Days of New: The Complete Collection (Serials 1-5) (7 page)

“What are you looking for?” Zarachiel asked quietly, pulling Clark from his thoughts.

“Ghosts,” Camille snorted.

“Clues, of course. So get your Sherlock Holmes on, hooker.” Clark smacked the back of Camille’s head as he walked past. He felt her glare like hot spikes into his back. She would likely make him pay for that one, he reasoned as he crouched beside the bed to look underneath it. He shivered; Camille’s vengeance walked the line between pleasure and pain most of the time.

Zarachiel hummed as he walked around the room, tapping on walls and looking for hollow spots beneath the floorboards. Camille circled like a vulture and sniffed at the air. Finding nothing under the bed, Clark sat back on his heels, thinking.

The sheets had been pulled off the mattress for what little forensics Bailey could perform on them. More like magic, Clark thought, and his arms instantly itched at the sentiment. He’d meant to spend the time in the compound learning the powers he had, but the day-to-day duties of running the farming sector on a refugee camp were more demanding than he’d imagined. He was no closer to understanding his abilities than when he’d gone to Hell with Lucifer. Of course, that hadn’t been the definition of productive either.

He sighed before rummaging through the bedside table. A fine layer of fingerprint dust coated everything and stuck to the inside of Clark’s nose, like the least fun version of cocaine in the world. The drawers held nothing of interest besides a sketchbook that Jenna had doodled in occasionally. There were more than a few images of himself in there, which Clark found was slightly embarrassing. He put the book back and stood up.

There wasn’t much else to search; Camille was currently combing through the contents of Jenna’s desk. Judging from the angel’s snarled lip and disgustedly confused look on her face, Clark figured the desk was full of teaching supplies and kid psychology books. Maybe some more arts and crafts to really upset her stomach. Her tortured expression was enough to lighten Clark’s mood ever so slightly when he turned back to his own search of the room.

There hadn’t been any sign of forced entry, Clark thought, sitting on the edge of the bed. Remembering Jenna had just died on it, he quickly jumped up and wiped off his pants, as if death was like dust: easily removable but irritating as hell. Turning back to his thoughts, he tried to think of who else Jenna would’ve willingly let into her room. She’d been a nice girl with a lot of friends, so the list was long. But she had good instincts, and Clark really doubted she would’ve let her own killer in the front door.

He crossed the room to the window. It was sealed shut, painted over many times throughout the centuries. It was caulked around the edges to keep out the winter chill, even if it meant keeping in the stifling heat during the summer. No one could’ve come in through the window, Clark determined, without there being some sign of entry.

Almost casually, his eyes shifted to the fireplace. It was the only other feasible point of entry in the room. Its flue went straight up to the roof of the compound. Clark walked over to it and knelt down. The ash keeper was kept tidy, even though someone had carelessly left the embers to die out slowly. Careful of the heat, Clark leaned over and twisted around so he could see up the chimney. A few cobwebs clung to the side of stone smoke chamber, broken and swept aside. If the chimney had been cleaned recently, the web would’ve been pulled down when the flue was swept. These cobwebs looked as though they’d been disturbed, pushed to the side with a frustrated swipe of the hand.

Clark examined the chimney the best he could without a flashlight. He probed the old stone with his fingers, finding nothing. When he stood back up, he saw that Camille and Zarachiel were watching him with interest.

“You think someone came in from there?” Zarachiel asked, eyebrows raised.

“A small person could fit. That damper would be wide enough when it’s pushed open,” Camille said.

“I can’t see anything down here, but if someone came in, maybe they left something on the roof.”

Two minutes later, Camille landed them quietly on the roof. Zarachiel didn’t look down as he stepped from her grasp, his eyes focused on the slate that made up the slightly sloped roof. Clark, on the other hand, took his time surveying the land below. From up here, he saw everything. The sky to the east was starting to warm up, spreading out a slash of orange against the darkness and illuminating the swath of earth contained within the walls of the compound. It wasn’t much, but it was a haven. And come spring, Clark and his Nephilim would have the same earth bursting with food and hope.

Clark knew he wasn’t the best leader; he hadn’t really wanted the job when it’d been thrust upon him. But he hoped that by the spring, the Nephilim would see all that he’d worked for with the crops and they would understand. After all, most of them were from the Pennsylvania clan and Amish by nature, which is the very reason Clark and his charges had been assigned the farming responsibilities. But more importantly, the awkwardness between the Descendants and Nephilim would iron out once the half-angels had something familiar to do in the fields.

If they weren’t all dead by then.

Sighing, he forced his attention to the task at hand. Many chimney caps lined the roof, but he counted over until he stopped next to the one he thought fed to Jenna’s room. He crouched and lifted the metal framework. Loosened bolts rattled onto the roof, which meant he wasn’t the first to lift the cap recently. Camille had been right—a small person, like the size of a child, could fit down the flue.

“I smell something,” Camille said sharply once they all stood around the chimney.

“What?”

“Something burnt,” Zarachiel answered instead.

“Well, no shit. It’s a chimney,” Clark said.

“No,” Camille whispered, her eyes darting around. “It’s not that kind of fire. It smells like someone cooked rotten meat.”

Intrigued, Clark sniffed. While he’d smelled something downstairs, the scent was eluding him up here. He leaned over the chimney, running his hands along the inside. He had a horrible vision of tumbling face-first down the narrow flue. He would probably get stuck halfway down, though. Not running for his life every minute of the day like he had with Michaela was starting to thicken him up a bit.

“It’s familiar,” Zarachiel said, thinking hard on it.

“I can’t quite put my finger on it,” Camille mused.

As the sun spilled above the horizon, slicing pinks and purples outward, Clark’s hand snagged on something caught in the stone. Carefully, he pulled it out while Camille and Zarachiel kept talking about the smell. Even in the early morning light, Clark knew what he was holding.

“Does this ring any bells?” he asked, interrupting the angels.

He held up a burnt black feather.

Chapter Five

“D
on’t be so scared. She’s just a wee girl.”

Clark’s fist hovered an inch from the door. He’d been about to knock when he’d suddenly been overcome with nerves. Now, he turned to Zarachiel and pursed his lips. Camille smirked behind him, having refused to be excluded from meeting Sophia’s sister. Sadly, she was as stubborn as Clark. He’d given up when it was clear she wasn’t going to be left behind, even though he thought it was an odd form of torture for her to be present while he talked to Maya.

Clark wished they could’ve gone and talked to Liam right away after finding the feather. But most of the compound was still asleep, including Liam. Sleep came rare for Keepers, so Clark had decided to let him rest, even though thoughts of the burnt black feather troubled him. It felt like an ominous sign, one he was supposed to understand. But it could mean anything, and Clark was too exhausted to think on it any longer.

“What the hell, man? ‘A wee girl?’ Since when are we in
Braveheart
?”

“Where’s Braveheart?” Camille asked, cocking her head like a…Clark would say like a bird, but on Camille, the gesture more likely resembled a stalking lioness listening to the futile heartbeat of her prey.

“It’s not a place,” Clark sighed, “It’s a movie. Never mind.”

Clark knocked and kept knocking until Maya flung open the door, blinking blearily up at him. “What in the world?” she asked, smoothing her sleep-tousled brown hair. Thick socks covered her tiny feet, and she was bundled up in a thick, fuzzy blue robe.

Clark had to recover from the moment of temporary insanity he felt at seeing Sophia’s sister again. She looked so much like her, sounded so much like her, that he felt as though he was tilting on his axis, falling off his understanding of the world. He shook his head to clear his thoughts.

“We need to talk,” he said briskly, pushing inside. Camille shouldered her way past too, throwing a little extra effort into backing Sophia’s sister into the wall. Much more politely and with a considerate nod, Zarachiel followed.

“What time is it?” Maya asked, tying her robe tighter around her thin waist. Staring at her now, Clark realized she was a little shorter than Sophia had been, and her hair and eyes were darker. Her face was a little rounder too, still stuck in the plumpness of youth. Startled, Clark realized Maya could be no more than eighteen or nineteen. Sophia hadn’t been much older when she’d died.

“Early bird gets the worm and shit like that,” Clark said, forcing himself to turn away from her. He walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table, familiar with the layout of all the apartments in the east wing where the Nephilim stayed. “Maybe some coffee to make it a little more bearable?”

“You want me to make coffee for you?” Maya asked, staring at them like they were aliens.

“Dude. Look. Stop with all the questions. It’s making me grumpier.” Clark settled his head into his hands and heaved a heavy breath.

“I’ll make some coffee. Why don’t you sit?” Zarachiel said, pulling out a chair for Maya. He turned toward the cupboards, while Camille leaned against the counter.

“An angel serving a Nephil. Cute.” Camille smiled sweetly, and Maya stiffened in front of Clark, as if she was gathering up her bluster to be offended. Sophia would have already cut Camille down with a few words.

“Why don’t you go jump out of a window?” Zarachiel said under his breath, surprising Clark, who looked up in time to see Camille’s narrowed eyes. Everyone was grumpy this morning, it would seem.

“Why don’t you go fu—”

“Alrighty then!” Clark said loudly. Maya sat down heavily in her chair, looking very, very railroaded. Clark grimaced, sympathizing with her. Angels were a pain in the ass. And he should know; he was whatever percentage one. He really needed to figure that out. One-eighth? Or was it one-third?

“Sorry. I wasn’t prepared for this yet,” Maya said, drawing Clark’s attention once again.

“Trust me when I say that I really wasn’t either.”

“I saw your face when we first met,” Maya said carefully, her eyes on Clark. “I didn’t realize how the resemblance would affect you. I’m sorry for that.”

Clark waved his hand in the air. “Whatever. Don’t worry about it.” He turned and pointed to the angels just as Camille snorted derisively. Zarachiel was in the middle of scooping out some coffee grinds; he looked up and smiled. “This is Zarachiel, who you’ve already met, and Camille. Don’t look directly at her, or you’ll turn to stone.”

Clark chuckled at his joke, but Maya’s eyes were a little too wide as she regarded Camille. The angel wasn’t doing her part to look less intimidating either. Her kohl was smudged under her eyes, which flamed widely with exhaustion and the sheer toxicity that flowed through her veins. Clark regretted his words, thinking the poor Nephil probably thought Camille was actually capable of turning her to stone by the way the angel was glaring at her.

“Anyway,” Clark said, pulling Maya’s startled gaze back to him. “I hate to get right down to it, but things are a little crazy right now, and we’ve got shit to do. So we need to pick up right where we left off. Why are you here?”

“Uh,” Maya fumbled after a surprised silence. The water began to boil in the background and Camille sighed in exasperation. The wood in the stove cracked and popped in the flames.

“I could make her talk,” the Throne angel volunteered.

Maya’s head whipped around, her gasp slicing through the room. Without thinking, Clark reached across the table and took her hand. His skin met hers with a jolt that reverberated up his bones and shivered into his heart. He’d felt it when he’d touched Sophia the first time. Quickly, he removed his hand, slipping it under the table and massaging his aching palm.

“That won’t be necessary, Camille,” he said, giving her a dark look.

The angel gritted her teeth, shoving herself away from the counter. Clark stood quickly, ready to meet her in the middle if she wanted to fight. Instead, she said, “I’m sure you’ll get her to talk one way or
another
.” With that, she stalked out of the room, moving silently, and slammed the front door.

Thankfully, Zarachiel set a cup of coffee—black, like Clark’s soul—in front of him just then. “Sugar or cream?” Zarachiel asked Maya, like the perfect waiter.

“Both, please,” she said, her voice wavering. When she looked back at Clark, her eyes were wide with tears.

“Full-breed angels are a little…different. It takes some time getting used to them,” Clark offered, hoping his words were comforting. Not too long ago, the Nephilim were hunted, damned creatures. Back then, a Nephil in a room with two angels meant he or she was about to be killed. Michaela might have decreed the Nephilim free creatures, but the scent of persecution takes some time to air out.