Days of New: The Complete Collection (Serials 1-5) (43 page)

“Do you know where to start?” Zarachiel asked, meaning Clark’s magic.

Frustration clogged up Clark’s throat, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe or swallow or think. He wanted to scream and yell and punch something. Hard. But he needed to calm down to think. And he wasn’t thinking, so he had no idea where to start healing Camille’s injuries. Just then, Camille thrashed about, her naked body chilled against the cold ground. Her lips were blue, but the bleeding had slowed. She kept repeating “no” over and over again.

“Why is she saying that?” Michaela asked.

“No…magic,” Camille managed.

Her words were weak, and blood gurgled up the back of her throat when she coughed. Michaela and Zarachiel stared at him, but he didn’t acknowledge them. “She’s just hurting is all. I can fix her.”

“What if we get her inside?” Michaela offered, taking charge. “Then she can warm up while we try to stop some of this bleeding. Maybe she can talk to us a little more then.”

“What about her stomach?” Zarachiel asked quietly.

Michaela turned and lowered her head next to his ear and whispered, “Could you go back down to the creek and look for some leeches? They might be able to buy us a day or two.”

Zarachiel nodded and raced off, his form disappearing into the woods. But Clark didn’t notice much else; he was still staring down at Camille’s body, her features wavering like she was already disappearing. Before he could stop her, Michaela scooped Camille up, cradling the Throne angel in her strong arms. Slowly, Clark followed behind them. The front door opened when Michaela stepped onto the front porch, and Grace stuck her head out. When she saw Camille’s naked, bloodied form, she opened the door wider and stepped aside.

“What happened?” Grace said. She covered her mouth as Michaela and Camille passed through the door.

“We just need to get her warm. Can you put more wood on the fire?” Michaela asked.

“But she’s dying, right?”

Clark whirled around toward Grace, who still stood at the open door, letting in the icy air. “Shut up!” he shouted, fists clenching as he advanced on her. “Don’t say that!”

“Clark!” Michaela snapped. “Get over here. Grace, get that fire hotter.”

Swallowing down his anger, Clark shot one last glare in Grace’s direction before he went to Camille. There was already a pallet of blankets beside the dining room table. Carefully, Michaela lowered Camille onto the soft pile. Behind them, Grace was rushing around, adding logs to the fire and starting a pot of water boiling on the stove.

Not knowing what else to do, Clark eased Camille’s wings out from behind her back and stretched them along the floor. Michaela settled a warm blanket over Camille’s naked body and tucked in the edges; Camille shivered once then huddled deeper into the pallet. Michaela crossed to the kitchen and grabbed Clark’s backpack from the cluttered countertop. She rifled around until she found the medical kit and brought it back to the pallet.

Together, she and Grace cleaned Camille’s wounds along her cheek, chest, and thigh with the boiling water and re-bandaged them tightly. They gave her aspirin before stitching up the holes in her wings. By then, Zarachiel walked in the door and deposited three large leeches in Michaela’s palm. They were dark, almost black, and wiggling against her skin. Before they could attach to her hand, Michaela spread them across Camille’s stomach, where their beady little mouths latched on and began pulling deeply, their size nearly doubling within a minute.

“We’ll need more in a few hours,” Michaela said.

“I can find more.”

She nodded at Zarachiel. “Good. I’ll be back before morning. Clark?” She waited until he looked up at her. “What if we wait until then to try any magic? You both should get some rest before you try.”

Clark nodded and went back to ignoring them, even when they started whispering. He didn’t care if they were talking about him. He lay down next to Camille and stared at her profile. He was tired, tired down to his bones. Everything hurt. Everything ached. Nothing felt like it was ever going to get better. He was glad for the excuse not to try his magic tonight.

“She still doesn’t want him to use his magic?” Zarachiel asked Michaela.

Grace looked up at his question, her eyes wide. She looked over at Clark. “He has powers?”

Michaela ignored her. “If the bleeding in her stomach slows enough, we’ve bought some time. But keep an eye on him,” Michaela whispered as she nodded toward Clark. He saw and heard it all, but he didn’t comment. He shifted closer to Camille and closed his eyes.

“Hurry back,” Zarachiel said to Michaela. “I’ll need your help if things get bad.”

* * *

Zarachiel didn’t know what to do with Clark, so he left him lying beside Camille. Clark looked asleep with his breathing deep and slow. His hair was dirty and shaggy, the once-vibrant pink giving way to a faded blond. He looked so different, Zarachiel thought, like one night had aged him ten years. Every now and then, Clark would jerk, his eyes flashing open like he had to make sure Camille was still there. He would shift closer to her, and when he’d fallen back asleep, she’d inch away. It was such a raw scene that Zarachiel had to leave. He went to the bedroom to get some distance before he started his watch.

Grace was sitting on the bed, but she looked up when Zarachiel came in and quietly closed the door behind him.

“How are they?” she asked.

“Fine for now. I might have to go out in a few hours, so you’ll be alone here with them for a few minutes. But I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

“I’ll be fine.” Her eyes went to the closed bedroom door. “I didn’t mean to make him mad,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“When I asked if she was dying. That guy yelled at me.”

“Oh,” Zarachiel said, not knowing what else to say. “I’m sure Clark didn’t mean it.”

“I mean, she’s an angel, right? Isn’t it really hard for them to die?”

“Only a special kind of bone can kill them. Camille’s wings were stabbed with swords that contained the bone, but she could make it.” Zarachiel didn’t say what else he was thinking: that Clark could save her if she would let him. He’d done it once before. But Michaela had been right; they needed to wait until the morning, when everyone had calmed down some more.

“Like your knife?” Grace asked, distracting Zarachiel. “And that gun Clark carries?”

He shook his head. “My knife doesn’t. But Clark’s bullets have traces of bone in each.”

“That’s really scary,” Grace whispered, her eyes impossibly round as she stared up at Zarachiel from the bed.

“You’re safe,” Zarachiel repeated with a heavy sigh. “Look, they’re resting, so it’s probably good if you get some sleep too. Things might be a little crazy the next couple of days,” Zarachiel said, thinking about the Loyalists. He wanted to talk to Grace about what he’d seen at the bar, but he was too tired. He doubted the group would make a move tonight on whatever they had planned, which meant he had some time.

“What about you?”

Zarachiel looked up at Grace’s question, surprised that she was suddenly standing beside him. “What?”

“Aren’t you going to get some sleep?”

“I have to keep watch.”

Grace took his hand and tugged on it until he followed her to the edge of the bed. He sat when she pulled him down on the edge. Not knowing what to expect, he waited quietly. When she climbed up on the bed behind him and her hands descended on his neck, he jumped, but she ignored it. Her fingers flexed into his muscles, kneading the tension right out with deep twists that hurt at first but then turned blissful. She worked behind him until he was leaning into her hands, his head sagging between his shoulders.

He moaned. “That feels so good.”

Grace massaged for a little longer before asking, “Can Clark really save her with his powers?”

“Possibly.”

“He’s an angel too?”

“Part Nephilim,” Zarachiel murmured, swaying beneath the force of Grace’s hands.

“Take off your shirt.”

“What?” His head jerked up, tension flooding back into his body.

“I’ll massage your back too if you lay down.”

Zarachiel stood from the bed quickly. “You don’t want to see my back.”

“Z,” Grace said quietly, “let me ease you.”

The hairs along his arms stood on end at her words. Heat spread thickly through his belly and down into his thighs. “Are you sure?” he asked. “It’s not pretty.”

Grace didn’t say anything. She just held out her hand, beckoning him closer. He was too tired and beat down to process the uncertainty he felt, but Grace seemed so sure. Not knowing what else to do, he gripped the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head, careful to not let the material drag along his back. He knew from the front, he looked normal; his stomach was lean and cut with the tight ridges and valleys of muscles. But his back was another story. Slowly, he walked over to the bed, putting one knee up on the mattress. He braced his weight on his arms, his biceps bulging as he lowered himself down. If Grace was shocked by the scars and deformities of his back, she didn’t say anything. Her heart rate didn’t even increase.

She shifted beside him, making the bed dip and creak beneath her. He felt the heat of her body leaking into his side. Her hands, tentative and gentle, lowered to his shoulders, making him jump in surprise. She continued massaging his neck and upper back. After a few moments, he relaxed beneath her hands again and let out a long breath.
This isn’t so bad
, he thought.

Grace skimmed her fingers down his spine, bumping over the jutting shards of bone along its edges. She paused at his scars beneath his shoulder blades where his wings had been rooted. He knew what the marks looked like: huge star-shaped scars of raised, angry black flesh, like someone had dumped ink in his raw wounds to create a brutal form of tattoo. He didn’t understand why the scars had turned black, but he didn’t spend a lot of time looking at them.

He was lost in the reverie of his past when an odd sensation spread across his back. His skin reacted like he’d been electrocuted. His ravaged muscles leapt and twitched. Shocked, he raised his head and tried to look over his shoulder. Grace was bowed over his back, spreading soft kisses, like a feather’s touch, along his back, covering every scar, every jagged twist of misaligned bone. Her hands worked across him, rubbing in slow, gentle circles.

“Wait,” he choked out. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve never touched an angel before,” Grace whispered, her voice excited.

More uncertain than ever, Zarachiel put his head back down and tried not to lose himself in the sensation of her kiss. He’d never been kissed before. Never knew what it was like to feel someone else’s lips on his skin. He and Uriel had been created together, but their bond had never been one like Michaela’s and Gabriel’s more intimate partnership. Although, at times, he’d seen something lurking in Uriel’s dark eyes, something that could have led to more between them. But she was always too hard, too cold to approach him. And he’d let it be.

But now he felt his body reacting to Grace and her touch in a way he didn’t fathom. He felt himself hardening against the bed, his body growing too big for his shrinking skin. He heard the blood in his ears, roaring and thumping like a locomotive. Grace’s hands feathered out across his buttocks, resuming her soothing circles there until he melted beneath her hands.

“What are you doing to me?” he asked, the words muffled against the bed.

Grace laughed, the sound soft and delicate. But it held a mystery to it, like she completely knew what she was doing to him. Her fingers swept down the back of his thighs, putting on just the perfect amount of pressure as she raked them back up. He felt her lower her chest over his back, her breasts skimming against his skin as she started kissing his neck. He registered too many things at once: her palm scalding the skin on his backside, her nipples hardening against his shoulders, her tongue flicking out and tasting him before she drew his earlobe into her mouth and sucked it moistly.

He was impossibly hard against the bed. So hard that he was beginning to ache. He felt his pulse in the core of his belly, a steady
thump, thump, thump
. He needed more from her, but if he rolled over and put his hands on her, he wasn’t sure what was going to happen.

“Grace,” he warned, his voice deep and throaty. Even he heard the lust in it, like he’d been gargling gravel. He cleared his throat, and tried again, “Grace, I think we should stop.”

“Turn over,” she whispered, dragging her breasts back down his back. Her voice sounded even more frenzied, like she needed this from him.

He did as he was told. His body was so distracted that he didn’t even notice the pain when he settled onto his back. Grace swept off her shirt and exposed a swath of smooth, creamy white skin. Her breasts tumbled free, her nipples small and blazingly bright pink. Her fingers went to his jeans, deftly undoing them and pulling his erection free. She palmed him, her hand working up and down his width until he was groaning and moving against her hand. His fists clenched the sheets tightly, holding on to whatever shred of sanity he had left. But she reached down and freed his grip, bringing his hands to her breasts.