“This is a delicate situation. Excuses had to be made—these men and women can’t just duck out for no good reason without questions being raised.”

Isaac could feel Grier staring at him like she was looking for some backup on the hell-no front, but as it was, he disagreed with her. Tomorrow morning was just perfect.

He’d be gone by then.

Out at the Framingham Comfort Inn & Suites, Jim woke up in his dimly lit room and felt like he’d been in a car accident. With a semi. And he hadn’t had his seat belt on.

He was on the bed he’d been sleeping in and curled on his side, his busted-up body having carved out a section of the mattress and settled in like a dog waiting to die in the woods. But he was immortal now . . . and what that apparently meant was no matter how much damage was done, he healed from it.

Yeah, except this was no Samantha-the-witch nose-twitch kind of job, where everything was cleaned up on a oner. He felt very human with the aches and pains, with the inhales that made his ribs burn, with the skips of his heart as it beat the same way a drunk walked. But the worst part of it wasn’t physical. It was in his head.

That he had left Sissy behind in Devina’s realm killed him.

Opening his eyes, he realized it was morning; over the top of Dog’s fuzzy head, the alarm glowed with red numbers. 7:52.

Rise and shine, he thought as he gingerly rolled over onto his back. On the other side of him, Adrian was out like a light, the angel breathing deeply, his eyes jogging behind his closed lids.

Given the glower on his face, he clearly wasn’t having a good time in dreamland.

God, what a night, Jim thought. After Colin had left him, he’d assumed it was just going to be him and Dog. But then someone had come through the other room, and he’d assumed it was Eddie—the nursey-nurse shit was clearly more up his alley.

But no. Adrian had been the one to come in . . . and stay.

At the moment, Jim didn’t have the strength to deal with how any sympathy was going to make him feel, so he carefully pulled a blanket around himself and quietly stood up on legs that were about as strong as pencils. Limping over to the laptop, he was dizzy as all get out, and he just barely made it to the chair in time—although, fuckin’ A, that ass-plant hurt like a bitch.