A Gathering of Angels - The Claire Wiche Chronicles Book 2

by Dean, Cate

  Ignoring the multiple aches, she braced her hands on the ground, got her feet under her. The simple movements left her breathless. Taking a moment, letting her head clear, she sucked in another breath and pushed herself up. Her knees gave out and she tumbled to the ground.

  She didn’t even have the strength to curse. Bruised, dirt clinging to her sweaty skin, she tried again. Her arms collapsed under her before she could make an effort to stand.

  She clutched the ground with shaking fingers, forced back the sting of tears. The means to help herself were too close for her to give up. Gathering her strength, talking herself through the pain, the exhaustion, the desire to just lie down and sleep, she sucked in her breath and heaved.

  Her legs held. She swayed like a drunk, so dizzy she could barely see the ground in front of her, but she stayed upright. The first step forward was a victory. The second had already sore muscles burning. But she kept moving, stumbling forward, her goal coming in to focus.

  One trembling hand reached out, and she grabbed the post holding up one side of the laundry line. She clung to it, fought to even her breath, lightheaded from her battle with gravity. When she could move without her knees buckling under her, she gripped the clothesline and shuffled forward.

  The bright red plaid shirt was flannel, dry, and warm from hanging in the sun. Claire used one sleeve to wipe away all the dirt and blood she could reach, then slid her arm in while still hanging on to the line. The heavy, soft fabric felt like heaven on her cold skin. Switching hands, she pulled the shirt on, let it hang open while she hunted for some sort of underwear.

  Bright boxers flapped at her, next to a pair of denim overalls that she knew would engulf her. Pulling them both off the line, she worked her way back to the pole, leaning against it to button the shirt. One leg of the overalls helped wipe away the dirt still clinging to her skin. By the time she pulled on the boxers, she had to sit down.

  Clutching the pole, she closed her eyes, sweat slicking her face, sliding down her back. The wind dried it, chilled her. A warning to keep moving.

  Using the pole as a support, she got herself into the overalls and dragged the strap over one shoulder, snapping the button into the metal loop. Carefully, flinching as her fingers caught in the tangled length, she eased her hair out from under the shirt, and let it hang down her back. Later—she would deal with it later.

  She closed her hand over the other strap—then the wind shifted, and she smelled something that made saliva pool in her mouth.

  Fumbling the button into the loop, she climbed up the length of the pole, sniffing the air. That smell came from the house; the scent of meat, and earthy vegetables, and broth that had been simmering for hours. Her stomach cramped, so empty it felt like she could touch her spine through her belly button.

  It’s not that far. Just across the small yard, and the reward for the effort was shelter and food. And maybe, help. Though she hadn’t heard any movement from the house, and the gravel drive was empty. But the food would be help enough, and the shelter temporary, until she found out how far she was from home.

  One step at a time, the clothesline a swaying support, Claire made her way across the uneven ground. She reached the end of the clothesline and stumbled the last few feet on her own, falling against the support of the house. Numb hands gripped the weathered siding, her legs shaking with the effort of keeping her upright. She kept a running pep talk going through her mind as she inched along the wall to the closest door, praying it led to the kitchen. Praying it was unlocked.

  Both were answered when she turned the knob, and pulled herself up the single step into a neat but dated kitchen. Leaning against the door, she closed it, never taking her eyes off the huge, shiny stockpot sitting on the back burner of the stove.

  She didn’t remember how she got to the stove. She simply hung on to the battered Formica counter next to it, fingers trembling as they closed over the metal ladle sitting in a pretty spoon rest.

  The first greedy gulp burned all the way down. Claire had never tasted anything so delicious. She managed to control herself enough to blow on the second ladleful, before swallowing it down faster than the first. Then she forced herself to put the ladle down, knowing if she ate too fast, she would throw it up just as fast.

  Hunting down a bowl and a spoon kept her from eating more right away. Moving around the kitchen, using counters and cabinets as a support, helped to warm her. When she finally sat at the table, hardly spilling any of the soup, she sagged against the chair, and let go of the tight control.

  Tears slid down her face, locked her throat—until the first gasping sob doubled her. Huddled in a stranger’s chair, she cried, her grief echoing in the small, lonely kitchen.

  THREE

  Annie slumped against the counter, her foul mood no longer hidden by the required friendly smile. The store was empty, so she didn’t have to smile.

  “Why can’t we close early? It’s been deader than the proverbial nail all day.”

  Marcus stood behind the counter, dressed in his usual black, wild, curling black cloaking his shoulders. He opened the ledger he used to tally sales and picked up his pen. “We post hours, which means we keep those hours, busy or not.”

  “Damn it.” Annie knew she sounded like a whining brat. She couldn’t seem to help herself. “If I don’t get out of here right now, I’m going to hurt someone.”

  Marcus raised an eyebrow, kept writing. It simply notched her temper up. “If you need to leave, Annie, you are welcome to do so. I can close the shop on my own.”

  The reasonable tone made her itch to punch him. Instead she picked at a loose thread on the pocket of her jeans. “And if I don’t come in tomorrow?”

  “I believe I can go on without you.”

  She pushed off the counter, stalked to the back of the store, cursing under her breath, before she spun around and headed straight for Marcus. He didn’t even flinch when she smacked her hands on the counter. Bastard.

  “Damn you, Marcus—look at me!”

  With a sigh, he closed the ledger, curls brushing his shoulders as he lifted his head. “I will be happy to fight with you. After closing hours.” He caught her wrists before she could stomp away. The sympathy in those gold-laced green eyes nearly broke her. “I know what day it is, as well.” His deep, rough voice gentled. “If you want to use Claire’s birthday as an excuse to be angry, that is your choice. If you want to honor her memory today, I will close the shop, and we will honor her. But I will not take the bait you keep throwing at me. I will not have the memory of this day an angry one.”

  Tears burned her eyes. She lowered her head as they slipped down her face, mortified by her temper tantrum. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I can’t—I don’t want to hurt like this anymore.”

  Marcus let her go, moved around the counter and pulled her into his embrace. The man could hug. His comfort had been the only thing that kept her going some days. That, and Eric’s voice on the other end of the phone every night.

  “I will close up. My decision,” he said when Annie started to protest. “Print up a sign for Claire’s birthday. Then you and I will go out and have an early dinner, where you can tell me bad jokes and stories about your latest yoga students.”

  With a shaky laugh she eased herself back. “You sure know how to charm a girl.”

  “So I have been told.”

  “Just stop, Romeo. Wasted effort, here.”

  “Not when it left you with a smile.”

  He brushed her cheek, then headed to the front door. Annie felt sorry for the woman who fell for him—poor thing wouldn’t stand a chance.

  The store phone rang, and she leaned over the counter to grab it.

  “Thank you for calling The Wiche’s Broom—how can I help?”

  “Just by talking to me, blondie.”

  Her heart bumped at the sound of Eric’s voice. “Hey, handsome. I didn’t expect to hear from you until tonight.”

  “I wanted to see how you were doing. I know
today is Claire’s birthday.” Annie closed her eyes. That beautiful man always remembered—and cared more than she deserved. “Tell me what’s in that head of yours, Annie.”

  “Too much,” she whispered. “God, I wish you were here.”

  “What if I told you I will be, in about two hours?”

  She clutched the counter, her heart pounding. “Say that again.”

  “I’ll be there in about two hours.”

  He did actually say it.

  “Oh, thank God. I thought I was hearing things.” She let herself slide to the floor, knowing that Marcus had locked the door by now, lightheaded and more than a little giddy. “Where?”

  “A friend of mine owns a plane, and is making a pit stop out at Orange County. You know where the transient parking is near—”

  “I’ll find it.”

  His laughter tickled her ear, warmed every inch of her. “I never doubted it. Ask for Jeff Seers at the Atlantic Aviation office—they’ll point you in the right direction. He’s got a friend who works there. I have to go—Jeff’s waving at me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Just outside Vegas. We have one more stop before we hit Orange County, so don’t kill yourself getting there. I can wait.”

  “You better.” He laughed, and the joy that bubbled through Annie gave her a burst of energy. “See you there, handsome.” She ended the call and bounced up to her feet. “Eric is on his way.”

  “So I heard.” He smiled, amusement sparking in those gold-laced green eyes. “It seems today will have some happy memories.”

  “Oh—dinner. Marcus—”

  “Go. I know how much you have missed him.”

  “Oh, I love you—and don’t take that literally.” She ducked around the counter and grabbed her purse. “I’ll see you tom—”

  “Take a couple of days. I will be fine here.”

  “Okay.” She framed his face with her hands. “Take it literally. I do love you. Thank you, Marcus.” She kissed him, a quick, friendly peck, and still felt the familiar tingle. He had serious attraction mojo—that woman who fell for him was toast. All but skipping now, she headed for the back door. “I’ll call you!”

  She threw the door open, feeling better than she had in months. Eric—that beautiful, patient man—understood her more than anyone she knew. Except Claire.

  With a quiet sigh, she put the thought of her best friend away. Claire was gone, no matter what her dreams told her. And it was time to accept that.

  Time to move on.

  FOUR

  Claire took her time, navigating each step as carefully as if she walked a high wire. Though the food and the rest had helped, she still felt hollow.

  Once she reached the kitchen door, she had to rest. And halfway down the gravel drive, she stopped again, hanging on to the fence that ran the length of the drive, her muscles quivering, her right leg aching. Marcus mended the bone Eric broke in their brief, violent battle, but she never had the time afterward for it to completely heal.

  The oversized women’s tennis shoes she borrowed didn’t help matters, but they protected her feet, and gave her a more stable base than if she tried to walk barefoot.

  Using the fence as a support, she kept going, feeling a bit better by the time she reached the unpaved road. She took a few deep breaths, clearing the last of the fuzziness, then checked both directions. Signs of civilization—buildings peeking through the oak trees, a billboard welcome—prompted Claire to head to the right. She could find a phone, call Marcus, and have him come and pick her up.

  He would tell Annie for her. It was the coward’s way out, but Claire knew she didn’t have the courage yet to face her friend, and what she must think after finding out that Claire was a demon.

  Swallowing, she pushed it aside, and started a slow but steady pace toward the distant town. A cool breeze helped dry the sweat on her face, tugged at the badly tangled ends of her hair; she used a bandana she found in the kitchen to tie it back, but she had a feeling she would lose more than a little to damage. The brisk air told her that summer was gone, or nearly so, which put her battle with Natasha at months.

  No wonder she felt hollowed out.

  Another thing she had to deal with was Azazel’s startling revelation. She had a soul. She was mortal. And to add to the already overwhelming—she had no power. Not even a wisp to bolster her fading strength. That made her completely and utterly human. She understood now the real meaning of vulnerable.

  Just a few minutes into her trek she started to get lightheaded. Stopping next to a signpost, she leaned against it, wiped at the sweat that formed faster than the breeze could dry it. Her fingers shook, and she wanted to sink to the ground and sleep for a while.

  With a mental slap she pushed off the post, and started moving again. She could sleep as long as she wanted once she was home. Once she was safe.

  The sound of a car behind her turned Claire around. She halted when it pulled in front of her, the black letters on the side riveting her in place. Huntsville Police.

  Since everything she wore was stolen, and probably easy to identify if this was as small a town as she suspected, the local cops were not going to be inclined to help her.

  A woman stepped out of the car, tall, lean and blonde. Just like Annie. An ache spread through her before she could shut down the thought. Swallowing, she watched the woman approach her, wind catching the long, honey blonde hair.

  “Afternoon, miss.” Pale blue eyes scrutinized her. “You in need of some help?”

  “I—” Using her voice for the first time doubled her over as her throat clamped shut. Strong hands caught her, eased her to the ground.

  “Easy, now. I’m going to get you some water. Stay put.” Claire clutched the ground when the supporting hands let go. One arm slipped around her waist a minute later, helped Claire sit. “Take a drink, there’s a good girl.” Fingers pushed back damp hair that had come loose from the bandana. “Who hurt you?”

  “No one,” Claire whispered. She coughed, her throat inflamed. Another sip of water helped cool it.

  “Then someone did something you don’t remember, or want to, left you out here naked. I know Joe didn’t lend you his favorite overalls—barely lets his own wife touch them. Now, you going to tell me what happened?”

  “I don’t—remember.” That much was true. She had no memory of the journey back. “Where—” she coughed again, took another sip. “Where am I?”

  “Gold Country. About sixty miles, give or take, above Sacramento. You have anyone here?”

  “Not here. Orange County.”

  “Good.” The woman helped her stand, one finger brushing across the triquetra on her left wrist. “Nice tattoo.”

  Claire looked up at her—and stilled at the darkness that curled around the woman. Tendrils of shadow caressed the woman’s shoulders, her cheeks, then slipped out of sight, as if sensing Claire’s attention. And left behind a sense of horror, an icy touch that shook her.

  “—name? Can you tell me your name?” The arm around her waist tightened, the cold that surrounded her fading. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes—sorry. My name is Claire.”

  “There, now, that’s a start.” She led Claire to the car. “We’ll just take you in, find you something to wear so Joe don’t have heart failure over his missing clothes, and see what we can find out about what happened to you. Someone’ll be missing you, so we’ll start with that.” Opening the back door, she settled Claire, fastened her seat belt. “I’m Heather.”

  “Pretty name.”

  “Yeah.” She smiled. “And my fellow officers never let me forget that. Relax, now. We’ll be there before you know it.” Leaning in, she curled her fingers around the back of Claire’s neck, that darkness coiling around her again. The iced grip burned into Claire’s skin. “And we will find out the truth, by whatever means necessary.”

  It took every ounce of control Claire had not to recoil from the barely contained rage in her voice.

 
Heather let go and straightened, closing the door. By the time she slid into the driver’s seat the darkness and cold were gone, her voice the same easy drawl that first greeted Claire. “You’ll need to answer some questions when we get to the station. You up for that?”

  Swallowing, Claire managed a single word. “Yes.”

  “Good. Close your eyes, Claire, get some rest. I’ll walk you through everything myself.”

  “Thank you.”

  Heather watched her in the rearview mirror, so Claire closed her eyes, pretended to relax. Obviously satisfied, Heather pulled on to the road.

  Leaning her head back against the seat, Claire studied Heather through barely raised eyelids. She looked normal, humming as she drove. But Claire felt the darkness that attached itself to the woman, the cold that still chilled her skin.

  And when she looked beyond Heather as they drove past the billboard and into town, she saw the darkness, writhing like snakes over the church and the buildings that surrounded it, cloaking the town with an evil that froze her breath.

  “Here we are.” Heather stopped in front of a square, brown, one story building, turned in her seat to face Claire. “You all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She smiled, a mocking smile that didn’t fit the face that made it. Shadows darkened the pale blue eyes. “You will understand the joke, Claire. Very soon.” Between one breath and the next, her eyes cleared, her smile became soft, genuine. “Let’s get you out of this cold, and inside. We’ll find out just what happened to you.”

  She helped Claire out of the back seat, guided her up the two steps and into the station, settling her in a chair next to one of the metal desks.

  “Heather.” Claire cleared her throat, her voice cracking over the name. “Heather.”

  “Hmm?” She looked up from the file cabinet, frowning. “What is it, Claire? You not doing okay? I have to admit, you look awful pale.”