Her heart was breaking even though that made no sense whatsoever, and in the face of the pain, all she wanted was to get away from the man who stood so still and powerful on the far side of her bedroom.

On the far side of her life, actually.

“Good-bye, Isaac Rothe,” she murmured, heading for the door.

“Wait.”

For a brief moment, some kind of odd, disastrous hope took flight in her chest. The flare didn’t last, however. She was done with fantasies and fantastic excitement.

She did, however, let him approach as he held something out to her.

“Jim asked that I give this to you.”

Grier took what was in his hand. It was a ring—no, a piercing, a little dark silver circle with a ball into which the free end screwed. She frowned as she looked at the tiny inscription that ran around the inside. It was in a language she wasn’t familiar with, but she recognized the PT950 stamp. The hoop was made of platinum.

“It’s Adrian’s, actually,” Isaac murmured. “They’re giving it to you and they want you to wear it.”

“Why?”

“To keep you safe. So they say.”

It was hard to imagine what the thing could do for her, but it did fit on her forefinger, and when Isaac took a deep, relieved breath, she was a little surprised.

“It’s just a ring,” she said softly.

“I’m not sure anything is a ‘just’ right now.”

She couldn’t disagree there. “How are you going to get that body out of here?”

“Move it.”

“Well, there you go.” She took one last look at him. The idea that he could be dead in a matter of hours was inescapable. And so was the reality that she was probably not going to know what happened to him. Or where he went next if he survived. Or whether he would ever sleep in a safe bed again.

Feeling herself slipping, she hiked up her suitcase, nodded at him and walked out, leaving him behind.

There was no other choice.

She had to take care of herself.

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 43

The choice had to be the result of free will.

That was the problem with this whole contest thing: The soul in question had to choose their path of their own free will when they got to their crossroads.

As Devina stepped out of the shower in her suite at the Four Seasons, she thought about how much she hated the freewill bullshit. It was far more efficient for her to take possession and drive the bus, so to speak. The Creator, however, had limited the impact she was allowed to have under the rules.

Jim Heron was the only one who was supposed to set up the souls . . . the only one who was allowed to try to influence the choices made in any fashion.

Fucking Jim Heron.

Fucking bastard.

And fuck the Creator, too, for that matter.