into a liquidation grave.

The unit they’d come to see had a circle of lawn that cut into the balding forest in back, and the three of them stayed among the trees while surveilling the layout: The five-story-high skeleton was up and sealed with plum-colored glass windows, but there were no lights on and nothing but packed dirt for the parking lot in the rear.

Place was utterly abandoned.

Well, by lawful visitors, that was.

Illegal trespassers were streaming in, their cars and trucks forming a surprisingly orderly row not far from where Jim and his boys were.

Looked like the intel from that fireman back at the gym had been solid.

“You know,” Adrian said, “I could get in the ring. Throw some fists. Maybe a human or two.”

Jim shook his head. “I don’t think we need that right now.”

“In an earlier life, were you a pair of brakes?”

“Try a brick wall. Come on, let’s get down there.”

Blending in among the other men heading for the back entrance, Jim searched for Isaac-in the unlikely event the guy had gotten out of jail and still wanted to fight. But more significantly, he kept his eyes peeled for someone who looked like a soldier: hard, tight in the head, and there to get a job done instead of play spectator.

He was after the one who was supposed to kill Isaac.

With the way the XOps team worked, it would be somebody they’d both worked with: Given the amount of screening and training and proving ground you had to go through to get on the team, there was a limited pool of guys who made it, and new recruits took years to develop. Jim had been out only about six months; he was going to know the assassin.

And so would Isaac.

“You guys head in,” he said to his boys as they came up to a door propped open by a cinder block. “I’m going to hang out here. Let me know if you see Rothe.”

Except he was going to bet they didn’t. If the soldier was here at all, he’d be hiding somewhere and scoping out who had come before making himself known. After all, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that getting popped by the police was tantamount to sticking a red flag in your ass.

Which was why in some respects, intercepting the assassin was even more important than running into Isaac.