A Gathering of Angels (2 page)

“Like hell I do.” She jerked out of his grasp and stood, her familiar anger encouraging. It meant the shock was losing its hold. “I saw her step into that gate, but it doesn’t mean she died. And don’t throw me any bullshit about the knife. She’s a demon—it would take more than that to kill her, and you know it.”

With a sigh he pushed one hand through his sleep tangled hair. “And if she had survived, she would have returned to us by now.”

Annie stopped pacing and turned on him. “Take your damn reasonable explanations and get out of here—”

“You think I don’t want to believe?” Marcus stood, caught her arms, the hope he fought to bury choking him. “Her absence is like a hole in my heart.” Tears filmed her eyes. He swallowed, his own grief clawing through him. “I want her back, Annie, as much as you.”

With a strangled sob, she started to pull away. Marcus held on, gathered her into his arms. After a brief struggle, she sagged against him, crying in her silent, heart-wrenching way. He lowered them to the bed, whispered to her, stroked the length of her back and allowed her to release the grief he knew she buried months ago.

She eased out of his embrace, wiping at her cheeks. When she refused to meet his gaze, he understood that she was embarrassed by her outburst.

“Thanks for—just, thanks,” she said.

“Not necessary. Friends take care for each other.” He stood. “I will leave you to rest. Try and sleep—and stay home. I will manage the shop without you.”

Her whisper stopped him in the doorway.

“Please stay.” She looked at him when he turned around, panic he didn’t expect to see haunting the depths of her eyes. Rich brown eyes that usually snapped with temper, or amusement. Often at his expense. “I can’t—I don’t want to be alone, in case I—” She swallowed, staring down at her hands. “Can you—”

“Whatever you need, Annie.”

Her shoulders hitched, and Marcus moved around the bed, one hand tilting up her chin. It made her smile. “I’m not going to fall apart. But if I end up dreaming about the gates of Hell again, I don’t want to wake up alone.”

“I will make a tisane to help you sleep.” He paused at the door, watched her as she took a fresh nightgown out of the dresser. “And I will be leaving the recipe with you. No more sleeping pills.” She flinched, glancing up at him. Her guilt brushed over his skin, spread a blush across her face. “You cannot sleep naturally with them, and I believe your dependence is causing these dreams.”

Anger flared through the guilt.

“I’m not—”

“Making it up? I never thought you were, Annie. Claire was your best friend. Dreaming of her is hardly unusual. Believing those dreams is another matter.”

“I changed my mind.” Slamming the drawer, she stalked over to him and shoved at his chest. “Get out.”

“Too late. I have been invited, and I plan to hold you to it.”

“What are you, a vampire?”

He touched her wrist. “I am your friend.”

That deflated her.

“Go—make your tisane. Hey, it better not have chamomile,” she called after him.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Chamomile is the first ingredient.”

The string of curses that followed him down the hall made him smile.

TWO

W
ith a harsh gasp, Claire woke.

After an endless, aching moment, she took in her first breath. The second hurt just as much, but it helped clear her head. With the third she knew she was alive—painfully alive.

Azazel made good on his promise. Her heart ached at the thought of what he would suffer for helping her escape their brother.

After another breath she forced her thoughts away from what she couldn’t change, and focused on her surroundings.

Cold dirt pressed into her skin—every inch of skin from cheek to toe. She pried her eyes open, and met the length of her bare arm. No voices, laughter, or street traffic—which meant, thankfully, she wasn’t laying in a public place.

Slowly, she moved her arm. It dragged across the dirt, like it had a weight attached to it. The movement woke up the muscles in her back—muscles that had been sliced by Natasha’s knife. Residual pain radiated across those newly mended muscles and she stilled, taking in a shallow breath until it eased, then finally died.

Inch by inch she pulled her arms in until she was able to shift her weight to her forearms. That introduced a whole new problem. Gravity. Her body had been trapped for so long, fighting Natasha as they fell, it had forgotten gravity. Claire took in a breath that made her freshly healed knife wounds flare to life, and pushed against the ground.

Her arms shook, her muscles burned, but she managed to lift herself. She dragged each hand along the ground, back toward her knees, until she felt her butt touch her heels. Sweating, panting, and already dizzy with exhaustion, she gripped one knee, used her other arm to push herself up.

Cold wind slapped at her. She hugged herself, the sweat on her skin turning icy. She knew if she didn’t move, didn’t keep moving, she would go into shock. Lifting her head, she saw—nothing. Nothing but miles of dirt and grass. Her heart pounded as she realized she was in the middle of nowhere, naked, helpless, empty—

A sharp
snap
stopped her heart—until she recognized the sound. Turning her head, she sagged in relief when she spotted the small, neat house. Laundry waved at her, the same snap echoing as sheets and clothing billowed and flattened in the rising wind. Claire had a goal, and possible help.

Ignoring the multiple aches, she braced her hands on the ground, got her feet under her. The simple movements left her breathless. Taking a moment, letting her head clear, she sucked in another breath and pushed herself up. Her knees gave out and she tumbled to the ground.

She didn’t even have the strength to curse. Bruised, dirt clinging to her sweaty skin, she tried again. Her arms collapsed under her before she could make an effort to stand.

She clutched the ground with shaking fingers, forced back the sting of tears. The means to help herself were too close for her to give up. Gathering her strength, talking herself through the pain, the exhaustion, the desire to just lie down and sleep, she sucked in her breath and heaved.

Her legs held. She swayed like a drunk, so dizzy she could barely see the ground in front of her, but she stayed upright. The first step forward was a victory. The second had already sore muscles burning. But she kept moving, stumbling forward, her goal coming in to focus.

One trembling hand reached out, and she grabbed the post holding up one side of the laundry line. She clung to it, fought to even her breath, lightheaded from her battle with gravity. When she could move without her knees buckling under her, she gripped the clothesline and shuffled forward.

The bright red plaid shirt was flannel, dry, and warm from hanging in the sun. Claire used one sleeve to wipe away all the dirt and blood she could reach, then slid her arm in while still hanging on to the line. The heavy, soft fabric felt like heaven on her cold skin. Switching hands, she pulled the shirt on, let it hang open while she hunted for some sort of underwear.

Bright boxers flapped at her, next to a pair of denim overalls that she knew would engulf her. Pulling them both off the line, she worked her way back to the pole, leaning against it to button the shirt. One leg of the overalls helped wipe away the dirt still clinging to her skin. By the time she pulled on the boxers, she had to sit down.

Clutching the pole, she closed her eyes, sweat slicking her face, sliding down her back. The wind dried it, chilled her. A warning to keep moving.

Using the pole as a support, she got herself into the overalls and dragged the strap over one shoulder, snapping the button into the metal loop. Carefully, flinching as her fingers caught in the tangled length, she eased her hair out from under the shirt, and let it hang down her back. Later—she would deal with it later.

She closed her hand over the other strap—then the wind shifted, and she smelled something that made saliva pool in her mouth.

Fumbling the button into the loop, she climbed up the length of the pole, sniffing the air. That smell came from the house; the scent of meat, and earthy vegetables, and broth that had been simmering for hours. Her stomach cramped, so empty it felt like she could touch her spine through her belly button.

It’s not that far.
Just across the small yard, and the reward for the effort was shelter and food. And maybe, help. Though she hadn’t heard any movement from the house, and the gravel drive was empty. But the food would be help enough, and the shelter temporary, until she found out how far she was from home.

One step at a time, the clothesline a swaying support, Claire made her way across the uneven ground. She reached the end of the clothesline and stumbled the last few feet on her own, falling against the support of the house. Numb hands gripped the weathered siding, her legs shaking with the effort of keeping her upright. She kept a running pep talk going through her mind as she inched along the wall to the closest door, praying it led to the kitchen. Praying it was unlocked.

Both were answered when she turned the knob, and pulled herself up the single step into a neat but dated kitchen. Leaning against the door, she closed it, never taking her eyes off the huge, shiny stockpot sitting on the back burner of the stove.

She didn’t remember how she got to the stove. She simply hung on to the battered Formica counter next to it, fingers trembling as they closed over the metal ladle sitting in a pretty spoon rest.

The first greedy gulp burned all the way down. Claire had never tasted anything so delicious. She managed to control herself enough to blow on the second ladleful, before swallowing it down faster than the first. Then she forced herself to put the ladle down, knowing if she ate too fast, she would throw it up just as fast.

Hunting down a bowl and a spoon kept her from eating more right away. Moving around the kitchen, using counters and cabinets as a support, helped to warm her. When she finally sat at the table, hardly spilling any of the soup, she sagged against the chair, and let go of the tight control.

Tears slid down her face, locked her throat—until the first gasping sob doubled her. Huddled in a stranger’s chair, she cried, her grief echoing in the small, lonely kitchen.

THREE

A
nnie slumped against the counter, her foul mood no longer hidden by the required friendly smile. The store was empty, so she didn’t have to smile.

“Why can’t we close early? It’s been deader than the proverbial nail all day.”

Marcus stood behind the counter, dressed in his usual black, wild, curling black cloaking his shoulders. He opened the ledger he used to tally sales and picked up his pen. “We post hours, which means we keep those hours, busy or not.”

“Damn it.” Annie knew she sounded like a whining brat. She couldn’t seem to help herself. “If I don’t get out of here right now, I’m going to hurt someone.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow, kept writing. It simply notched her temper up. “If you need to leave, Annie, you are welcome to do so. I can close the shop on my own.”

The reasonable tone made her itch to punch him. Instead she picked at a loose thread on the pocket of her jeans. “And if I don’t come in tomorrow?”

“I believe I can go on without you.”

She pushed off the counter, stalked to the back of the store, cursing under her breath, before she spun around and headed straight for Marcus. He didn’t even flinch when she smacked her hands on the counter. Bastard.

“Damn you, Marcus—look at me!”

With a sigh, he closed the ledger, curls brushing his shoulders as he lifted his head. “I will be happy to fight with you. After closing hours.” He caught her wrists before she could stomp away. The sympathy in those gold-laced green eyes nearly broke her. “I know what day it is, as well.” His deep, rough voice gentled. “If you want to use Claire’s birthday as an excuse to be angry, that is your choice. If you want to honor her memory today, I will close the shop, and we will honor her. But I will not take the bait you keep throwing at me. I will not have the memory of this day an angry one.”

Tears burned her eyes. She lowered her head as they slipped down her face, mortified by her temper tantrum. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I can’t—I don’t want to hurt like this anymore.”

Marcus let her go, moved around the counter and pulled her into his embrace. The man could hug. His comfort had been the only thing that kept her going some days. That, and Eric’s voice on the other end of the phone every night.

“I will close up. My decision,” he said when Annie started to protest. “Print up a sign for Claire’s birthday. Then you and I will go out and have an early dinner, where you can tell me bad jokes and stories about your latest yoga students.”

With a shaky laugh she eased herself back. “You sure know how to charm a girl.”

“So I have been told.”

“Just stop, Romeo. Wasted effort, here.”

“Not when it left you with a smile.”

He brushed her cheek, then headed to the front door. Annie felt sorry for the woman who fell for him—poor thing wouldn’t stand a chance.

The store phone rang, and she leaned over the counter to grab it.

“Thank you for calling The Wiche’s Broom—how can I help?”

“Just by talking to me, blondie.”

Her heart bumped at the sound of Eric’s voice. “Hey, handsome. I didn’t expect to hear from you until tonight.”

“I wanted to see how you were doing. I know today is Claire’s birthday.” Annie closed her eyes. That beautiful man always remembered—and cared more than she deserved. “Tell me what’s in that head of yours, Annie.”

“Too much,” she whispered. “God, I wish you were here.”

“What if I told you I will be, in about two hours?”

She clutched the counter, her heart pounding. “Say that again.”

“I’ll be there in about two hours.”

He did actually say it.

“Oh, thank God. I thought I was hearing things.” She let herself slide to the floor, knowing that Marcus had locked the door by now, lightheaded and more than a little giddy. “Where?”