J. Ward: Possession

Neither of them seemed to notice as Ad leaned back on his doorjamb and Milk Dudded the show. Then again, any kind of third-wheel routine was way down on the list of their priorities.

“… did you think you can just give away a win?” Nigel bit out as they went into Jim’s room, his accent sharpening the syllables into knives. “You have no right— Dear God, is that the flag?!”

Adrian whistled under his breath. The last time he’d heard that tone come out of that otherwise proper mouth?

He and Eddie had spent a century or two in Purgatory.

Fun, fun.

Jim’s gauge was still hitting high on the fuck-ya meter, however. “My possession, right? They’re mine—you told me that yourself. So I can—”

The slap that resonated out of the open door made Ad wince.

“That’s your free shot,” Jim growled. “Next time you do that? I’m going to kill you.”

“I’m not alive, you fool. And you are putting everything at risk.”

“How do you know what I’m doing with the goddamn flag.”

“You’re giving it to her. For whatever reason I cannot discern. In fact, I cannot fathom what could possibly be as valuable as your being one win away from victory.”

Adrian repositioned his weight off his bad leg and shook his head. Okaaaaay. Not aware that Jim was tampering with things on this kind of level. But he knew who it was about.

Sissy Barten.

“Fuck,” Ad muttered as the math added up. “Fuuuuck.”

“Nigel, welcome to reality,” Jim spat, “you are not in control here.”

“Have you no thought of your mother!”

There was a beat of silence. “You think that’s your ace in the hole? My leash to bring me back to your yard?”

“Forgive me for making the assumption that you might care about her eternal salvation.”

As the pair of them argued, swiping insults and getting angrier, the grandfather clock on the stairwell landing began to chime.

But hadn’t it just gone off?

One, two, three…

That thing creeped him the fuck out.

… four, five, six…

Such hostile voices going back and forth, the pair of them like two wolves circling. And meanwhile, somewhere in Caldwell, a soul was in play—and Devina knew who it was.

But Jim did not.

Adrian rubbed his eyes and tried to refocus them. Getting used to having only half his vision was taking time, the flat plane of landscape screwing with his depth perception, his sense of where he was in space, the arrangement of his limbs.

… seven, eight, nine…

This stuff with the flag was bad juju: Jim takes a win down off the wall without telling Nigel? There was only one reason for that … the guy was going to try to trade it for Sissy’s soul.

This was out of control. The whole goddamn thing.

… ten, eleven, twelve…

Adrian glared across the second-floor foyer, at that old clock on the staircase’s landing. “Go on, do it, you fucking—”

The thirteenth chime that followed sure as hell felt as if the thing had flipped him off. And as the mournful sound faded, the argument raged on, Nigel and Jim locked into a rhythm where they were just emoting, neither of them listening to the other.

And as they wasted this energy? The game was continuing: Although there were parallels to football, there were no time-outs in this seven-round war between good and evil. And from the way things were just going in Jim’s room? The savior wasn’t giving in or seeing the light; he was just going to do whatever he damn well pleased.

His attention wasn’t on the war. It was on Sissy—and it was going to stay that way.

And Nigel’s focus? It was on wanting to beat the crap out of Jim.

Devina, however, was no doubt moving forward, circling around the soul even though she wasn’t supposed to…

The solution Ad came up with was radical and had a poor likelihood of success, but what else could he do?

The two bigger players on the team were at each other’s throats—and there was no better predictor for an enemy’s success than that kind of divided attention.

Going into his room, he pulled on some clothes, sat on his bed, and gripped his knees. As he closed his eyes, he sent out a request, the paranormal equiv of a page.

It took about two seconds to receive the summoning he was looking for.

Which meant Colin, the archangel, knew exactly why Nigel had gone earthbound—and was no happier about shit than Ad was.

Victoria Beckham.

That’s who the stylist reminded her of, Cait thought as Pablo shampooed the color out of her hair. And that wasn’t an insult. It was the guy’s black hair, sharp cheekbones, and the thin legs. And that posing/pouty thing he did with one hip out.

“ Okay, sitz ups fer us .”

Cait followed instructions, pulling her head out of the washing sink. Everything that was wet was immediately captured in a towel wrap, and then she was up on her feet, heading back to the chair.

“ Noes oo lovf zis, ” Pablo announced as she sat down.

Guess he was saying that she was going to love it?

The strange thing about that accent was that it moved around, distorting different vowels and consonants in different ways, the lack of consistency suggesting he was either posing or had an intermittent speech impediment.

As for what her opinion was going to be…

He unfurled the towel, and everything flopped onto her shoulders.

It was impossible to tell what was what. Sure, there were some lighter parts, but considering all the foils he’d folded onto her head, she expected a hell of a lot more.

Pablo pulled open the top drawer of the stand-up cupboard by his mirror and took out a square brush the size of a cutting board. Palming his hair dryer, he began fanning things out and running the hot air underneath.

“ Ve dry frst und ten ve cut, cut, cut … ”

Man, his eyes were dark as he worked. Not so much brown as black.

Looking into the mirror, she squirmed. This was such a dumb idea: Those three tubs of color with their separate paintbrushes? She could come out red, white, and blue for all she knew. And the hour it took for him to stripe down those tinfoil strips and origami them up against her scalp? Never getting that back. And the cost—four hundred dollars?

Maybe she was more like her parents than her chronic rebellion suggested. Because this excursion into vanity seemed like a waste on too many levels to count.

Plus she was going to have to keep it up—

“Oh … wow,” she said slowly as she turned her head.

The section he’d been working on was … really beautiful. Now dry and straight, her hair was the color it had been during her childhood, what appeared to be a hundred different shades of blond weaving in and out of the thick, shiny strands.

“ Ive toll youz ,” Pablo said. Or something to that effect.

And the more her hair dried out, the better it got—except then there was a pair of scissors in his hand.

“Are you sure we have to do anything?” she asked, as the blades flashed in the overhead lighting.

“ Oh, chess .”

Wow, she really couldn’t place that accent of his.

Things started flying at that point, his hands spinning around her head, those sharp scissors slicing into her hair, pieces falling to the floor like feathers from a flushed bird. It looked as if she was getting layers—oh, God, bangs … she now had bangs…

Cait closed her eyes. Color could be corrected with some Clairol back home. This stuff? It was going to take a year to grow out. The trouble was, she was on the ride—no getting off in the middle of the roller coaster.

What had she done to herself…?

A tickle lit off on the back of her hand and she cracked an eyelid. A section of her hair had landed on her wrist, the three-inch length curling ever so slightly at the end. Taking it in between her fingers, she rubbed the smooth strands together.