A Gathering of Angels (12 page)

“Claire.” His sand raw whisper scraped over her skin, over her heart. And the realization jolted her. Somehow this man, this Jinn, found a way through her barriers, and it shook her to the core.
Heaven above—
“This effort will do—”

“Keep talking, Jinn, and watch how fast I shut you down.” She put her weight on his shoulder when she saw another stone headed for his bare chest. It made contact—and his raw scream bounced off the walls. “Marcus—Marcus!”

Four strong adults pinned him to the bed, but he still managed to arch away from Simon, his back bowing up, every muscle shaking and clenched. Tears burned her eyes as she held on to him, Simon’s deep, resonant voice repeating the blessing, over and over. With a raw cry, Marcus stopped fighting and collapsed to the bed.

Her heart pounded as she checked for a pulse. It beat under her searching fingers, thin, thready. She framed his face, his skin grey against the wild black curls. “Stay with me. Focus on my voice.” Tears slipped down her face. Ignoring them, she leaned in and brushed her lips over his cheek. “If you die, so help me I will follow you to wherever you Jinn fall and drag you back.”

He opened his eyes, the poison polluting their jade green depths. “I would—like to see that.”

He arched away from her as Simon’s voice rose, the power of the blessing charging the air, and she knew it would be now or not at all for Marcus. His broken voice slid under Simon’s and spoke the blessing, matching word for word. Then with a last, violent shudder he went limp.

“No—Marcus—” Claire pushed tangled curls off his face, his skin suddenly cold and clammy under her hands. “Marcus—”

“Let me in, Claire.” Eric gently pulled her away, leaned over him. When she started to shake Annie closed both hands over her shoulders, and wrapped her in an embrace. Lowering her head, she braced herself for the bad news. “He’s still with us.”

Claire felt her legs give under her. “Whoa—I’ve got you, honey. Just lean on me.” Annie caught her around the waist. “Let’s get you out of here. You’ll just be in the way now.” She led Claire out of the bedroom and settled her into a chair at the table, then crouched next to her. “Look at me, Claire.” Warm brown eyes met hers, the love and concern in them overwhelming. “You need to take a breather. Sit for a minute, or ten. I know I can’t talk you into a nap, but at least sit here. I’m going to find myself a comb and see what we can do with your hair.”

A surprised laugh burst out of Claire. “Only you, Annie.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Annie grinned. “You betcha. Here we go.” She pulled a wide tooth comb out of her purse and pulled another chair over, sitting behind Claire. “God, what a mess. This is probably going to hurt.”

Her fingers were gentle as they worked on the messy knot. Claire let out a sigh, closed her eyes, the human touch soothing. Until Annie snagged a tangle and nearly yanked the hair out of her scalp.

“God above—” Claire gripped the offending hunk of hair. “Just cut it, Annie.”

“But—I’ve always loved your hair, that beautiful, rich brown, the way it just floats around you. I can’t—”

“Annie.” Claire looked over her shoulder. “It’s just hair.”

“Right.” Annie let out her breath. “I’ll see if I can hunt down some scissors. Who’s place is this, anyway?”

“Mine.” Simon walked out of the bedroom, pale and sweaty. “A member of my church rented it for me, in case I needed a place not connected to me.”

“Are you sure you’re a priest?” Annie said.

Simon laughed. “Last I checked. And Eric already treated my shoulder, Claire, so stop staring at me, waiting for me to fall over. It was just a small—”

“Hunk of glass.” Eric came in behind him, wiping his hands on an already bloody dishtowel. “And not small. But staying imbedded kept him from bleeding more than he did—though it must have hurt like a bitch.”

Simon shrugged, wincing at the movement. “I’ve had worse.” He sat, slowly, faced Claire and took her hands. “Marcus is stable, for now. The blessing, and the stones, seems to have halted the damage. I don’t know what to do beyond that, except keep him warm, and safe, until we end this.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. Simon squeezed her hands, studied her with those clear green eyes. “I know—I look like hell.”

“I’m afraid it’s only going to get worse.” Letting her go, he leaned back in the chair. “We have to stop her, before whatever she’s doing to bring herself back to life is completed.”

*

D
ishing up the canned stew he found in a cupboard, Eric watched his friends—old and new—gather around the table like a ragtag army, planning and arguing every detail of that plan. Lea was in the bedroom with Marcus, overriding the protests that she needed a break with the simple statement that she owed him her life. Even Claire had no argument for that. Eric went in and set a bowl for her on the bedside table.

“You call if you need me.”

She covered the hand on her shoulder, smiled up at him. “Thanks. That brown stuff masquerading as food actually smells good enough to eat.”

“I hope you’re not a vegetarian.”

Her laughter floated over him. “Every man in my family hunts. I would have been thrown out for a traitor if I even said the word.”

Eric kissed the top of her head, leaned over to check Marcus’ pulse one more time. Slow, steady, but too weak for his liking.

“Eat, and rest, while you have the chance.”

Heading back into the kitchen, he took his own portion, sat down in a vacant chair, and watched the show.

Annie shot her own comments into the conversation, and at the same time carefully cut away the hopelessly tangled length of Claire’s hair. The soft waves curled up as they were cut, brushing her shoulders. It fascinated Eric to watch the female reactions; Annie’s obvious pain as she worked the scissors, Mindy Kay gathering up the strands, keeping them out of Claire’s view.

Theresa—still visibly uncomfortable—picked at her stew, while Simon devoured his and told Claire the short hair made her look years younger. Eric hid his smile.

If he only knew.

“We have to find a way to neutralize her,” Claire said, ignoring her food. She seemed oblivious to the tragedy of losing her hair, which Eric thought was magnificent. But she did look—lighter, softer, the short strands waving around her face. “I don’t know anything about ghosts, beyond the usual lore. But I’m pretty certain they are not supposed to become corporeal.” She looked over at Simon.

“Nothing I read even hints at it. But she is a witch—maybe there’s a spell, a way to tie herself to this plane.”

“If that’s the case,” Annie put the scissors on the table, brushing one hand over Claire’s shorn hair. “Then we better figure out what and where fast, because it sounds like she’s already well on her way to the whole tying herself to this plane part.”

“Theresa.” She jumped at Claire’s voice, dropping her spoon. “I know this is asking a great deal of you, and too soon, but do you remember being taken to a particular place? Somewhere Jane considered hers?”

“I can’t help you,” she whispered, staring at the table. “Jane will kill my dad if I help you—”

“Theresa.” Her head snapped up when Simon touched her hand. He didn’t look like any priest Eric ever met. A cop, yes. But a priest—how that happened would be an interesting story. Cradling her cheek, he brushed at the tears that slipped down her face. “I am sorry about your dad, sweetheart. He’s a good man, and that will help him get through this. I promise you, we’ll yank him out from under her influence as soon as we can.”

Beautiful, wide brown eyes stared at Simon. Eric watched emotions parade across her face as she struggled. Finally, she let out a shaky breath.

“There’s a history museum—it’s outside of town, and I didn’t even know it existed. She has been raiding the room with the witchcraft displays . . . she has an altar set up, Simon.” Theresa clutched his hand, clearly terrified. “I’ve never seen anything like it before—and the power surrounding it is cold, ugly. She won’t let anyone near that room, but I snuck in one night, when I knew she was gone. I wish I hadn’t.”

“Can you find your way back there?” She nodded. “Up for taking a little field trip?”

“I—” She swallowed, then gave a quick nod.

“Good girl.” Leaning in, he kissed her forehead. “Thank you.”

Eric braced himself, ready to argue. Annie was
not
going anywhere near that place, or that—woman. Even if he had to tie her up and lock her in a closet.

“Claire.” Simon moved around the table, held out his hand. She took it—and Eric realized what Simon was going to do a second before he made his move.

He whipped out his handcuffs and had Claire attached to the arm of her chair before she could open her mouth to protest. Eric caught Annie mid-punch and hauled her out of range. “Let them work this out.”

She struggled in his arms, her breath hitching. “I can’t lose her again.”

“I have a feeling Simon will do everything in his power to keep that from happening.”

When she stopped fighting him he pulled her into his side, and waited for the outburst.

Claire didn’t disappoint.

*

“
T
ake these off me.” Claire snapped out the demand. If she had her power still, Simon would have been a quivering heap on the floor. “Now.”

“We negotiate, I let you go.”

“There is nothing to—damn it, Simon. I need to see that altar, to know exactly what we are up against.”

“No.” His denial was flat. And final.

Panic tickled the back of her throat. They had to end this, and fast, if Marcus were to have any chance—

“You’ll never find her without me.”

“I saw her just fine when she dropped Bertram.”

“She’ll kill you.”

“She had the chance once before, and she walked away with me still breathing.”

“It hardly means she’ll leave you that way a second time—not when she has so much at stake.”

“Claire’s right,” Mindy Kay said, pushing to her feet. Red hair brushed her shoulder as she tilted her head, gaze on Simon. “I’ll go along with whatever plan you devise, but I won’t stand by and watch you throw your life away in a snit of stubborn.”

Claire couldn’t stop herself—laughter burst out of her. Simon crossed his arms, stared at her, one eyebrow raised. “Sorry,” she said, fighting to control it. “Sorry. But that is exactly what you will be doing, if you refuse my help. If you try to face her on your own.”

“I won’t lose anyone else to her.”

“Then we come up with a plan that keeps it from happening. We, Simon. You’re not alone this time. You don’t need to do this alone.”

He closed his eyes, but not before she saw the grief flare in their depths. After a long minute, he looked at her.

“And you have something in mind.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

TWELVE

T
hey crouched behind the bushes that lined the gravel driveway, watching an impossible number of people come and go. Claire nodded every time Simon glanced at her. All of them wore the darkness that marked them as possessed—and the entire place snapped with an unnatural cold that pierced to the bone.

Claire could smell the iron in Simon’s duffle, and the rock salt in the rounds loaded in his shotgun. She still wanted to cringe away from it, centuries of instinct pushing at her. To distract herself, she moved to Theresa, laid one hand on her shoulder.

Theresa looked at her, eyes exhausted, her face drawn and too pale. Leaning in, Claire whispered, her voice more breath than sound.

“I want you to stay close—”

“My dad—”

“I need you to stay focused. If we find him in there, we will do what we can.”

Her face paled even more. “But—”

“Time to move.” Simon’s whisper jerked Theresa around, and before she could do something foolish, like run, he gripped her wrist, glancing at Claire. “Remember our deal. You stay—”

“In your sight, at arm’s length, in spitting distance. Do I have all of them?”

His smile flashed, lighting the clear green eyes. “Good enough. Let’s get this done.”

He led the way, keeping a grip on Theresa. Claire followed them, one hand clutching the amethyst through her sweatshirt. She wore a long black coat, borrowed from Mindy Kay. It brushed the ground, but it kept her warm, and helped her blend into the darkness. Something brushed her cheek—she slapped at it, and realized it was her hair. That would take time to get used to.

Simon found a break in the hedge, gestured for them to wait, and slipped through. He returned a moment later, holding his hand out for Theresa. Claire figured he would keep her close. They didn’t have a choice in bringing her, since no one else had heard of the museum, or knew its location. She was the unknown, emotional and volatile, and could get them killed.

Shotgun ready, he led them to what looked like the back entrance to the museum. They didn’t run into anyone; all the action seemed to be focused out front. He opened the door, and power slammed her.

“Claire.” Strong hands pulled her off the ground, his skin as cold as hers. “Talk to me.”

“She’s in there. I can’t—” Claire took in a shaky breath. “I can’t see for the darkness.”

“Stay here.”

She jerked out of his grip, pushed hair off her face. “Not a chance. She wants me. You, she’ll just kill for the entertainment.”

He loomed over her, trapping her against the wall. “Please—tell me how you really feel.”

Despite herself, she smiled. “Smartass.”

“Guilty.” He cupped her chin, all humor gone. “We get one thing straight, right now. I feel even a hint of danger and we run. No argument, no heroic sacrifice. Got it?”

“Crystal clear.”

Simon reached out and caught Theresa by the wrist. “The same goes for you, sweetheart. I want to help your dad as much as you, but I won’t pay a life to get him free of her.”

Swallowing, she nodded.

“All right.” Claire eased out of his grip. “Now that the threatening portion of the evening is over, let’s get this done.”