J. Ward: Possession

And winning .

If he pulled off one more victory?

Overwhelmed, Devina surveyed her collections, tears spearing into her eyes.

If that savior won for Team Angel, all of this was gone, all of her things no longer existed—worse, all of her souls were history as well. Everything she had spent eons amassing? Up in smoke.

Her, too.

Fucking Jim Heron.

Marching over to her vanity, she tossed the mink onto the bed, pulled out the dainty chair, and sat down. As she stared at herself in the oval mirror, she approved of the way she looked—and hated the way she felt.

First off, she despised the fact that there was a female who Jim wanted badly enough to give a win up for. And then there was her personal rock and a hard place—give up something she owned?

When was the last time she’d let anything go?

Well … hell, she’d have to go Taylor Swift on that one: never, ever, ever …

Man, OCD sucked on a good day. Faced with losing all the shit in this basement? It was enough to give her a fucking heart attack—

Bracing herself on the vanity, she had to open her mouth to breathe. “You’re immortal … you’re immortal … you don’t have to call nine-one-one…”

’Cuz for fuck’s sake, you couldn’t resuscitate someone who didn’t exist in the crash-cart kind of way.

Good logic. Except as high-octane panic roared through her veins, and knocked out her higher reasoning, that little slice of rational got kicked in the can. With a trembling hand, she brushed her dark hair out of her face and tried to remember the cognitive behaviorial therapy she’d been doing.

Not going to kill her. Just physical sensations. Not about the things, Devina—it’s about trying to exert control over …

Bullshit it wasn’t about the things. And even immortals could in fact die—she’d proved that when she’d killed Adrian’s precious little buddy Eddie in the round before last.

“Oh, God,” she moaned as a sense of disconnection separated her from her environment, her eyesight going funhouse, her balance destabilizing.

Winning the war meant that she had dominion over the Earth and all the souls on it. Awesome. Totally. But losing?

Just the thought made her want to throw up.

The stakes could not be higher.

Fucking Jim Heron—

“Can’t … breathe…”

Great. Looked like this was going to be another three-appointment week with her therapist. Maybe four.

Forcing herself to focus, she tried breathing in deep with her belly. Tightened her thigh muscles repeatedly. Told herself she’d been in this pounding place of adrenaline overload a million times before and survived it every single time. Thought about the new season at LV and what she was going to buy in New York at the mother ship on Fifth…

In the end, what brought her back was an earring she wouldn’t have worn even if there’d been a crystal knife at her throat.

Seashell? Really. How fucking Cape Cod.

The woman who’d worn it had probably gotten the damn thing from some boyfriend or another after a long weekend spent walking on the beach, holding hands, and doing it missionary position in a B & B.

Snore.

Taking the pathetic fourteen-karat trinket out, Devina bypassed a lineup of five bottles of Coco by Chanel and pulled forward a shallow plate made of a shiny silver composite. The earring bounced as she dropped it, and for a split second, she wanted to crush the thing to dust … just because she could. Instead, she began to speak in her mother tongue, her voice distorting, the Ss prolonging like a snake’s hiss. When it was time, she closed her eyes and extended her palm, the spell gathering in intensity, heat brewing up.

Images began to lift from the object, the movie of its owner channeling into her, the narrative and visuals locking into Devina’s CPU for future use. Oh, yes, metal objects were so handy, the energy of their possessors forever trapped in between the molecules, just waiting to be absorbed by something else.

Before she ended the session, she gave in to temptation and added a little something else to the mix, a minor chaser, just an itty-bitty push in her own direction. Nothing like she had done in previous rounds, nothing even close.

Just a little artificially manufactured law of attraction.

That was all.

Cracking her lids, she stared into the white-hot maelstrom that was spinning like a tornado above the flat plane of the plate—and then it was done, the energy exchange complete, the interaction between objects over.

No big deal. And if the Maker wanted to split hairs to this degree? He needed her therapist, too.

Devina sat back, the presence of her objects something she felt, the essences of the souls down below intermixing, and yet retaining their individual characteristics.

Just as things were in her wall.

Fuck Jim Heron.

And fuck the game, too, by the way. The Maker needed her. She was the balance in His world—without her? Heaven would lose its significance altogether; no need for it if Earth was a utopia.

Evil was required.

Unfortunately … however true that was, this war was going to determine the future.

She was down by so much: four rounds, and she had only won one.

Grabbing her iPhone, she went into her contacts, hit a number, and while the call was going through, she deliberately stared out over her things, reminding herself of how much she had—and how much there was to lose.

“You’ve reached the voice mail of Veronica Sibling-Crout, licensed social worker. Please leave your name and message, as well as a number where I can reach you, repeated twice. Have a lovely day.”

Beep.

“Hi, Veronica, this is Devina. I’m wondering if you have any sessions available ASAP? I’m going—” Her voice cracked. “I’m going to make a difficult decision right now, and I need some support. My number is…”

After she rattled off the digits, repeating them twice even though the woman no doubt had her on speed dial at this point, she hung up, closed her eyes and gathered her strength.

This was going to be the hardest thing she had ever done.

Other than fucking Jim Heron, of course.

Because like the war and the position she was in, it was difficult to admit … that she truly had fallen in love with him.

And that was another reason this hurt so badly.

At nine fifty-one, Duke left the Iron Mask’s front door, getting in his truck and hitting the Northway. Two exits later, he got off at a cluster of apartment developments that were conveniently located right off the highway. With names like Lantern Village, which had an old Colonial theme, and Swisse Chalets, which was some Albany architect’s version of Gsaatd, these were well maintained but densely packed stables for young professionals just starting their double-income, no-kids lives.

He should know. He’d lived here once.

Turning in at the signage marked Hunterbred Farms, he was on autopilot as his truck wound around the various horse breed–referenced streets, passing identical stacked buildings that were painted dark green and gold and had central staircases open to the air.

Eleven-oh-one Appaloosa Way.

There were two spaces allotted to each two- or three-bedroom apartment, and he pulled in next to a five-year-old Ford Taurus. He didn’t bother to lock up as he got out and strode up the walkway. Two at a time for the stairs. Down to the far end. Last door on the left.

He knocked once and loudly.

The woman who opened up was still in surgical scrubs, her dark hair loose on her shoulders, her eyes exhausted after what had undoubtedly been a very long day. As she shoved her bangs back, he caught a whiff of a chloroxylenol-based antimicrobial soap.