Free Immortal by J.R. Ward Page B

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.
    â€œJim?” She frowned, wondering how that would be possible. Unless . . .
    No, this was definitely about Jim.
    Her eyes shot over to her vanity table. In between a Clarins clarifying mask and some Chanel Précision Sublimage, there was something that didn’t have jack-all to do with makeup—and ordinarily she wouldn’t have been able to tolerate the discordance of objects.
    But this one got special dispensation.
    It was the hood ornament of her own Mercedes S550 4Matic—and for once, she wasn’t rushing to get the thing put back in its proper place. In fact, she’d broken the neck off herself . . . because that trademarked circle with its intersecting lines had a very special accessory of its own: When she’d hit Jim with her car the other night, he’d been clipped by the front hood, and a little part of him had been left behind in the ornament’s metal.
    That residue in the very molecular fiber of the steel was how she’d managed to get into his house, into his bed, and oh so close to seducing him while pretending to be Sissy.
    It was a one-way connection, though. So there was no way he could use it to get to her—
    From out of nowhere, a wave of pain rang her chest like a bell, as if she’d been shot or stabbed. But there was nobody around. Nobody up above.
    And yet something was wrong, something . . .
    â€œJim . . . ?” She walked forward. “Jim?”
    Suffocation followed. The kind that made her feel like someone had their hands around her throat. Or maybe a rope. Abruptly, she reached up to grab at that which wasn’t there, opening her mouth so she could breathe.
    Fucking hell, she was now the salesguy from the hotel, her access to air cut off by an unseen force.
    Except it wasn’t suffocation in the true sense. This was . . . an emotional pain so great it literally robbed her of the ability to inflate the lungs she pretended to have.
    â€œJim!”
she screamed, the dots connecting to a terrifying conclusion.
    Vaporizing her physical form, she entered the HVAC system ductwork and shot through the innards of the building, expelling herself into the open air through a vent and shooting off in the direction of that old house he stayed in.
    Faster, faster, faster . . .
    She knew the very moment he left the coil of the earth: A lancing agony overtook her soul, sure as if she had been cleaved in half.
    Storm clouds gathered in her wake as she landed on the front lawn of the property he rented, and she rushed for the front door—
    The barrier she hit was a brick wall that didn’t exist, an invisible, impenetrable force field that repelled her so hard, she fell back