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.

She snapped a towel off a brass rod and dried off the beautiful brunette's body, all the while thinking that this was such a better home than that snake- tatted soldier's. But she didn't have time to do the flesh-reunion justice. The final round with the current soul in play was not just approaching--it was here.

Time to close this match down and win it.

After vacating the familiar skin of Matthias's second in command, she had taken to the air and extricated herself from that brick house. The spiteful side of her had wanted to park it inside that female attorney or in her father--just for kicks and giggles and the drama of it all. But with the way things were, she didn't think that was a wise idea: everything was so perfectly arranged, the players' predilections and proclivities ensuring how they would act.

It was the wardrobe equivalent of a perfect outfit.

And she needed to win this one for reasons more than the game: She wanted payback for Jim Heron's performance in her private quarters. And not the one with her minions, the one when the pair of them had been alone.

She'd been utterly unprepared for his attack. Or the fact that he was so clearly much more than just another angel. Adrian or Eddie could not have pulled off something like that. She didn't know anyone who could.

It just made no sense--Jim Heron had been chosen for a defined role and he was supposed to be a lackey who was neither good nor bad. Matter of fact, he'd been agreed upon by both sides because each team thought that he would influence things according to their values and take cues from a prescribed amount of "coaching."

What utter bullshit that had turned out to be.

That first soul they'd battled over? Jim had done everything possible to push the man toward the good--proving that Devina's faith in him had been misplaced. That son of a bitch was a savior in a sinner's clothes, not one of her kind. Which was why she was going to have to get even more involved from this point on; there was no one on the field representing her interests, and manipulation of the situation was critical if she was going to prevail in any of these innings.

If she didn't finesse things, she was going to lose after going oh-for-four.

And that was why she'd taken Jim down below to her realm when she had. She'd needed to get him away from Matthias--any contact between those two was a bad idea.

But at least her choice of soul seemed to have been the right one. She'd been nurturing the head of XOps for the last two years and by now, she all but owned him--so when Nigel and she had conferred over the next inpidual in play, she'd picked Martin O'Shay Thomas, aka Matthias.

Next round was back to Nigel's choice, and undoubtedly he'd pick someone much more difficult for her.

Matthias . . . oh, dearest, corrupt Matthias. One last immoral act and he was hers for eternity--as well as her first win.

All he had to do was take the life of Isaac Rothe and ding-ding-ding! she could do a victory lap on Jim Heron's ass.

Although . . . given what Heron had done to her, she feared he was not just a quarterback in this game, but an entity of another sort. And that was another reason she hadn't stuck around in Beacon Hill. The exchange between her and him down below had drained her, and she wasn't strong enough to face a full-on confrontation with the male so soon.

Especially given that underestimating her nemesis's powers was clearly a mistake.

Wrapping herself up, she looked at the marble counter that ran around the sinks. Part of her therapist's assignment from two weeks before had been to clean out her makeup collection, and she'd complied, throwing away countless Chanel compacts and lipsticks and eye shadows.

Now, as she stared at the emptiness of the space, she panicked at the lack of possessions. One Gucci bag of stuff was all she had. That was it.

With fumbling hands, she grabbed the little tote and tipped it over, black tubes and squares and pots going all over the place. Breathing through her mouth, she set about ordering the dozen or so containers, arranging them by size and shape, not utility.

It wasn't enough. She needed more--

In the dim reaches of her mind, Devina knew she was spiraling, but she couldn't help it. The realization that Jim was far more formidable than she'd thought . . . and that she was in far greater danger of losing than she'd believed . . . rendered her a slave to her inner weakness.

Her therapist maintained that buying more shit or taking more trinkets or ordering and reordering the placement of objects wasn't going to solve anything. But it sure made her feel better in the short run . . .

In the end, she had to all but drag herself out of the bathroom. Time was wasting and she had to make sure that all the little dominoes she'd arranged fell in the right and proper order.

To soothe her OCD, she repeated what her therapist had told her three days ago: It's not about the things. It's about your place in this world. It's the space you declare as yours emotionally and spiritually.

Whatever. She had work to do.

And another suit of skin to slipcover herself in.