Underworld Lover (A Guardian Angel Romance #2) (36 page)

Father works in mysterious ways.

“You can refuse it. In fact, I wish you would,” Mother insisted.

“You think I’ll fail? I’ve never failed.”

“Careful of the pride, child. Every Guardian eventually comes across a human she cannot save.”

Now Claire was determined to take the mission. “I won’t refuse it. I can’t refuse Father.”

“I understand, but I was hoping you would anyway. You see, this is going to be your last mission. You’re to be retired here, to become an instructor.”

Claire’s blood began to boil. She clutched the white paper, squared her shoulders and said through her teeth, “How could you do this to me, after all my faithful years of service to the Guardianship?”

“Shame on you, Claire! Teaching is an honorable profession. Think of the inspiration you will be to the younger ones—an instructor with a perfect record.”

“I’m a much better Guardian
doing
the work, not
teaching
it,” Claire spat, but she knew it was no use. She’d learned long ago not to try to change Mother’s mind. It was as permanent as life eternal. Repositioning her yellow transport bag, she turned to leave.

“No appearing in his dreams, or in real time,” Mother said to her back. “Don’t talk to him, either, and no whispering. No notes! Don’t give messages to someone else to tell him things.” Mother’s voice rose as Claire left, walking at first, then breaking into a full run. “And just so I can tell him I’ve covered it, don’t use your dust for anything but helping him dream, Claire. No one must see your dust or feel its power. But most important, he is
never
to know you exist,
never
to feel your presence. Is that clear?”

A well-dented taxi, covered in spray-painted graffiti, idled as Claire emerged from the garden path. Sprays of diamond dust covered leaves and flowers at her side like a coating of sugar. She hopped into the rear bench seat and closed the door.

Thank God it’s Doris.

The cabbie’s eyes watched her in the rear view mirror as they descended through the clouds. Claire stared at the back of Doris’s head, noting the short, unnaturally bright red hair that stuck out under a weathered cabbie hat worn too far back and at an angle.

Doris never said much on the way down. She had lots of questions and comments when she brought Claire back up. Claire sensed in her a kinship, a certain rebellious spirit. And she guessed the cabbie had been warned not to interfere with a Guardian and her mission.

Claire never knew another Guardian angel, except one, who had any memories of life as a human before the wash erased the memories. Just as she was certain she would never need to eat or sleep and wouldn’t age, she knew she remembered things about being human—like the day she was murdered. She had carefully guarded this secret. It meant something was wrong with Father’s wash mechanism.

Or something was wrong with
her
.

In a matter of seconds, she was running down Daniel’s crushed granite driveway in the dark to the two-story stone cottage tucked behind two massive homes. Claire smelled the loamy, wet earth coated with the heavy fog that covered most of the area as she looked up to see a tiny window in a small gable under the eave.

She willed herself through the wooden front door, remaining invisible. She hoped Daniel hadn’t heard her transport bag drop at her feet. The room air was hot and stifling, filled with pale grey smoke that burned her eyes and scorched her throat, causing her to gag. She held her breath and checked her invisibility, her sensors scanning the room. No sign of the dark angel.

Seated in front of a lit fireplace was her new charge, muscled and bare-chested, holding a large carving knife in his right hand, working his way up from deepening the shallow cuts he’d made on his left forearm. A thin trickle of blood dripped onto his black slacks, the only clothes he wore. He was cursing in a foreign tongue, sweat streaming down the sides of his cheeks. His lips curled in a sneer as he held his breath, ready to cut.

Claire saw the alarm keypad to the right of the front door. She willed herself there and pushed the red fire button, sending a shrieking noise throughout the living room. Daniel took too long to put his hands to his ears.
He must be drunk.
She saw the smashed neck of a wine bottle and pieces of green glass littering the floor at his feet. Remnants of a painting, torn and ripped apart from its frame, bubbled in the fireplace, sending a black streak of oily smoke up the wall.

Before Daniel could stand, Claire willed herself back to him. She rubbed her thumb against her first two fingers, producing dust, and applied the sparkling mixture to the raw flesh on his forearm. Golden threads began the work of restoring his skin. He didn’t notice.

He danced around the glass, stumbling over to the flashing red alarm. Claire smelled the stench of terror and sweat mixed with the acid burning paint smoke coming from the fireplace. His chest was streaked with wide ribbons of red wine; his cheeks were flushed, and his full lips were stained deep burgundy.

The fury inside him was so intense Claire almost stepped back, but she held her ground as he punched a code into the pad that did nothing to stop the noise. He tried again, then ripped the keypad from the wall and left it dangling by two wires. The head-splitting sound abruptly stopped and he watched the pad sway back and forth, its red light refusing to submit. He turned his back on it.

She leaned against his massive shoulder muscles, feeling the heat of his body, reading the torment in his soul. She wrapped her arms around him. The salty smell of his body was an elixir. Claire tingled with energy.

“I am here, Daniel. Nothing can harm you now,” she whispered. As if he could hear or feel her, he sighed in unison, a small moan from deep inside his throat, interrupting the few seconds of calm they shared together.

A faint siren got closer; she wondered what he would say to the rescue team that was surely on its way.

“Christ,” he whispered. “I can’t even do this right.”

END OF EXCERPT

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