by Dean, Cate
A Gathering of Angels
The Claire Wiche Chronicles, Book 2
Cate Dean
© Copyright, 2012
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except for use in any review. This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, locales, and events are either pure invention or used fictitiously. No character is based on or inspired by any known or unknown persons, and all incidents come from the author’s imagination alone.
Cover art by Nadica Boskovska
Cover design by Christine Pope
http://indieauthorservices.com
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Reader’s Guide to the Claire Wiche Mythology
Back in Black Preview
Author’s Note
About the Author
Other Books by Cate Dean
A gathering of angels can enlighten the whole world.
~Unknown
ONE
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Annie Sullivan tapped three sleeping pills out of the bottle and into her palm. After a short debate, she added another one. She set the bottle on the side table, dropped the pills in her mouth and chased them down with a long swig of beer.
It didn’t help any more than water, but it did make her head fuzzy a little faster. At least, that was the excuse she would give to Marcus if he ever found out.
He watched her like an overprotective brother. She wanted to slap him down for it, but she knew he was worried. Going into the fourth month after losing Claire, Annie looked like she was the one who fell into Hell.
She scrubbed at her face, then climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling, waiting for the pills to take effect. For the dreams to yank her in.
It didn’t take long before she was pulled under, slipping into smoke and shadow. Into a dream where she wasn’t alone.
*
Claire knelt on the rocky ground, both hands wrapped around the hilt of the knife buried between her ribs. There was blood on her hands, blood on her shirt, but she looked painfully, joyfully alive, firelight flickering over her uplifted face.
That light came from the torches set into an impossibly tall black gate. A gate that never stayed in focus long enough for Annie to see what was carved into the arched insets. Part of her knew she didn’t want to see.
Natasha stood over Claire—cousin, demon, murderer, and the reason Claire revealed who she really was. What she really was. To save the people she loved, Claire broke the wards that had protected her from herself, and let the demon inside free.
To Annie, she still looked the same. Bloody, ash pale, hair a tangled mess down her back, but still Claire.
Natasha leaned over and gripped Claire’s chin. “You may have dragged me down here before I was ready, but I still have all the souls I sent ahead of me. So I win, and you are the door prize.”
“We will see,” Claire whispered. Annie’s heart flinched at the pain in her voice. “And sooner than you expected.”
Claire just finished talking when the gate shifted. A figure appeared—and horror crawled over every inch of Annie’s skin. One second his face was so beautiful it hurt to look at. The next it morphed into a hideous goat’s head. Back and forth, like he couldn’t control the transformation. She wanted to run—her heart pounded so hard from the need her ribs hurt. But she was trapped by the pill-induced walls of her nightmare.
The figure stepped to Claire. Natasha let her go and dropped to her knees, bowing so low her forehead brushed the ground. He ignored her and laid one hand on Claire’s cheek.
“My beautiful servant.” His voice gouged at Annie’s soul. “Your presence by my side has been sorely missed.”
“Master.” Pain edged Claire’s voice—and a longing that made Annie realize this had been home first. Long before she became the loving, compassionate woman Annie knew, she had been here. Like him. “I have—”
She doubled over her hands with a sharp gasp. He knelt in front of her, and rage smacked Annie when he spotted the knife. “Who dares harm—”
“I brought her to you, my Lord Azazel.” Natasha lifted her head, a smile twisting her badly burned face. That damage must have been Claire’s doing; when Annie left Claire alone to fight her, Natasha had been stunningly gorgeous. “As a gift, a token. You have received the other souls I sent to—”
“I do not take the souls of innocents, demon filth.” Natasha cowered as that rage sliced across his voice. “As for your gift,” he turned back to Claire, and the constantly morphing face stabilized, leaving the terrifying, beautiful man in place. “It is one I am unable to accept.” With a gentleness that made Annie’s throat ache, he removed Claire’s hands from the knife hilt. “I would have you by my side for eternity, beloved.”
In one swift move he pulled the blade out and laid his hand over the wound. Claire clutched his wrist, blood trickling out of her mouth as she collapsed. His free arm caught her and lowered her to the ground.
Searing red light poured from his hand. Claire arched off the ground as the light engulfed her. A scream pounded the inside of Annie’s head while she watched her friend suffer at the hand of a monster even her imagination couldn’t create. The small part of her not frozen in terror knew that this was no dream.
An eternity passed before the light let Claire go. She gripped the rocky ground, her fingers shaking so badly Annie could hear her fingernails tapping against the rock. Azazel helped her sit, wiped at the blood staining her chin. Every injury was gone—even through the blood Annie could see healthy skin, the thin line of a new scar. Her terror shifted, and turned into an even more devastating emotion. Hope.
“You still care for these wounded, ugly souls,” he said. Swallowing, Claire nodded. “What is worse—somehow, you have acquired a soul of your own.”
She stared at him, shock clear on her face. “I can’t—I have no explanation, Master.”
“I am not asking for one. You cannot stay, beloved. The care I could, perhaps, overcome in time. The soul, however—it is pure, and not mine to take. It will never be mine to take.” Grief edged his voice. Annie stared, not expecting that emotion from—well, one of the lords of Hell. “You may have found your way home.”
“Azazel—”
“Hush. Take your rest, while I deal with your tormentor.”
He moved so fast Annie didn’t see it until he had both hands wrapped around Natasha’s throat. From her reaction, she didn’t either.
“My Lord—” He cut off her strangled whisper.
“You killed without leave, took the souls of the innocent.” One hand released her, picked up an object that glinted in the torchlight. Horror shot through Annie, primal and icy. All she saw was black-edged gold before long fingers closed over it. That was more than she ever wanted to see again. “And used what should never have been taken beyond these gates to do so. It is fortunate you have chosen the body of one already well down the path to Hell. I will not have to separate you.”
He threw her at the gate. Annie flinched, waiting for the smack of impact. Instead, the gate shifted—and a hole appeared, like a greedy mouth. Screa
ming, Natasha grabbed for the side of the hole. Her fingers slipped through the gate like it was black water, and she disappeared.
Claire stood on her own, tears sliding down her face. “There was no way to save her?”
Annie frowned at the humble tone in Claire’s voice. Then she looked at Azazel, and decided that humble was the safe course.
“Above all, you would know the darkness of her soul. She was always meant to come to me, to us, from the moment she understood her power.” Claire stilled when he moved to her. His body changed from one step to the next—Annie sucked in her breath when the hideous, hunched figure towered over Claire, clawed fingers reaching for her. “You must go. Already, our brother screams for your blood.”
Claire went white. “You can’t tell—”
“Lucifer will know nothing of this. But you must go now, while I can still protect you.”
“Azazel—”
The gate behind them shivered, then bulged outward. Two giant hands formed in the surface of the gate—and thrust out, headed straight for Claire.
“Go!” Azazel pushed her out of the way and caught the oversized wrists. Claws gouged his chest. “I free you, beloved. Now go!”
His scream of pain as the claws punctured him tore through Annie. Claire darted forward. Azazel thrust out one hand and she flew backward, landing in the shrouded darkness, beyond the reach of the torchlight. Somehow, Annie could still see her, clear as day.
She pushed herself up, tears staining her face, and ran forward again. Azazel dropped to his knees as she reached for him, gripping the hands tearing into his chest.
“Master—”
“He will always lust for what he cannot touch—you know him, my sister.” Annie fought to move, to cover her ears and drown out the agony, the anguish in that voice. She might as well have been a statue. “Keep yourself safe, and do not think of me, even in dreams—”
“I won’t leave you here—”
“You will.” Azazel, took in a ragged breath. “You must.” One bloody hand brushed her cheek. “Live your life, Claire.” She jerked when he spoke her name. “With your soul comes mortality. You will live much longer than the humans surrounding you—but there will be an end. Now go—it is time to finish this argument on equal ground.”
With a furious roar he stood and rushed the gate. It seemed to swallow him, the surface liquid as he leapt through it. Then the gate became solid, and finally showed Annie the horrors carved into that surface.
Claire backed away, hands clenched into fists. When she turned around, Annie saw the grief that carved new lines on her face, that filled the blue eyes. Eyes no longer laced by the silver Annie now knew marked her as a demon. Those eyes widened, startled, and she halted.
“Heaven above—no, please no—” Despair laid over the grief. She stumbled forward, then froze, her voice a tortured whisper. “Annie?”
With a panicked gasp, Annie bolted awake.
She fell out of bed, sweat slicking every inch of her. Grabbing her cell off the side table, she crawled over to the corner of the bedroom. She needed something solid at her back. Something real. Her hands shook so badly it took several tries to punch in his number. Relief started to leak in past the panic when he answered.
“Annie? What has happened—”
“Can you come, Marcus?” Tears thickened her whisper. She cleared her throat, felt them slide down her face. “Please—I can’t be alone.”
“I am on my way.”
The phone slipped out of her hand. She pulled her legs up, wrapped her arms around them, and rocked back and forth, praying that the words running through her head were true.
It was just a dream—just a dream—
*
Marcus found her huddled in the corner of the bedroom, ashen and shaking.
“Annie.” He scooped her up and carried her to the bed. His worry edged to fear when she didn’t fight him. “Annie—look at me. You are safe, now. Look at me, sweet.”
The endearment snapped her head up.
“Don’t sweet me.”
“There’s my girl.” He brushed sweat soaked blonde curls off her forehead, shocked by the clammy skin under his fingers. Her thin cotton nightgown clung to her, just as cold, just as wet. “Tell me.”
She did, hands clenched around each other by the time she finished. “I know it was a dream—but it felt so real. And she saw me, Marcus. Just before I woke up, she looked right at me.”
Heart pounding, he pushed down the hope that threatened to surface, gently pried apart Annie’s hands. “I know how you miss her. I do as well. She is dead, Annie; whatever you saw in the dream, you have to reconcile yourself to—”
“Like hell I do.” She jerked out of his grasp and stood, her familiar anger encouraging. It meant the shock was losing its hold. “I saw her step into that gate, but it doesn’t mean she died. And don’t throw me any bullshit about the knife. She’s a demon—it would take more than that to kill her, and you know it.”
With a sigh he pushed one hand through his sleep tangled hair. “And if she had survived, she would have returned to us by now.”
Annie stopped pacing and turned on him. “Take your damn reasonable explanations and get out of here—”
“You think I don’t want to believe?” Marcus stood, caught her arms, the hope he fought to bury choking him. “Her absence is like a hole in my heart.” Tears filmed her eyes. He swallowed, his own grief clawing through him. “I want her back, Annie, as much as you.”
With a strangled sob, she started to pull away. Marcus held on, gathered her into his arms. After a brief struggle, she sagged against him, crying in her silent, heart-wrenching way. He lowered them to the bed, whispered to her, stroked the length of her back and allowed her to release the grief he knew she buried months ago.
She eased out of his embrace, wiping at her cheeks. When she refused to meet his gaze, he understood that she was embarrassed by her outburst.
“Thanks for—just, thanks,” she said.
“Not necessary. Friends take care for each other.” He stood. “I will leave you to rest. Try and sleep—and stay home. I will manage the shop without you.”
Her whisper stopped him in the doorway.
“Please stay.” She looked at him when he turned around, panic he didn’t expect to see haunting the depths of her eyes. Rich brown eyes that usually snapped with temper, or amusement. Often at his expense. “I can’t—I don’t want to be alone, in case I—” She swallowed, staring down at her hands. “Can you—”
“Whatever you need, Annie.”
Her shoulders hitched, and Marcus moved around the bed, one hand tilting up her chin. It made her smile. “I’m not going to fall apart. But if I end up dreaming about the gates of Hell again, I don’t want to wake up alone.”
“I will make a tisane to help you sleep.” He paused at the door, watched her as she took a fresh nightgown out of the dresser. “And I will be leaving the recipe with you. No more sleeping pills.” She flinched, glancing up at him. Her guilt brushed over his skin, spread a blush across her face. “You cannot sleep naturally with them, and I believe your dependence is causing these dreams.”
Anger flared through the guilt.
“I’m not—”
“Making it up? I never thought you were, Annie. Claire was your best friend. Dreaming of her is hardly unusual. Believing those dreams is another matter.”
“I changed my mind.” Slamming the drawer, she stalked over to him and shoved at his chest. “Get out.”
“Too late. I have been invited, and I plan to hold you to it.”
“What are you, a vampire?”
He touched her wrist. “I am your friend.”
That deflated her.
“Go—make your tisane. Hey, it better not have chamomile,” she called after him.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Chamomile is the first ingredient.”
The string of curses that followed him down the hall made him smile.
TWO
With a harsh gasp, Claire woke.
After an endless, aching moment, she took in her first breath. The second hurt just as much, but it helped clear her head. With the third she knew she was alive—painfully alive.
Azazel made good on his promise. Her heart ached at the thought of what he would suffer for helping her escape their brother.
After another breath she forced her thoughts away from what she couldn’t change, and focused on her surroundings.
Cold dirt pressed into her skin—every inch of skin from cheek to toe. She pried her eyes open, and met the length of her bare arm. No voices, laughter, or street traffic—which meant, thankfully, she wasn’t laying in a public place.
Slowly, she moved her arm. It dragged across the dirt, like it had a weight attached to it. The movement woke up the muscles in her back—muscles that had been sliced by Natasha’s knife. Residual pain radiated across those newly mended muscles and she stilled, taking in a shallow breath until it eased, then finally died.
Inch by inch she pulled her arms in until she was able to shift her weight to her forearms. That introduced a whole new problem. Gravity. Her body had been trapped for so long, fighting Natasha as they fell, it had forgotten gravity. Claire took in a breath that made her freshly healed knife wounds flare to life, and pushed against the ground.
Her arms shook, her muscles burned, but she managed to lift herself. She dragged each hand along the ground, back toward her knees, until she felt her butt touch her heels. Sweating, panting, and already dizzy with exhaustion, she gripped one knee, used her other arm to push herself up.
Cold wind slapped at her. She hugged herself, the sweat on her skin turning icy. She knew if she didn’t move, didn’t keep moving, she would go into shock. Lifting her head, she saw—nothing. Nothing but miles of dirt and grass. Her heart pounded as she realized she was in the middle of nowhere, naked, helpless, empty—
A sharp snap stopped her heart—until she recognized the sound. Turning her head, she sagged in relief when she spotted the small, neat house. Laundry waved at her, the same snap echoing as sheets and clothing billowed and flattened in the rising wind. Claire had a goal, and possible help.