The Angel of Death (The Soul Summoner Book 3) (9 page)

When we were close to Ashley—close to the angels—I realized why they were there. Peace stirred in my soul, and they were the source. The angels weren’t there for Ashley’s bones. They stood guard for us.

We waited till the casket sank into the ground, then Kathy was ready to leave. The drive back to the house was even quieter than the drive to the cemetery had been. I stared out the window, watching small snowflakes drift to the ground, and thought about what the preacher had said again.

Typically, Bible verses frustrated me the same way poetry always had. All the words seemed to be a step beyond my comprehension level. Like there was a great message in there, but I was too dumb to get it.

The pastor that day, however, actually made sense. Maybe a positive ripple effect from all the crap we endure in this life
will
be unveiled in the next. It was a nice thought, whether or not it was true.

Nathan’s hand touched my arm, drawing me back into the solemnity of the car. He didn’t speak or look at me, but I understood his need for reassurance that the world was still real. I had felt the same when my mother died. Like a world without my mother in it, simply couldn’t exist.

I wished my power to heal included the ability to mend broken hearts. Unfortunately, the divine didn’t seem to work that way. The body I could touch; the soul I could only see.

The snow had stopped by the time we reached the McNamaras’ home. Kathy’s eyes were red and swollen, and she walked into the house and to her room without a word. James stopped with us at the stairwell and hugged his son. The other cars pulled into the driveway as I followed Nathan up the stairs.
 

When we reached his room, he walked over and picked up a framed picture. It was the first photo I had ever seen of Ashley. She wore a cheerleader’s uniform next to Nathan in his football gear. His football number sparkled with glitter on her cheek. She had disappeared a week later.

For the first time all day, Nathan broke. He pinched the bridge of his nose while his shoulders shook with silent sobs. I put my arms around him from behind, and he laid the picture down and gripped the ledge of the dresser so tight his knuckles turned white.

When his breathing returned to normal, he turned around and pulled me into his arms. The subtle essence of fading cologne and testosterone made me light-headed.

He rested the side of his face against my hair. “Thank you so much for being here.”

The soft fuzz of his sweater tickled my nose. “I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else. Can I do anything for you?”

He shook his head. “You’re doing it.”

We stood melted together for a long time, his fingers trailing up and down my spine, and his heartbeat quickening in my ear with each passing moment. Finally, he brought his hand under my chin and tilted my face up to look at him. He studied my mouth for a moment, then leaned in and kissed me.
 

The kiss was gentle at first, his mouth tenderly lingering on mine. Then his hand slid back into my hair, and he parted my lips with his tongue. Sidestepping toward the door, his free arm pushed it closed before he pinned my body against the wall. As the kiss deepened, his hands slid down my sides, and his fingers dug into my hips. The whole room seemed to spin.

I could empathize. A similar scene when my mother died spawned the predicament I was in. Frantically, I scrambled to muster the ability to stop him before things escalated any further.

I put my hands on his chest and pushed.

He stopped moving and pulled his lips away. He rested his forehead against mine, his eyes pressed close. “Please, Sloan,” he whispered. “Please.”

I gripped the collar of his shirt. “Nathan, I’m pregnant.”

6.

Nathan stumbled back like I had told him I was infected with the plague. I stayed glued to the wall. His face twisted with shock and confusion…and anger. “Pregnant?”

I nodded.

He raked his fingers through his hair and walked across the room. “You’re pregnant?” he asked again.

I flinched at the tone of his voice. “About eight weeks.”
 

He turned to look at me. His face was as pale as I had ever seen it—even when he was dead for a brief time. “Does Warren know?” he asked.

I shook my head.

He ran his hands over his face as he continued to pace. He was making me nervous, like he might spontaneously combust at any moment.
 

“Nathan, please say something.”

“How long have you known?” he asked.

I took a small step away from the wall. “I realized it on our drive back from Charlotte when we dropped off Warren. It made sense when I didn’t get a migraine that day. I found out from the doctor for sure a few days ago.”

He stopped walking and tossed his hands in the air. “When were you planning to tell me?”
 

“I…I was trying to figure out how,” I stammered.

He waved his hand toward me. “Well, I’m glad you figured it out before I tossed your dress onto my bedroom floor!”

I walked toward him. “Nathan, please—”

He held up his hand to stop me and shook his head. “No.” He turned toward the door. “I can’t do this anymore.” He walked out of the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

I started after him, but as soon as the door was open, I heard the front door downstairs slam. I sank back into the bedroom. Uncontrollable tears streamed down my cheeks, and I curled into a ball on the bed and cried.

At some point, I cried myself to sleep, and I awoke to the creak of the bedroom door. I opened my eyes and saw Nathan crossing through the room in the fading light of sunset. He stopped at the edge of the bed and looked down at me. I half-expected him to yell again.
 

Instead, he whispered, “Scoot over.”

I slid over in the bed, and he stretched out next to me. He reached for my arm and pulled me close. I rested my head on his chest. “I’m sorry,” he said, stroking my hair.

“I’m sorry too.”

He tugged the blanket up around my shoulders. “This has to be over with me and you.” His tone was low, serious, and unsteady. “I love you. I’ve loved you since that first day I walked into your office and you smacked your head on your desk.” He sucked in a deep breath. “But this has to be over now.”

I didn’t speak.

“As much as I hate him sometimes, Warren’s a good guy, and he really loves you. You’re supposed to be with him,” he said.

“Nathan, I—”

He cut me off. “Please, don’t. Please, don’t say it.” His hand was still tangled in my hair. “I can handle being shot at and having my body broken in half by a demon, but I can’t stand hearing you tell me you love me.”

I closed my mouth.

He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, and silent tears dripped onto his sweater. My father’s words floated to my mind. If I really loved him, I had to let him go.

I just wish I knew how.

* * *

After lunch the next day, we said our goodbyes to his family, promised his mother we would get our flu shots, and headed back to Asheville. We rode for a while in silence. Me staring out my window, and Nathan staring at the road ahead.
 

He finally looked over at me. “What are you going to do?”
 

“About the baby?”

The word made him flinch, but he nodded. “With you and Warren being whatever it is you are—”

“Seramorta.”

“Right. Angel hybrids. What does that mean your kid will be?”

I sighed. “I don’t know, but I’d guess it’s why the supernatural world is so interested in me now. It’s a big deal for an Angel of Life and an Angel of Death to even be together. I can only imagine the repercussions of us having a baby.”

“Is that what you are? An Angel of Life?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess so. That’s what Kasyade told me before she went full demon on everyone.”

He shook his head. “Life with you is starting to feel like a Hitchcock movie.”

I leaned my head against the cold glass. “I can’t argue.”

“And you believe her?” he asked.

“Samael, the angel that helped us the day we fought her—”

“The day I died?” he asked.

My heart deflated. “Yes. The day you died. Samael said basically the same thing, and he’s a good angel.”

“Is it because you’re pregnant that you could bring me back from the dead, and now can fully heal people?” he asked.

“Yeah. All the powers I had before are magnified like crazy. My summoning power works like a GPS now,” I said. “I also seem to have developed Warren’s ability to sense dead bodies. It was overwhelming at the cemetery yesterday.”

“That must be weird,” he said.
 

I nodded. “It was.” Another thought occurred to me. “I wonder if I can kill people too.”

Nathan looked at me with raised eyebrows. “So Warren can kill people?”

I grimaced. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

He sighed. “I already knew, but it’s still alarming to hear it said out loud.” He looked back out the windshield. “Is that what really happened to Billy Stewart and Larry Mendez?”

I didn’t answer because I didn’t have to.

After a minute, Nathan groaned.
 

“What?” I asked.

He rubbed his forehead. “I’m considering what Warren could do to me if he finds out what happened with us last night.”

I laughed. “What did you think ‘Angel of Death’ meant?”

He shrugged and draped an arm over the steering wheel. “Honestly, I still have a little trouble believing all that.”

Some days I still had trouble believing it myself.

When we reached my house, the sun was sinking behind the mountains. I was half-asleep with my head against the window listening to the moody drone of nineties grunge rock.

“This isn’t good.” Nathan switched off the radio.

Rubbing my eyes, I straightened in my seat. “Huh?”

“You’ve got company,” he said.

A dark blue sedan was at the curb in front of my house.
 

“Oh god,” I said. “It’s the feds. I’m going to prison.”

Nathan rolled his eyes and pulled to a stop behind the car. “Calm down and let me do the talking.”

A man got out of the driver’s seat, then the passenger side door popped open. FBI Agent Sharvell Silvers angled out of the car and tightened the belt on her wool coat as she marched to the curb.
 

I was sweating.

“Get out of the truck, Sloan,” Nathan said.

I looked over and he was leaning against his door. I hadn’t heard him move. Exhaling slowly, I opened my door and slid off my seat.

Even in the four inch black pumps she was wearing, Agent Silvers didn’t quite reach my eye-level, but she made me feel about two inches tall. Technically, she was one of the good guys, but she could be one hell of a villain if she so desired. And I wasn’t sure which side of the law she thought I was on in that moment.

Swallowing my fear with a heavy gulp, I extended a hand toward her. “Agent Silvers, it’s nice to see you again.”

“Good afternoon, Sloan.” She looked at Nathan. “Hello, Detective.”

Nathan stepped forward and shook her hand.
 

She looked toward the man with her. “This is Agent Clark”

Nathan shook his hand, then turned his attention back to her. “What brings you to Asheville?”

She looked me up and down. “I’d like to have a private word with Ms. Jordan, if you don’t mind.”

Nathan crossed his arms. “Absolutely not without a lawyer.”

She shot him a daring look. “I could detain her and put her in jail on a temporary hold.”
 

He smirked. “You have to have probable cause for that.”

She held up a padded legal folder. “How about suspicion of conspiracy to commit sex trafficking, conspiracy to harbor aliens, and conspiracy to commit money laundering. I have a whole file full of probable cause.” Sharvell looked at me. “Would you prefer a holding cell, Ms. Jordan, or shall we step inside?”

The spike in my blood pressure was enough to make my knees wobble. I shook my head furiously. “Of course we can go inside, Agent Silvers.”

Without waiting for me to lead the way, the two agents turned toward the steps to my house. Nathan grabbed the tail of my shirt. “What are you doing?” he whispered.

“I can’t go to jail, Nathan!”

He pointed at me. “You watch what you say in there, Sloan. They can hold anything against you.”

We followed them, and I passed the agents on the porch. My hand was shaking so much I fumbled the keys, twice. Sharvell noticed. Once we were inside, I motioned toward the living room. “Please make yourselves comfortable. Can we get you some water? Or I can make coffee,” I offered.

Agent Silvers shook her head and walked around my living room like a cat on the prowl. She stopped at the mantle and picked up a photo of my family. “Is this your mother?”

I looked at Nathan. He nodded.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

She traced her finger over the edge of the frame. “I hear she passed away.”

“In October,” I answered, a familiar pain creeping through me.

Gently, she placed the frame back on the ledge. “How did she die?”

“Cut the interrogation tactics. Using her mom to rattle her is a low blow,” Nathan interrupted.

Her gaze cut to him. “I simply wanted to offer my condolences.”
 

“Bullshit,” Nathan said.

Without further argument, she stalked to the sofa and sat down. The rest of us took that as our cue to find a seat. Nathan sat so protectively close to me, his hip touched mine.
 

Sharvell opened the business folder and balanced it on her thighs. “Sloan, I would like you to tell me again about your involvement with Abigail Smith.”

I shook my head. “I’m not involved with Abigail and haven’t seen her since Texas.”

“What was your involvement with her prior to Texas?” she asked.

I turned my palms up in question. “We weren’t involved. I only met her a couple of times.”

She pointed at me. “You’re lying.”

My mouth fell open. “No, I’m not.”

She pulled papers from the portfolio and handed them over the coffee table. “These were found inside her residence in San Antonio. Can you explain them?”