Timing was crucial when he took over a body. He had discovered there must still be a spark of that mysterious, vital thing called life, or his own spirit couldn’t take hold. It was impossible to inhabit a host that was already dead, futile to inhabit one that was dying. In the process of experimenting on how to transfer from body to body throughout the centuries, he had discovered how to create his drones, killing off just enough of a body’s essential spirit to allow for his control yet leaving enough of a life spark so that the body could continue to behave like a normal human.

He lowered Justin to the bed, slipped out of his old host and into Justin’s body. The body of the computer salesman fell discarded to the floor.

He had to ride out the last of the convulsions. Uncomfortable, but necessary. The meat always sustained some trauma at the death of its original spirit.

After the convulsions had run their course, he took a power nap. Then, although he could have wished for more rest, he made himself sit up and get out of bed. He had too much to catch up on, phone calls and e-mails to make to various employees, and then he needed to redouble his efforts on the hunt. Plus, he was happy to discover that he felt hungry again. Justin had been careful not to overindulge in what he ate.

He didn’t bother to glance at the computer salesman’s body that lay sprawled by the bed like cowboy Woody from Toy Story. Instead he went to the mirror again and inspected his new residence with the clever, narrow face, and the well-kept body.

He tried out one of Justin’s charming smiles and felt another pang. Whatever had caused that adorable, mischievous twinkle was gone. Still, he did like the result.

He widened the smile to watch the dimples deepen. This could work out better than he had expected. Justin cared about his ex-wife. Depending on what abilities and memories she recovered, Mary might actually trust him for a short, critically important while.

“Man, you’re hot,” he said to the image. If he ended up occupying this body for any length of time, he would have to visit his tailor.

He had a particular style he favored. It was killer chic.

Chapter Sixteen

MARY WOKE UP hard from her dream. She sucked in deep, ragged breaths as she stared at the battered interior of the car, at the grim man beside her, at the highway.

Memory settled into place. She scrubbed her face with both hands. Christ, she was getting tired of being tired.

“What’s wrong?” Michael asked. He shot her a sharp, pale-eyed glance.

She shook her head, not wanting to answer him. She looked instead at the bags of fast food on the seat between them. “Is some of that for me?”

“Yes. The coffee in the holder is yours too. It’s probably cold by now. I didn’t want to wake you. I figured you needed to sleep.” His mouth tightened, a pale, grim line. “What’s wrong?”

To avoid answering him, she ducked her head and rummaged through the contents in the bags. There were a couple of large lukewarm hamburgers, French fries that had congealed and stuck together, and a piece of cardboard with a picture of apple pie on the outside. She opened the plastic lid on the coffee cup and sipped at it. The brewed liquid tasted harsh. It was cooler than the food. She sighed.

“I want a month in a hotel by a beach,” she said. “I don’t want dreams. I don’t want to ask a single scary question, and I don’t want anyone to tell me anything useful. I plan on practicing the art of cheerful incuriosity. And I want room service to bring me a mushroom and asparagus omelet, a fruit salad and fresh-ground French roast with cream.”

Steel entered Michael’s voice as he repeated, “What’s wrong? If you dreamed it might be important.”

She snapped, “I’m sure it is important, but I’m not ready to talk about it. Quit pushing me.”

He blew out a breath between his teeth in a sharp, impatient sound but fell silent. She forced herself to eat some of the starchy food while she thought. Then she drank all of the coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste.

She could no longer summon even a pretense of disbelief at what was happening. A bleak resignation settled in her chest. It rested in a lump where the assassin’s sword had cut into her, all those many centuries ago.

“There isn’t going to be any month on the beach, is there?” she said. “This is the sum of our existence. We’re born, we’re haunted, we work to understand what has happened to us, to remember and to find each other, and we try to destroy the Deceiver. Then we die and are reborn, and it starts all over again. Over and over.”

Michael gave her a long, thoughtful glance, clearly assessing the change in her attitude, although he didn’t remark on it. Instead he said, “That’s not quite true. There can be years of peace at a time. It’s possible to have a good childhood. This life has been harsh for a lot of reasons.”

She thought of the sprawling, gracious home in that ancient city by the sea, of the people who had been so mystified by her and who had loved her anyway. Her eyes pricked with tears. “Yeah,” she said, her voice thick. “When was the last time you knew peace?”

He remained silent. Somehow she knew he would.

She said, “I need to go to the bathroom. Can you stop as soon as possible?”

“We’ll make a quick stop at the next rest area. It should be in about ten minutes.”

“Thanks.” After a few minutes she said, “Do you even think it can be done? Destroying him, I mean. It’s been such a long time.”

“It can be done,” he said. “He’s powerful, but he’s not a god. This world is a big place, and he has gotten talented at hiding. We spend a lot of time just hunting him. And not all of us have been involved in every conflict. I was alive when the Deceiver destroyed two of the group in the fifteenth century, and Astra’s told me something about the other two and how their lives ended. She doesn’t know for sure exactly what happened to Gabriel and Raphael, only that they died together.”

Shadowy memories of people ghosted through her head. She asked in a hushed voice, “How did they die? But I guess that’s the wrong way to ask the question, isn’t it? How were they destroyed?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, and the lines of his face settled into that habitual grimness. “One of his favorite tricks is to capture one mate and use torture to try to control the other. Ariel and Uriel were the two he killed when I was alive. He caught Uriel while Ariel was imprisoned by the English. It—the local politics of the time don’t matter. He destroyed Uriel, and Ariel’s spirit dissipated as well. I couldn’t get to her in time. I couldn’t get to either one of them.” The bones of his face stood out in the dim light of the dashboard. “They both died alone.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. The back of her throat felt thick with unshed tears.

He glanced at her. “This situation we’re involved in right now—it’s important for a lot of reasons.”

Then he fell silent. She didn’t ask anything more about the other pair, rubbing her arms as she thought. “Is it important because the four of us are all in one geographical area?”

He nodded. “That’s part of it. You’ve managed to resurface, which is another part. Also, early yesterday morning one of our allies in the Secret Service was assassinated. That means the Deceiver is preparing to try to take control of the U.S. Presidency.”

“Good God,” she uttered. She stared at the lines of his hard-edged profile. “You can’t be serious.”

Michael said, “It’s another one of his favorite tricks, to either assume the identity of a head of state or, failing that, to control one. He’s not yet in a position to make his play, but it won’t take him much longer to get there. The good news is that he has to try to take control in person. The bad news is, we no longer have someone in the White House with the ability to sense his presence and with the authority to act on it.”

Maybe a month on the beach had happened in other lifetimes, but it didn’t sound like it would be happening here soon, or even in this lifetime. She let her head fall back on her headrest.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary. You’re bleeding again.

And it’s been over nine centuries.

A wound of the spirit as deep as yours can only come from your mate.

The black diamond man was such a liar. Of course he was. He was a mean-spirited malcontent who used words to manipulate and wound. She couldn’t let him worm his way into her head.

But there was Michael who had just hours ago rubbed at his temple with the barrel of his gun. Michael had looked like a man standing at the edge of a precipice, like a man bereft of a single reason not to plunge over that edge and shatter himself on the jagged rocks below.

She held herself tense, closed off from the occasional searching glances that he gave her, until he slowed the car and turned onto an exit ramp. Then she looked around.

Dawn had begun to turn the eastern part of the sky rose-colored while the western horizon darkened to a royal purple. Close by, a cluster of gas stations, fast-food restaurants and diners huddled together. The buildings looked dingy and tired of their codependency. Michael pulled into one of the gas stations and parked in the lane closest to the road.

“I’ll get gas since we’re stopping.” He spoke in his terse voice. “Don’t take long.”

“I’ll take as long as I have to.” Her reply was just as terse. She could feel him looking at her but she refused to turn her head. She got out and walked inside, feeling as tired and shabby as the buildings looked.

The station attendant was a pimply young man wearing earbuds. Mary could hear the rap music from across the counter. She struggled to find a friendly smile and asked in a loud voice, “Where are your restrooms?”

The smile was a wasted effort. He didn’t glance up from his magazine. “Outside. You need a key.”

She waited a moment, but he didn’t move. Her friendly expression vaporized. She slapped her hand on his magazine and snapped, “May I have the key, please?”

The attendant gave her a nasty glance. She sneered back at him, feeling as if she had regressed to a snotty teenager. He shoved the key across the counter. She snatched it up and stomped outside.

Michael stood by the car pumping gas. He had shrugged on his jacket, no doubt to hide his gun, and he stood hipshot, hands resting at his waist. He looked haggard as well, the lines of his hard face jagged.

She felt a ghost of compassion stir at the sight. This life had not been kind to him. In the glow of the station’s lights his eyes were the color of pewter. He watched her with his Mister Enigmatic expression.

She forced herself to walk at a decent speed around the corner of the building. Once she was out of Michael’s line of sight, she rotated her shoulders and stared at the open field that bordered the gas station. The ever-present forest lay just beyond. She felt the urge to run until she couldn’t run any longer, just for the illusion of freedom for a few brief minutes.

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” she muttered. “The freaky son of a bitch got that much right.”

She jabbed the key into the lock and opened the door. The restroom looked as bad as she had expected, with a broken mirror, and a rust-stained sink and toilet. Her gaze bounced around, taking in the filthy floor and the lack of paper towels. At least the dispenser had toilet paper.

Her hotel on the beach would have gorgeous bathrooms with designer soaps and lotions, fresh-cut flowers delivered daily and Jacuzzi bathtubs. Populations of small island countries could live in those bathrooms. Hell, forget about the beach. Give her a bathroom like that, and she would take her entire vacation in it.

She shut and locked the door, and used the facility. Then she washed in cold water. There was no hand soap. Of course. When she finished, she studied the door. At least that was adequate for what she wanted, constructed as it was of sturdy metal. Better yet, it had the kind of lock that bolted from inside.

She gritted her teeth and lowered herself onto the floor in a corner as far away from the sink and toilet as she could get. Leaning against the wall, she closed her eyes and took deep breaths as she concentrated on relaxing and remembering how easy it had felt in her dreams to slip away from her body, like sliding a knife through whipped cream.

She could do this again. She remembered how.

She breathed in deep, slow breaths, and after a few moments, she slid away from her body. As the first pounding began on the door, she stared at her transparent hands, then at the crack down her torso that continued to bleed light.

Michael’s deep voice reached her through the door. “Mary? Mary!”

She smiled and walked through the door.

She hadn’t counted on Michael’s thirty-plus years of experience, or his psychic sensitivity. His head snapped around as she passed him, his hard-angled expression incredulous. They stared at each other. He said, “Jesus. What the hell are you doing?”

She told him, I can’t heal myself. But I remembered someone who can.

“Astra can heal you.” He bit off each word. “We don’t have time for this.”

Tough, she said. We’ll just have to make time. I don’t know either you or Astra any longer, and I’ll be responsible for my own healing.

He punched the door, a short, savage jab. “You don’t know what the f**k you’re doing. There are predators in the psychic realm as well.”

Then you’d better stop distracting me, don’t you think?

He punched the door again. “If I get inside that bathroom,” he snapped. “I can make you get back in your body. Just remember that—and act fast.”

She hesitated. That’s it? You want me to try?

“If you think you can heal yourself, by all means do it,” he said. “We need you strong and well, and the sooner that can happen the better. But pay attention. You are very visible to anyone who has the ability to sense you. The longer we sit still the closer our pursuers get, and you’re using up strength you can’t afford to lose. Now hurry.”