Carry On Wayward Son (4 page)

“We go inside—just long enough for whatever is doing this to make an appearance. After that, you can go, and I will take care of it. I promise you, Hillary,” she brushed the soft, damp cheek. “I promise, no matter what happens, I will take care of you.”

“I know. That’s what good witches do.”

Claire smiled. “How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“And already wise. Your mom should be proud.” She nodded to Regina, wishing she had the power to lay a calming spell on the woman. “Are you ready?”

Swallowing, Hillary took her hand. Regina grabbed her shoulders, panic on her face. “I don’t—”

“It’s okay, Mom. I can do this. So can you. After what Dad pulled, this should be cake.”

Regina let her go, rubbed at her face. “You weren’t supposed to know—”

“Hard not to when you both screamed at each other about it. I’m twelve, Mom, not deaf.” She looked at Claire. “Can we just do this?”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

*

T
hey entered the house, leaving the front door open. Hillary held tight to Claire’s hand; it stirred feelings inside Claire, feelings she didn’t think she had. The desire to nurture. The need to protect, whatever the cost.

The sparsely furnished rooms, and boxes lining the walls of the living room told Claire they had just moved in. Discovering a ghost in that new house would be an unnerving welcome.

She didn’t feel the expected snap of cold. Bending down, she whispered to Hillary. “Did you ever feel cold, when you heard the voice?”

“No. It’s always warm, like when you feel the sun coming through a window? Not hot, but, just—nice. The warm always came first, then the whispers, saying—” She cut herself off, tears sliding down her face.

Claire gathered her into an embrace, her heart aching for the fear this girl had been through. “It’s all right, sweetheart. I won’t let the voice get near you again. What did it say?”

Clutching the back of Claire’s jacket, Hillary spoke against her shoulder. “It said it wanted my life, it deserved to live my life . . .” She buried her face, shaking in Claire’s arms.

“Hush now. You told me more than enough. Annie, I want you to take them out of—” A figure flashed past the doorway. Too solid to be a ghost. “Get them out. Now, Annie.”

“Claire—”

“Go.”

She handed Hillary over to her mother, stood between them and the doorway leading to the rest of the house. Behind her, Annie spoke in a soothing voice, their footsteps moving away from her. “She’ll be okay—she knows what she’s doing. We’ll just wait for her out—”

Claire spun when the door slammed shut. Cursing, Annie yanked at the ornate knob—and snatched her hand away with a pained cry. She stumbled backward, Regina catching her around the waist to keep her from smacking into the wall.

Turning back to the doorway, Claire wasn’t surprised to find the figure standing there, the edges of his body wavering. He was nearly transparent, like a ghost, but he didn’t give off the cold, or the eerie sense of the recently dead.

“They don’t need to stay,” she said, her voice low, even. “I am the one who can help you. Let them go and I will—”

 “Who are you?” He floated into the room, hovering in front of Claire. “You are—wrong, somehow. I am unable to see beyond, and that is—never mind.” His gaze moved past her. “They stay.”

“Not here. Annie, take them upstairs, lock yourselves in one of the bedrooms. Stop them,” she said, when he let out a snarl and started to move, “and you will become a smear on the wall.” When he faced her she had the shotgun out of the duffle and aimed at him. Rock salt may not stop whatever he was, but it would hurt.

They stared at each other as footsteps echoed around them, faded. Silence stretched out, the shotgun starting to weigh down Claire’s arms. She simply tightened her grip, ignored the ache. And watched him gradually become solid.

“Look at me,” he said, the beauty of his voice wrapping around her heart. Heat flared through the amethyst at her throat. Heart pounding, she lowered the shotgun. It had been centuries—more than she wanted to remember—since she heard one of them speak. “Look at this.”

Closing her eyes briefly, she looked at the arm he held out. And saw the mark, on the inside of his right wrist. A pair of wings surrounding a flaming sword. Something she had not seen for those same centuries.

God above—

She was right. What they faced was no ghost.

He was a guardian angel.

FOUR

S
imon dropped the pen on his desk, stared at the letter he was writing to console yet another veteran’s family. He rubbed his eyes, fighting the despair these letters always dredged up. Too many memories, too many friends he’d lost, both in war and on the force.

He thought entering the priesthood would help soften that grief. And for a while, it did. When he had been immersed in his religious studies, the real world faded into the background, along with the pain he carried. But once he was assigned to his first church, life invaded, and he understood it would take more than prayer and solace to heal the wounds on his soul.

Time helped, and the care of people he respected. Claire and her friends had been a surprising addition to his life. But his connection to them led him here, to Santa Luna, and a congregation that not only listened but supported him. Even after learning about his past, his ability to see power.

Pushing to his feet, he went in search of coffee, and a break from his task, to ease the weight of the grief. The time on the kitchen clock surprised him; it had been more than an hour since Claire stopped by. She usually called when she was done, and she didn’t expect this job to be an actual haunting.

Simon pulled out his cell and tapped in her number. It rang once—then static poured out of the phone.

He jerked it away from his ear. And dropped it when the static began to form words. In Latin.

“God—what did you walk into this time, Claire?”

Simon grabbed his car keys, the duffle he always kept beside the door and ran for his car.

*

C
laire backed away from the figure, the shotgun at her side, looking as harmless as possible.

“What do you want with a child? Did she ask for your help?”

He paced her, step for step, the black shirt and trousers setting off his height, his shoulder length golden brown hair. His bare feet made no sound on the old oak floor, where Claire made each wide plank squeak with her weight. Rage surrounded him like a gathering storm.

“You question my presence?”

“I question you scaring the hell out of a little girl, telling her that you want her life—”

“I meant nothing of the sort. I want—” He swung away from her, hands clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. Claire took the opportunity to move as fast as she could to the stairway, gripping the banister just as he turned back to her. “
No
—you will not leave my sight.”

“I only need to make sure my friends are safe—”

“You dare accuse—”

“Since you’ve already frightened a child, and sent her mother searching for help, yes, I accuse. But I will also listen, once I know they are all right.” White light flared from his mark, and she froze. “There is no way for me to leave from the second floor.” She kept her voice even, low, wanting to soothe the rage that poured off him. “Let me see them. Please.”

She jumped when his fist slammed into the wall beside her. After an endless moment he stepped back, blue eyes fierce. “Go. Try anything, and I will hurt whoever I have to in order to regain your cooperation.”

Nodding, Claire limped up the stairs, careful to keep the shotgun lowered until she was out of sight. She almost collided with Annie as she rounded the corner.

“God above—”

“Are you okay?” Annie grabbed her shoulders, narrowed brown eyes studying every inch. “He didn’t—”

“You were listening.”

“Damn straight. I wasn’t going to let him touch you without suffering for it.”

“Annie . . . thank you, for wanting to cover my back. Now I need you to help me get Regina and Hillary out of here.”

The grip on her shoulders tightened. “What are you—”

“I’m going to distract him. I want you to take them out of here while I do.”

“Damn it, Claire—I am
not
leaving you—”

“Yes, you are. They are more important. And he won’t hurt me.”

“How do you know that?”

“He’s a guardian, Annie. A guardian angel. If he harms any mortal, he is punished. Severely. Their mission is to help, to guide, not to do harm.”

Annie let her go, paced across the hall before spinning back to her. “What about his threat—wanting Hillary’s life? Wanting to live her life? Does that sound like the gentle request of a guardian angel? I won’t leave you with him.”

“You will. Get them out, Annie. Please.” Claire touched her wrist. “There’s something wrong here, something I can’t pin down yet. But he is angry, enough that he may lash out before he can control it. I won’t have them hurt by him. And I won’t have him face punishment for it, when I can avoid the situation.”

“Damn.” She let out a breath. “Fine. But if you don’t follow us out in a timely manner, I am coming back for you. No argument.”

“None given. The less time I spend with him, the safer.”

“Oh, God—does he know—”

“Not yet. And I plan to keep him from finding out. He already feels a—difference, with me. I don’t want to give him time to pursue it. Now,” she rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Go ready them, and let’s do this.”

*

C
laire left the shotgun with Annie, knowing now it would do no good, and simply inflame the guardian’s already unstable temper. He waited for her at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, fear and a desperate need layered over the anger.

“Is she—” His voice lowered, fear edging out the anger. “I did not harm Hillary. I only want—”

“She is frightened, and confused.” Claire moved past him, careful to keep her distance. “And so am I.” Stepping down into the living room, she slowly backed away from the staircase, as if she were retreating. Her goal was the doorway behind her, which she hoped led deeper into the house. “Why did you choose Hillary? You had to know you would terrify her by what you’re doing. And no matter how badly you want it, or how much you threaten, it isn’t possible for you to have her life.”

“Her pain drew me. I understood her need to be free of it.” Just as she hoped, he followed her across the room. “It is not her life I want. I want to
live
, to escape the bonds of being caught Between. I have been there for so long, and it seems as if all the good I do means nothing to them.”

“You had a life.” Claire softened her voice, knowing she tread on shaky ground. “How you chose to live that life is the reason you ended up Between. There will be forgiveness, when whatever debt you have has been paid—”

“It will never be paid!” He raised his fists toward the ceiling, an angry prayer. “They will never free me, never forgive what sins they believe I have committed.”

Claire saw movement behind him, kept her focus on him, drawing his attention back to her. “What is your name?”

Panic skated across his face. “Why is that important? I will have whatever name I choose, once I have my life. You do not need to know—”

“I would like to call you something other than ‘hey, you.’ If that’s all right.” She smiled, tried to keep her voice light. “You don’t have to give me your real name—”

“Zach.” He whispered the name, as if saying it out loud defied the forces he blamed for his confinement. “My name is Zach.”

“It’s a pleasure, Zach. My name is Claire.” She held out her hand, wanting to lure him closer, away from the staircase—where she could now see Annie, keeping herself in front of Hillary, Regina just behind her, as they crept down, step by step. “It is considered polite to shake someone’s hand when you meet them.”

“You think I don’t know that? I have been among you mortals for—”

With a furious shout he whirled, blocking the base of the stairs between one breath and the next. Annie shoved Hillary against the wall, brought up the shotgun. Zach gestured and it flew out of her hands, embedding itself barrel first into the plaster wall.

“Zach—”

“You dare to betray me? To fool me—”

“Not to fool.” Claire stepped forward, held up both hands in the universal gesture of surrender. “I wouldn’t treat you that way. I want them safe, and I don’t want you to punish them for what was my idea.”

“Fine.” He flung out his hand—and Claire slammed into the wall, inches from the protruding shotgun. Pain radiated across her back at impact, spiraled as he pushed her into the cracked plaster. She couldn’t catch her breath—his invisible grip squeezed her lungs, pressed on her ribs with such force she expected them to crack at any moment—

Without warning he freed her, and she dropped to the floor. The first breath hurt, reminded her of another first breath. One she never thought to take. Before she could recover he grabbed her arms, dragging her to her feet. The shock of his touch drove through her. That shock crossed his face, and he stared at her, his body trapping her against the wall.

She gasped as something splintered inside her—and she felt it, for the first time since Azazel sent her back. Her power, shining through a crack in the wall. The power of an angel—the power she had before she fell. Before she gave up all she was for pride.

“Who are you—” A strangled cry cut him off when she wrapped shaking fingers in his hair and yanked. He let her go and backed away, clutching his scalp. “Why? I would not have hurt you. I just want to live.”

“Wanting that life—doesn’t mean you’ll get it.” Claire caught her breath, her ribs aching from his assault. “What do you want us to do?”

“Make them listen.” He spun, facing the trio on the stairs. Annie held Regina, who had Hillary in her embrace, one hand over her mouth. The girl stared at Zach, not in fear, but in—wonder. Claire felt it, saw it. Saw the rage pouring off Annie, edged with helplessness, and the maternal need mingling with the terror that surrounded Regina. “And if I must hurt to do so, I will.”