Worth Dying for (A Dying for a Living Novel Book 5) by Kory M. Shrum Page B

so far? Of my schemes and intentions? It’s probably best to move quickly and execute the plan. Jessup is a big girl. She can take care of herself.
    I turn and creep away from the hotel. I walk for a long time before I recognize Centre Street. I’m careful to match the frantic pace around me. Another New Yorker here, rushing off to do some important errand, eat a slice of pizza, or sleep with someone’s husband. You know. New York things.
    I rehearse my murder plan. I imagine being attacked, my possible defense moves. I wish I had Jesse’s fancy shield. It compliments my telekinesis perfectly.
    Kill her and you’ll have her shield and so much more, a sweet voice says. It slides down my neck like a caress. The small hairs covering my body stand on end.
    Shut up, Uriel. I cut my eyes to the angel beside me. It’s the first time he’s chosen to fully materialize today. He’s about twice my size, at least, with his chest puffed up and hair flowing around his head like a lion’s mane. A gold belt cinches his waist as he takes one monstrous step after another beside me. I tell him all the time that he looks like Lion-O from the Saturday morning Thundercats cartoon I loved as a child. He never appreciates this.
    “You’re wasting too much time.”
    “You’re not the boss of me.” My voice is muffled by the scarf. “You’re my bitch.”
    A Chinese man carrying a brown sack of vegetables stops at the sound of my voice and then gives me the finger.
    “Smite him,” Uriel says.
    “No. No smiting. This one doesn’t concern us.” I use Uriel’s proud tone in jest. I’m still looking at the Chinese man who shakes his head and scurries away from me.
    “You need to kill the girl soon. You’re wasting too much time.”
    “Sorry I got sedated and wasted the morning. How pathetic of me.”
    I know better than to argue with Uriel Lion-O. He’s been relentless ever since I caught up to Jesse. Kill her, take her power. Confront Caldwell. Kill him. It’s like he’s a Dalek or something. Exterminate! Exterminate! If only he could be more like The Doctor. Charming. Lovable. Resourceful. My mission would be much more pleasant. But this isn’t a television show I watched reruns of in the asylum while eating copious amounts of banana pudding.
    Uriel scowls at me again. That’s the problem with telepathy. A bitch can’t have a few hateful thoughts for herself.
    “Do you know where they took Gideon or not?”
    “He told you to go on without him.”
    He did say that, standing inside the hallway outside the apartment door on 72 nd street. Now whatever happens, don’t fret your pretty head over me.
    Then who will save you? I’d asked.
    There won’t be a need to save me. Besides, haven’t you got your own schemes?
    That’s certainly true. I have plans. But the run-in with the men in the suits has me questioning my next move. If they let me go then they must not want me. But that doesn’t eliminate Caldwell as a threat. Or another partis for that matter. It might be best to enact my plans with Gideon’s help, but what to do about Gloria? If Gloria sees my schemes beforehand, she’ll most certainly warn Jesse.
    “You do not need his help to kill her,” Uriel says.
    “Thank you for your vote of confidence.” I burrow deeper into my coat to escape the biting chill. The farther I walk, the less groggy I feel. Hopefully the dart will wear off entirely soon.
    Stepping off of Centre Street and hooking a left onto Grand, I hurry past the open shop windows with the smell of pancakes and fried foods hanging in the air. A television flashing the news catches my eye, causing me to stop in front of an electronics store window. The newscast from the night before plays again: Caldwell’s wet cheeks, Georgia desolated, and then the four faces I know so well flashing up on the screen one after another.
    I search Jesse’s flat eyes. Face twice removed—once by a photograph, again by the television—
    doesn’t look anything like