J.R. Ward - Envy

When there was no reply, he said to the angel, “You going to be okay if I do a quick errand?”

“Yeah. We’re fine. I’m just going to sit with him.”

Jim nodded even though there was no eye contact. “You need anything?”

“Nah. We’re good.”

Staring across at the massive figure of the angel—whose heavy legs were curled up, and powerful arms were resting loosely on the knees—Jim was beyond ready for the next round: Adrian had seemed alive again for a while tonight, animated, engaged. This resolute stillness, on the other hand, was too close to Eddie’s condition for his liking.

“I’ll be back.”

“Take your time.”

The separation wasn’t good, but Jim had to do this. Some things were a choice . . . others were a matter of necessity if you had any honor at all in your bones.

Turning around, he went out the way he’d come in, quietly closing the door behind him. Before he left, he put his palm on the wall of the garage and closed his eyes.

With hard concentration, he called up the memory of Adrian and Eddie in their hotel room at the Marriott, the pair of them arguing back and forth, and trading potshots. He imagined them doing that again, seeing Eddie’s red eyes squaring off at Adrian’s theatrics, while the other angel threw his arms up in exasperation.

They were back together again in this vision he created in his mind.

They were safe and whole.

They were both alive.

When he opened his lids, there was a subtle glow around the entire building, a phosphorescent illumination that threw no shadows, but was more powerful than stadium lighting.

Just as Jim retracted his hand, the first snowflake fell from the sky . . . which was his cue to disappear into the thin, cold air.

It was two and a half hours after Veck arrived at St. Francis Hospital before he was finally free to go see Reilly . . . two and a half frickin’ hours .

Then again, when de la Cruz had pulled up to the entrance next to the emergency room to drop him off, he’d thrown open the car door and found that he wasn’t able to stand up.

Kind of a rate-limiting issue.

So instead of going through the revolving doors of the inpatient building and heading up to Reilly’s room—which he had the number of thanks to a call into hospital information—he’d ended up in the ER himself. Where, of course, they wouldn’t give him any details about her or her condition.

Damn HIPAA rules.

And, man, they crawled all over him.

After he’d been poked, prodded, and X-rayed, they’d tried to suggest he needed an IV for fluids, but he’d shut that one down and informed them he was leaving. By way of compromise, they’d wrapped an Ace bandage around the thigh that hurt more, thrown another mummy special on his opposite ankle, and told him to go home and expect to feel worse the following day.

Thanks, Doc.

The cane was helpful, however. And as the elevator dinged and he stepped off onto the seventh floor of the inpatient building, he used the thing to help get his sorry ass out into the corridor.

He looked in both directions. Had no idea which way to go.

At random, he picked right and figured that at some point he’d run into a staff member or a map or the unit he was looking for.

As he hobbled along, he glanced down at his clothes. Filthy. Sweated out. Torn. Hell of an outfit, but it wasn’t like he was going to take time to go back home and change.

And when he got to the nursing station, he had no intention of being hit with any kind of no-visiting-hours, comeback-later crap.

Reilly had told him she loved him.

And he’d shut his woman down.

Yeah, okay, he hadn’t been the one to actually slam the door in her face—technically, that had been the medics. But he’d let her go—and that was the sort of mistake you wanted to rectify as soon as you got the chance.

Even if you needed a cane to get there and looked like you should be hosed off.

Turning another corner, he faced off against a long corridor that had directions in both English and Spanish, as well as a lot of arrows, and a map. Too bad none of the shit made any sense—and not just because he was exhausted. Did they purposely make patients hard to find here—

Down at the far end of the hall, a huge, dark figure appeared and began striding toward him.

Closer. Closer still. Until Veck could make out the leather pants, and the shitkickers, and the black coat.

Instantly, a sharpshooter drove through his brain. To the point where he wondered whether he hadn’t thrown a clot with all that running up the quarry slope.

Except . . . as he looked up into a hard face, he knew who it was. This was . . .

Veck cursed and listed into the wall as the pounder in his head wiped out all thought.

And meanwhile, the man just kept approaching. Until he stopped right in front of Veck.

As Veck focused through his pain on that incredible face, he knew he would never forget it.

“I’m going to make it right,” the man said in a foreign accent that wasn’t quite French, wasn’t quite Hungarian. “Worry not, my friend.”

God, those rolling Rs were pleasing in the ear, curiously smooth and aristocratic.

And then Veck realized who the guy was talking about: “Kroner . . .”

With a gallant, affirming nod, the foreigner resumed his walk, the footfalls of his boots a death knell if Veck had ever heard it. And then halfway down the hall, the figure flat-out disappeared . . . like a ghost.

More likely, though, he’d just turned another corner.

To go find Kroner . . . holy shit .

Veck rubbed his eyes, thought about the cave, and realized he’d missed a piece in all of this: He’d seen the serial killer hanging in front of him, except that hadn’t been anything but an image, had it. An image projected onto his Reilly.

That was the only explanation. Because she had been the one hanging from those cuffs after the dust settled, and God knew there hadn’t been time to switch the pair of them.

Abruptly weak-kneed, he leaned hard onto the cane as it dawned on him exactly what had gone on. Or rather, what could have. If he had stabbed who he had believed was Kroner . . . he would have killed her.

In the rush and panic of the aftermath, that hadn’t even dawned on him.

Christ, his choice at that crossroads had saved both of them, hadn’t it. Because he never would have recovered if he’d done what he’d been set up to do.

And as for Kroner . . .

Jerking his head over his shoulder, Veck refocused on the direction that figure of death had gone in. The serial killer must still be alive and in his hospital bed, then—and how much you want to bet, his room was down there somewhere?

By all rights, Kroner’s life was still not Veck’s to take. But that didn’t mean he was going to stop whatever was about to happen. Shit, angels, demons, small dogs with bad perms . . . the world was full of crap he’d only heard rumors about before. So for all he knew? That was the Grim Reaper upright and in person—and in that case, Kroner’s life was being snatched the right way.

Just to be sure, though, Veck limped over to a ceiling light and checked his shadow—even though he felt like a fool.

Only one.

“Ready for this to be over,” he muttered to himself. “Soooooo ready.”

Eventually, he found the right ward, and fortunately, maybe because the nurses took pity on him, he didn’t get any no-visitors backchat. He was just sent down five doors and told if he needed anything to holler.

Like maybe they expected him to fall over in a dead heap at any moment.

When he got to Reilly’s room, he didn’t rush inside in case she was asleep. He just leaned in a little so he could peek past the door.