Free Immortal by J.R. Ward

turned the crystal dagger on himself, pointing the sharp tip at his stomach and extending his arms as far away from himself as they could get.
    â€œNo!” Sissy screamed as she jumped up.
    At the last second, he changed his mind. But not to stop. Instead, he changed angles, dropping his left arm, bringing up the right . . .
    ...and with a vicious slash, sliced his own throat open.
    â€œNoooooooooo!” Sissy lunged across the carpet as the knife fell in slow motion from his lax hand.
    Jim fell, too, as blood poured out of his neck—at least, she assumed it was blood, as it was silver, not red.
    Oh, God, it had to be blood soaking the front of that plain white T-shirt he wore.
    The sound of his knees hitting the floor was like a clap of thunder, and she reached him just as he sat back on his heels. His mouth was open, gaping, clicking as he tried to breathe through the geyser.
    â€œJim!
Jim
!” She reached up to press her hands to the self-created wound, but what a waste of time. Even if she’d had yards and yards of surgical gauze, there was no stemming this.
    No saving him.
    His blue stare locked on hers as he began to list to the side, his massive torso giving in to gravity, his immortal life slipping away right before her very eyes.
    Tears speared into her vision as a frantic
not now! not ever!
clogged up her brain: As much as she had been livid at him this morning, she was now terrified of the thought that she had lost him forever.
    A chance not taken.
    A door unopened.
    A destiny unrealized.
    And that loss felt worse than everything that had happened to her. Even Hell itself.
    â€œDon’t leave me, just stay with me, don’t leave me. . . .”
    His mouth kept moving, and she realized he wasn’t trying to breathe—he was trying to say something to her.
    â€œWhat?” she croaked. “What are you . . .”
    Those lips, stained with silver, moved more and more slowly, the pupils in those eyes expanding as if they were trying to compensate for a lack of light.
    Sissy knew the instant he died. It wasn’t when his mouth stopped or when the eyes rolled back. It was when the scent of a bouquet of flowers filled the air, choking the inside of her nose and thickening the back of her throat.
    It was just as they had told her in Sunday school when she’d been young: When a saint died, you smelled flowers.
    Jim . . . the savior . . . was gone.

Chapter
Seven
    Collections were a good thing.
    Of course, hers was probably a little out of control, Devina thought as she stepped free of her office building’s elevator.
    And how fucking great was that.
    Stretching out before her, in a basement that was nearly the size of a football field, rows and rows of antique bureaus filled with a millennium of taking souls were hidden and safe. It was the kind of sight that made her take a deep breath for two reasons: one, they were still where she’d left them; and two, they were hers, all hers.
    Her high heels made a clipping noise as she strode over the bare concrete floor. From time to time she paused, put her little bag with the box of new Loubous in it down, and pulled out a drawer. Whether it was a cluster of pocket watches with their gold chains, or a tangle of nineteenth-century spectacles, or a jangle of keys, every single object was cataloged in her mind—she could remember who had owned it, how she’d gotten it from them, and the exact circumstance when she had taken over their soul and put them into her wall. But this wasn’t just a happy trip down memory lane. Anytime she touched a metal button or an earring or a keepsake coin, she could feel the person’s very essence.
    These inanimates were her connection with her children down below, her way of communing with her captives, her tangible tie to her immortal life’s work. Millions of objects—and yet, it so wasn’t enough. Her hunger was a worm that