Free Fallen Angels 06 - Immortal by J.R. Ward

had been the bloodletting, the ritual, the symbols in the flesh … and way-to-go, she had her early-warning system.
    If anyone came in on that first floor above, or tried to get into the elevators? Wherever she was, up here on earth or down there in her Well of Souls, she’d know about it.
    And she could protect her precious possessions.
    Man, it’d be really fucking nice to have a partner in all this. Yeah, sure, her minions were fine when she felt like ordering something around, but they couldn’t think for themselves, and that got boring quick. Jim Heron was the opposite of compliant—she fought constantly with him, and that was just the hot sauce she was looking for.
    Resuming her promenade, she headed for the back to her bedroom-ish area. Above her, banks of fluorescent lights glowed like fake suns, and soon enough, her rolling stands of hangered clothes overtook the lineup of bureaus. Past her showroom of a wardrobe came her shoes in their floor-to-ceiling cases; her accessory area, where she kept her handbags, scarves, and jewelry; and finally her makeup table, with its mirrors and all her Chanel compacts, YSL liners, and Estée Lauder foundations.
    And then there was her bed, of course. Oh, her bed, with its acres of Porthault and its down comforters and pillows. She’d actually never had sex in the thing before, but how cool was it going to be when she broke the mattress in with Jim?
    A sudden image of Sissy Barten made her clench her teeth.
    Goddamn it, if it was the last thing she did, Jim was going to lie in that bed with his legs spread and his cock hard and ready, and he was going to tell her he loved her and beg her to have sex with him. And when they did get it on? It was going to be total hotness, because she’d know that she had won and he was with her forevermore.
    That was just the way it had to be.
    “Right?” she said to her new shoes.
    The good news was that the prospect of putting the twin sparklies in with the rest of her collection was a great de-stresser—except she had to check one more thing first.
    Of all her objects … it was the nastiest-looking. Also the most valuable—in spite of the amount of pilfered jewelry she had down here.
    Her real mirror was in the far corner of the basement. And it was tucked away in the darkness not just to keep it safe, but because it was fugly and a half: The thing was at least five feet high and three feet wide—maybe it was even bigger. There was scrollwork around all four sides, and from a distance you might have assumed it was a flowery motif or some kind of French fanciness. Up close, though, it was clear that the undulating pattern was a series of tortured bodies, their limbs mangled or missing, their faces distorted in pain. And fuck the gold leaf—there was a glimmer to the thing, but it was not from any precious metal.
    It was like the glow of a cobra’s eyes.
    As for the surface of it, the flat plane was pockmarked, pitted, and spotty, more like the skin of an old person than anything reflective. Then again, she didn’t use it to see herself. The mirror was a portal, the conduit for her to travel back and forth from her Well of Souls—and the only way she could get there. Once down in her lair, she could welcome new souls or minions or Jim and Adrian, but she had to be in Hell to do that; otherwise the place was locked up, even to her.
    If she lost or broke the mirror? Then
poof!
went the access to her collection of souls.
    The horror was too much to think about—
    At first she didn’t know what got her attention. Twisting around, she searched her private space, eyes narrowing, claws prepared to come out. But there was nothing behind her, and no warning from up above that someone had crossed the barrier she’d created.
    Walking back into the light, she put the stiff bag with the hotel’s gold logo on it down on the duvet. Then she stayed perfectly still.
    The only one who could get in would be the Creator Himself.
    “Jim?” She