Demon's Delight (23 page)

R
OSEMARY
padded through her second-story apartment, absorbing sensory details with every step—the feel of the smooth hardwood beneath her bare feet, the ticking of the mantel clock over the false fireplace, green and blue flashes of light streaming through the sun catcher in the kitchen window. She'd been in this human form, this body, for twenty-four hours now, and still everything seemed too bright, too loud, too hot or too cold.

How long had it been since she'd felt, tasted, touched in the way of mortals?

She couldn't say. Time didn't exist in her plane of existence. There was no past to regret, no future to anticipate. She just
was
, moment to moment.

She didn't know how long it had been since she'd last been in human form, but she did know the world had not been like this. So crowded, so noisy.

The thought of facing the modern world this way, with all of her human feelings and fears intact, was nearly enough to send her scurrying back to bed and under a cocoon of covers where it was quiet and dark. Safe.

But hiding wasn't going to get her back where she belonged. She was stuck here until she finished the job she'd come to do, and that meant facing the world—and Zane Halvorson.

It happened this way, occasionally. People weren't always ready to accept the gift she offered. They had issues.

Zane Halvorson seemed to have more issues than most.
Guardian angel?
She was called many names by many people in different parts of the world, but that was a new one.

Sighing, she stopped her pacing before a maple cabinet that displayed an antique china collection with pattern of delicate blue and yellow flowers. A small dish of candies sat on the hutch. Curious, she lifted the lid and cautiously placed a small green square on the tip of her tongue.

Mmmmmmm.
Her eyelids drifted down, and she smiled, remembering. Party mints. The sweet and creamy kind that melted in the mouth.

So maybe not everything about the human existence was as odious as she'd first thought. She could get through it. She knew where to find him and she knew what needed to be done. The trick would be to stay focused. Work quickly. She'd be out of here in no time. For if she knew one thing, it was that death would visit Zane Halvorson again.

Soon.

 

The sound of beer bottles clinking and pool balls clacking was all a man needed to soothe what ailed him—at least in the Zane Halvorson book of medicine. One step into the Oasis, his favorite dive, and he felt like he'd dropped a twenty-pound pack off his back. All around the room friendly faces raised beers and pool cues in greeting.

His gray-haired pilot and the designated dirty old man of the aerial-show crew, Jasper, broke away from a conversation that was surely leading to a deep and meaningful one-night stand with the new waitress and sidled over. “'Bout time you got here, Z. How you doing? Feeling all right?”

“I'm good.” Actually he was a little shaken. Not so much by almost dying, but the whole angel-of-the-deep thing had him freaked out.

She'd been on a boat near where he'd splashed down in the lake and jumped in to rescue him. He'd caught a few glimpses of her in the water before he'd lost consciousness. Anything else he thought he remembered was probably just oxygen deprivation screwing with his memory. His mind was a frightening place on a good day. On a bad one…hell, he didn't even want to think about the possibilities.

Jasper clamped a hand on his shoulder and propelled him across the barroom. “Come on, you gotta see this. Jimmie is cleaning house on the tables tonight.”

Zane shook himself from the memory of sinking in cold, dark water. “Yeah, in a minute. Let me get a drink.”

Jasper toddled away. “Hurry it up. You're missing a show. Kid's got a gift, I tell you.”

Zane sidled toward the bar. Jimmie had a gift all right. For losing every cent he won on the pool table in the backroom poker party that would start up in about an hour.

He smiled. It was good to be home.

With his elbows propped on the scarred wood bar, one boot planted on the brass rail near the floor, and hips leaning against a leather-covered stool, Zane waited for Pete, the bartender, to finish the highball he was mixing. While Zane waited he looked around the room, sinking into the familiarity of the place as he picked out all the regulars among the sea of new faces in town for the air and boat show. Dan and Mike were in a heated conversation over who deserved to be this year's baseball MVP. Kyle was working the crowd. Joey was wrapped around his girlfriend in the booth behind—

Her.

She sat by herself at the little table tucked into the farthest corner, head down and both hands wrapped around a glass, almost as if she hoped no one would notice her.

His guardian angel.

He took a moment to study her unawares. He hadn't really gotten a good look at her yesterday before the paramedics had stormed the boat and hauled him off to the emergency room. He just had that impression of wild, dark hair and deep green eyes—the kind of gorgeous that could hit a guy like a punch in the gut if he wasn't careful. He hadn't had a chance to talk to her at all.

He wasn't sure he wanted to.

How fucked-up was that? She'd saved his life. Then there was the whole dramatic kiss thing, which he really ought to apologize for. But even though his brain said to get off his ass and go talk to her, his boots—

Aw, hell. One of the speedboat jockeys had her in his sights and was about to make a move. Zane intercepted the guy before he got out whatever clichéd line he was about to drop on her.

Holding the speed freak back with a casual palm planted on the man's chest, Zane dropped into the chair across from her. “Mind if I sit?”

She raised her head. “No. Although next time it might be nice if you asked before you actually sat.”

“I can leave.”

She flicked a glance up at the speedboat guy who was still hovering with a hopeful gleam in his eyes, then met Zane's gaze levelly. “No, you can't.”

“Cheeky. I like that.” He nodded toward her empty glass. “What're you drinking?”

“Water.”

Wineing, he held up two fingers to the waitress, and a moment later Sheila deposited two longnecks and a bowl of popcorn and pretzels on the table, greeted Zane with a playful bump of her hip on his shoulder, and then left without a word.

Zane pushed one of the bottles to the woman across the table. “Better than water.”

She just wrapped her hands around the bottle the way she had her glass and watched him down his first swig.

“So, you're a photographer. For the
Times
.”

“Yes. You saw the paper this morning, huh?”

“Kind of hard to miss that big headline ‘
Times
Photographer Saves Parachutist.' Not to mention the picture of us…you know.”

“Ah, yes. The picture.” She picked at the label on the beer bottle with her fingernails, but she had yet to take a drink, he realized.

“Yeah. About that kiss. I mean, it was just for show. Had to do something to reassure the crowd. I'm sorry if—”

“What in the world were you thinking, setting your parachute on fire like that?” she interrupted.

Okay, so she didn't want to talk about the kiss. He was relieved, actually. He'd consider that his apology was accepted.

He shrugged. “It's an old gag. It's been done plenty of times before.”

“And the people who did this gag before, they lived to tell about it?”

“Mostly.”

“Is the money really worth risking your life for? Or do you just do it for the thrill?”

He leaned back and hooked one arm over the back of his chair. “Yes to both.”

“Sure it's not just some kind of death wish?”

“For two people who hardly know each other, this conversation is getting awfully personal.”

She pursed her lips a moment, then spoke softly. “I breathed life from my lungs into yours yesterday. I'd hardly say we're strangers.”

He narrowed his eyes. His heartbeat quickened and his breathing deepened. He wanted to look away, but he couldn't seem to break the connection between them. For a moment, he felt that same odd, floaty sensation he'd experienced in the lake yesterday.

“You want to know the truth?” he heard himself saying without consciously deciding to speak. “The money's good and I like the rush. But there's a third reason. I do it for the kids. You know, the ones who come to the show with the parents who want them to grow up to be computer engineers or lawyers. The ones who are afraid to dream because they don't think they're smart enough or good enough or…whatever crap has been pounded into their heads.”

He wiped his palm on the thigh of his jeans. “I can see them down there, holding their breath while I fall. Then when I hit the ground and later they come running up for autographs—I can see it in their eyes. They know anything is possible if you're not afraid to try. They believe they can fly.”

The Army had taught him to jump out of airplanes, but when they hadn't wanted him anymore, he'd taught himself to make a life doing what he loved most. He'd decided to pass on to a new generation the courage and the love of freedom that had made him an Army Airborne jump master for twelve years.

Zane realized his hand was fisted on his thigh and forcibly relaxed his fingers.

Rosemary was quiet a moment, processing his heartfelt confession, he supposed. She dipped her fingers tentatively into the popcorn bowl, as if afraid it might burn her, pulled out a piece and popped it into her mouth. “Salty,” she said, cocking her head to one side like she'd never tasted popcorn before. “Good.”

She reached for a handful. “Kids or no kids, you have to know someday it could end badly. I guess you're prepared to go out that way, without any warning. You've got your affairs in order.”

“I don't really have many affairs to order,” he drawled. Strange conversations that kept taking blind curves way too fast had a way of bringing out the good 'ol Texas boy accent. Tended to slow things down.

“So there's not some big thing left undone that you want to do before you die? Some great goal to meet? Some terrible wrong you need to right?”

“No.” This conversation was seriously starting to give him the creeps, and still he couldn't help but be intrigued by her. By why she cared about any of this. “I gather you're not much of a risk taker.”

“I'm here, aren't I?” She arched one fine eyebrow inquisitively, and there it was. The sucker-punch gorgeous look nearly knocked the breath out of him even though he'd been prepared for it. At least he thought he'd been prepared for it.

He leaned across the table toward her. “You know, it's the strangest thing. When I was underwater…drowning…I could have sworn you talked to me.”

“What did I say?”

“That you were an angel.”

Just the tips of her mouth curved up. “Maybe I am.”

And maybe he was the devil in blue jeans. God knew, he suddenly felt horny enough to be.

The suggestion that they go somewhere more private to talk—among other things—had almost reached his mouth when a hand clapped him on the back. “Z, buddy. Sorry to interrupt the reunion, ma'am.” Jasper nodded at Rosemary, then looked back at Zane. “You gotta come with me. Kyle just put out a hundred big ones for all takers that he can beat you off-road, in the desert. Night course.”

Zane heard Jasper, but his eyes were all for Rosemary. “I'm kinda busy right now.”

“Zane. It's a
hundred
big ones. And the little toad's running his mouth about how your confidence is shook, after yesterday and all.”

Indecision warred within him until a solution made him smile. He stood and held out his hand to Rosemary. “You want to understand why I do the things I do? Come with me.”

W
HAT
is that?” Rosemary had trailed along willingly enough with her hand still clasped firmly in Zane's until she saw the gargantuan…behemoth parked at the edge of the lot outside the Oasis.

“It's a truck,” he answered, tugging her forward when she held back. “A four-by-four.”

It looked more like a tank. It was midnight blue, one of those short-bed deals, with roll bars framing the cab, a chrome exhaust pipe and tires…the top of the tires hit her waist-high. She'd need a stepladder to climb into the thing, or so she thought until Zane opened the passenger-side door, spanned her waist with his big hands and lifted her inside as if she weighed no more than a cloud.

The monster sounded like a tank, too, when Zane turned on the ignition and revved the engine. When the diesel roar had receded to an angry growl, he turned his head toward her and threw her a grin. “Buckle up for safety.”

“Where are we going?” she asked, fumbling with the latch on the seat belt. She wasn't at all sure this was a good idea. Not at all.

“For a ride in the desert.”

“I don't think—”

“Come on, it'll be fun. It's a nice night, and the stars are out.”

She glanced up, unimpressed. The stars were much more impressive when they surrounded you rather than just floating overhead. She licked her lips, about to unbuckle the seat belt and bail out when a red Jeep Wrangler—Kyle's, she supposed—whipped by them on the driver's side, its horn beeping like the Road Runner as it passed.

“Damn. He cheats!”

“Zane, you're not going to ra—”

The big truck lurched as he threw it in gear and stomped on the accelerator. Her head snapped back and her hands automatically clutched whatever they could find—the center console and the door handle.

“What're you
doing
?”

“Reason number four for doing what I do, sweetheart. The most important reason of all. It's called
living
. Full throttle. Every second of every day.”

She swallowed hard as gravel spun out beneath the truck's tires and they peeled out after the Jeep, plunging into the darkness, guided only by two spindly beams of light. “At the moment I'm more concerned about dying.”

That couldn't happen, right? She wasn't even really alive, after all. This was just a shell she was inhabiting temporarily until she finished her work here and everything got back to normal.

No way. It couldn't happen.

She squeaked as the truck bounced off the edge of the parking lot and across a dune of sand. Despite the seat belt, her body was ejected from the seat, then jerked left, then right as the rear wheels fishtailed, biting into the shifting sand for purchase.

Zane laughed, his attention focused on the cloud of sand ahead of him that had been churned up by Kyle's Jeep.

“Zane, please!”

“Just hang on, Rosie. We've almost got him!”

Rosie?
No one called her Rosie.

They careened over another sand dune, the front wheels popping up first, then the back end, flying so high she felt like they might flip into a somersault at any moment. Her fingers dug deeper into the leather-grained handle on the door.

“This is crazy!” she yelled, but Zane was hunched over the steering wheel, driving blindly into the sandstorm ahead. Seconds later, the view out the windshield cleared as they pulled alongside the Jeep.

“There you are, you little bastard! Thought you could beat me by jumping the start line, did you?” He flipped Kyle the universal sign of disdain and gunned the truck even harder. The engine shuddered and the truck edged ahead of the Jeep by a bumper, and then a quarter panel.

Rosemary finally managed to bring a full breath into her lungs—until she looked into the dimly lit desert ahead and spotted what looked like the edge of the world. She screamed. “Zane, stop!”

He only clutched the steering wheel and grinned. The truck flew over the edge of the arroyo and down the embankment, bouncing and jouncing so hard that the steel frame of the truck groaned in protest.

“Are you crazy?” she yelled over the din.

He glanced away from the path in front of him long enough to chastise her with a look. His eyes beamed with excitement. “Relax. We're fine. And we're winning.”

The Jeep surged in front of them and dived right into the narrow bed-runoff canal. Zane countered by zigging left, throwing her right, and she made the mistake of looking out the passenger window. The desert landscape passed in a nauseating blur of dunes and cacti, glittering eyes as nocturnal critters skittered out of their path, and churning sand. Every bump jolted her upset stomach and aggravated her pounding head. The movement and noise and scattered bits of light was too much for her—she'd barely gotten to the point where she could enjoy popcorn, for heaven's sake. Every jolt was like a hammer blow to her body. Every crunch of the tires and grinding gear was like an ice pick in her ears. Her senses couldn't take this kind of stimulation.

Biting back her rising bile, she switched her hand grip from the door to the handle over the window. “Zane, please!”

He was too intent on the path ahead, if there was any path, to spare her a glance. “We're almost there.”

“The race is lost. He is beating you.”

“I've got him right where I want him. Right…here!”

The Jeep turned down a narrow track to the right, then swiveled left. Zane passed the point where he'd turned, then yanked the steering wheel right and gunned the truck up an impossibly steep incline. Gravity forced Rosemary's spine against the seatback. She heard the tires spinning, grasping for purchase on the steep slope. The engine whined in protest.

“We're not going to make it!” Oh God, they were going to flip over backward.

Even as she thought it, the truck's front tires peeled over the edge of the canal. The frame bottomed out for a fraction of a second, and then they were airborne, flying without wings. Just before she squeezed her eyes shut, Rosemary saw the hood of the Jeep, its roof just a meter beneath the truck's big tires, still winding its way out of the gulley, and she screamed.

Her chest was still burning, yet to draw in a new breath when they pulled into the parking lot alongside the Oasis. Zane turned the truck off, jumped out and spun around the front of the hood whistling, tossing the keys and grabbing them out of the air before he reached her door and offered her a hand out.

Slapping his arm away, she stumbled out of the truck, her head still spinning and her heart pounding.

He frowned. “You okay?”

She jabbed him in the chest with her index finger. “You. You. Are. Insane!”

He shook his head. “It was just a little race.”

“A little race? You—We—” Her voice failed her, so she made an arcing, flying motion with her hand, her eyes wide.

He crossed his arms over his chest and chuckled. “A little rattled, are we?”

“Rattled? Why, you—You want to see rattled? I'll show you rattled!” Zane Halvorson could be damned for all she cared. There was only so much an angel could take.

She felt the well of power within her. Like the buffer in some kind of massive generator, the energy built up in her body, sizzled from her heart to her fingertips. She raised her hands, already feeling the lightning sizzling toward her fingertips, ready to strike out. But before the first bolt left her hands, a wind kicked up, blowing her hair in front of her eyes and whispering urgently in her ear.

Zane threw his arm in front of his face to protect his eyes from the blowing sand. Rosemary dropped her hands and clenched her fists at her sides, then turned and stomped toward the bar.

“Rosie, wait!” he called behind her, but she gritted her teeth and marched on without turning back.

When Saint Peter whistled, even she didn't dare refuse the call.

 

Rosemary sat on the last stool at the end of the bar, hunched over a half-empty glass until the last of the Oasis's patrons called it a night.

“Careful there,” Pete said, swabbing his way down the bar toward her with a damp cloth. “Or I'll have to be calling a cab to get you home.”

She looked up at her mentor, confused. “It's ice water.”

“It's not the drink I'm worried about.” His eyes sparkled when he smiled, and the wings of the eagle tattoo on his bicep fluttered as he slung the dishcloth over his shoulder and stepped her way. “Friends don't let friends drive depressed.”

She ducked her head again. “I'm not depressed. I'm just—” She sighed. “I
hate
this.”

“Being human?”

“I don't know how people stay sane in this form.” She plunked her elbows on the bar and propped her chin in her hands. “All the ups and downs and noise and people. It's…chaotic.”

“It's life.”

“Life is highly overrated.”

“Says the Angel of Death.”

She looked up at Saint Peter through eyes bleary with exhaustion. That was another thing. She never got tired in her true form. The Angel of Death never needed a nap.

She rubbed her temples. “This guy has a death wish, Pete.”

“Then why is he still alive?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

Pete finished cleaning the bar and began to straighten the open bottles in the liquor bin, making sure each was securely corked. “The usual, I suspect. Unresolved issues.”

She snorted. “Yeah, like the fact that he's an adrenaline junkie.”

“This you've decided after what, a whole hour in his company?”

“That's about fifty-eight minutes longer than I needed.”

Saint Peter stopped his cleaning and leaned over to her across the bar. “Does the phrase ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged' ring any bells with you?”

She dropped her gaze, a rush of heat flooding her cheeks. By the heavens, it wasn't just the sensory overload anymore, but in the last few hours all these human emotions had begun to surface, as well. How was she supposed to do her job with all these feelings distracting her? One minute she wanted to laugh, the next she wanted to cry. And when she stared into Zane Halvorson's hazel eyes for too long, a whole other set of wants altogether began to make itself known.

She slumped back in her chair. “So what am I supposed to do, Pete? Stalk the guy until he finally figures out what's wrong with his life so that he can die?”

Pete went back to his work, turning his back to her. “Perhaps.”

She studied his expression in the mirror behind the bar and knew there was something he wasn't telling her. “Or perhaps not,” she guessed, then mumbled, “I have other work.”

“You have only the task He gives you.”

Embarrassment rose again in her cheeks. “I just want to go home.”

“Then you need to complete your task.”

“You know I can't affect the outcome one way or another. Only He decides who lives and who dies. I'm just here to bring home the ones He chooses. Why would He keep me here like this, waiting for this one man to resolve his issues?”

Pete set down the glass he'd been drying and met her gaze in the mirror. “Perhaps you should consider that Zane Halvorson is not the one with issues to be resolved.”

An hour later, Rosemary stumbled through her dark apartment and fell spread-eagle on the bed.

What did Peter mean, that perhaps Zane Halvorson wasn't the one with issues? Of course the man had issues. He'd jumped out of a perfectly good airplane and set his own parachute on fire, for goodness sake.

She pulled pillows up to either side of her head to drown out the ticking of the clock and the rumble of cars on the street below.

She would just have to wait him out, that's all. Stay close to him. Sooner or later Zane Halvorson would die, and the Angel of Death would be there to save his soul. Then she could go back where she belonged.

End of story.