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Turning toward the horrible sounds, she pauses a moment before looking back at me, a serene smile on her face. “He’s coming.”
“Who?”
“The Angel.”
Jesus, what kind of dream is this?
Rising up on my knees, I press my hand to my chest. “I’m Angel.”
She tilts her head to the side. “Are you?”
Before I can answer, the door to the room flies open. Shadows and light spill through, momentarily blinding me. But it’s the footsteps that kick my pulse into overdrive. Slow, purposeful steps that lead nowhere but to the end.
The girl’s smile returns. “He’s here.” She holds out her hands. “Are you ready?”
I don’t know why I nod. I just know I’m supposed to. So, I take her hands, the sticky smell of pennies binding us. As we kneel together on the hard floor, we take a deep breath and together say the words we both know so well.
“One. Two. Three. Four. Five…”
I wake to the sound of my own screams as I thrash violently while tucked in between the dresser and the bed of a guest room in the east wing.
“Six!” I shriek, tears streaming down my face as I collapse, my eyes rolling back into my head, and a tortured whisper on my lips as I slip into darkness. “Six…”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
DOMINIC
God, my head feels like somebody drilled a hole in the side of it and stuffed it full of rocks. I don’t know how much whiskey I drank last night, but it’s enough to wish for death this morning.
Or afternoon.
Hell, I don’t know what time it is. All I know is it’s too bright to be awake.
Anchoring a pillow over my head, I drape my forearms across it and block out the world until the phone rings again.
Why the hell didn’t I just turn the damn thing off?
Because then you couldn’t see her text, dickhead.
I admit it. I’ve seen all five of them. Read them. Reread them. Analyzed them like a damn chick. Everything short of answering them. I can’t. Not until I get my shit together and figure out what I’m going to do about Violet.
And Rubio.
And Rosten.
And Luciano.
“Fuck,” I groan into the pillow. “I wish they’d all just die.”
After the third time my phone rings, I’m pissed. Throwing the pillow across the room, I roll back across the mattress, hitting the answer button without bothering to look at the caller ID.
“Stop fucking calling me!” I’m about to hang up when a familiar voice catches my ear.
“McCallum, wait. This is about Alexandra.”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Brent.”
