With a great beat of his wings, he levitated up to the third-floor terrace and landed in silence. Walking over to the French doors, he kept himself invisible to the human eye and peered in. The blond attorney was in her bed, lying on her side facing a little TV, apparently sleeping.

She seemed just fine.

Matter of fact, everything appeared just fine. Yeah, sure, he could sense that ghost hovering around—but it wasn’t a threat to her or Isaac. . . .

The vibrating alarm in his spinal cord was still going strong, however, and he was inclined to listen to it rather than go with this illusion of A-OK. On a blink, he walked through the glass door and stood in the center of her room, braced for action.

Which appeared to be a waste of muscle tension.

Again, there was nothing out of place, no sounds. . . .

Frowning, he walked past the bed and through the closed door across the way. On the landing at the head of the stairs, he paused, and the ant farm on his back went crazy, the tickle so intense it turned his whole body into a tuning fork. Jogging downward, he knew he was headed in the right direction as the sensation got even worse—and then he ghosted into the room Isaac was using.

And there was the disturbance.

His fellow soldier was on the bed, twisting and turning in the sheets, his body contorting, his face screwed up tight in a mask of agony. As his big hands gripped the duvet, his arms strained, and that heavy chest of his pumped air hard.

Devina was here, all right, but she was in the man, not around him: The demon had sucked Isaac into a nightmare and trapped him in some kind of torture. And the result was a torment all the more real for its unreality, Jim imagined, because the bitch could custom-fit the abuse to Isaac’s weaknesses, whatever they were.

At least there was a simple solution: Wake the poor bastard up.

Jim rushed forward—

Nigel, his new boss, appeared in the corner of the room and held his hand up like a crossing guard. “If you rouse him, she’ll get into more than just his mind.”

Jim pulled out of the lunge, yanking his weight back onto his heels and confronting the English lordship-type who was his CO Tonight, the archangel was dressed in a 1920s-era tuxedo, and sporting a cigarette in a holder in his right hand and a martini glass in the other. But this wasn’t a party to him: In spite of his Gatsby duds and his 007 drink, his face and his voice were death’s-door grim.

Jim pointed to the bed. “So I was right. Isaac is my next assignment.”