Carry On Wayward Son (8 page)

She opened it, grabbed the nail file, and headed back to the window. The slim metal file slipped under the frame, caught the square of paper and pushed it all the way through. A breeze caught it. She pressed her hand against the window as it spiraled away from its target. “No—no, no, no—”

Below her, Simon moved, following the flutter of pink. They both froze as it hit the ground. On this side of the fence.

Simon looked up at her. Claire closed her eyes for a moment, surprised to find him still watching her. He seemed to know when he had her attention; he mimicked climbing over the fence.

“No, Simon—” She slapped the window. He saluted, and jogged out of sight. “Damn stubborn man.”

He popped up over the top of the fence, landed lightly on her side. Praying Zach was somewhere without a window view, she watched Simon make his way to the small square of paper. And held her breath until he had it in his hand and was climbing back to safety.

With a relieved sigh, she turned away from the window, and froze inches from Zach.

“I allowed him to leave. He cannot harm me, not without harming you.” Swallowing, Claire waited for him to tell her he knew—what she was, what she had been. Instead, he started pacing, favoring his left side, pain and anger flaring around him. “What was in the note, Claire?”

“I wanted him to know we were all right. You hardly left a good impression on him.”

“And now you plot behind my back? Treat me as you would an entity of evil?” He moved forward, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. The exhaustion he fought to hide leaked through. “Until I get what I want—until I have my life—no one leaves this place.”

Before Claire could open her mouth he disappeared. Left her trapped in the locked room. Again.

*

S
imon vaulted back over the fence so fast he brought some of it with him.

“Damn it—” He gripped his right wrist, cursing as he saw the thick splinters imbedded in his palm.

“Let me see.” Eric cradled his hand, tested the splinters, smiling as Simon cursed louder. “Sorry, sorry. Those are really dug in. I have my bag in the car. Don’t poke at them.”

Simon opened his other hand, held out the crumpled paper to Theresa. “Open this for me, will you?”

She unfolded the paper, held it up just as Eric got back. “Sit,” he said, setting his black medical bag on the lawn and kneeling next to it. “You can read it while I extract.”

Simon raised one eyebrow—and jerked his hand away when he saw the tools in Eric’s. “Oh, hell no.”

“Read the note, let me do what I do.”

“You work on animals, last I checked.” Eric merely smiled again and grabbed Simon’s wrist.

“They’re splinters. I think I can handle them without much bloodshed.”

To distract himself, Simon nodded at Theresa. She held out the pink paper; it took a couple tries to decipher Claire’s scribble. And when he finally did, he had to read it twice to actually believe it.

“Damn it, Claire—what did you step in?”

Brown eyes wide, Theresa stared up at him. “What is it?” She started to turn the note around.

“Don’t bother—I’ll just tell you.”
Maybe saying it out loud will make it seem less—surreal.
“She wants to know if I can do a banishing spell.”

“For what?” Eric lowered the giant tweezers just before they gripped the first ugly splinter. “Are they dealing with another ghost possession?”

“If only it were that easy.” Letting out his breath, Simon looked at them. “Heaven help me—she wants me to banish a guardian angel.”

NINE

C
laire lowered herself to the only chair in the room, still shaken. Zach had to know about her; he cracked the wall blocking her power, touched her more than once. But he still treated her as if she were like the others. As if she was completely human.

Pressing one hand to her chest, she felt the scar, just below her sternum, where Natasha plunged the knife into her the night everything changed. The night she gave her life to save her friends.

Now it ached, throbbing, as the wall Zach fractured, the wall Azazel built to block her power, started to crumble. She didn’t know what lay behind it, and part of her was terrified that the demon waited, crouching behind her shiny new soul.

If that were the truth, if Azazel left that part of her inside, she had no way to keep it contained—both her tattoos, her barriers between her true self and the world, were broken, cut by iron and steel.

She would not put the people trapped with her in danger, and she no longer knew if the angel she had been or the demon she became when she fell would win. She had touched too much evil, lost too much of herself, to know where she stood anymore.

Fighting it exhausted her, but she didn’t know what else to do. She wanted so badly to tell Simon, have him on her side, by her side when the wall finally came down. Just in case.

She felt herself sway, and slid off the chair, sinking to the floor. Her hand closed around the amethyst at her throat, and the heat already radiating from it surprised her. It was usually cool to the first touch—even when her fingers warmed it, the stone had never given off so much—

Sand burst up from the floor, swirled around her, a barrier between her and the room. She knew it was illusion—she felt the tug of power even as the heat wrapped around her, and the sand inched closer. Wind whipped through her hair. She smelled spice, and the sweet, woody scent of frankincense. Sand and wind surrounded her, erased the room—and shoved her into the whirlwind.

With a gasp she covered her face, tumbled across a hard floor and on to a thin carpet. Silence replaced the constant keening. Uncurling herself, Claire lifted her head. And looked straight into a nightmare.

TEN

“
A
guardian angel.” Eric finished bandaging Simon’s hand. “Are they actually real?”

“I never met one, but then I didn’t think a ghost could completely take over a living body until I met you all. I’m inclined to believe.”

“Okay, then. Next question: how do we get in to do the banishing?”

Simon looked over at the big Victorian. The alien power pulsed now, power he understood he’d never seen before because he had never encountered angels, in any form. Until Claire. She dragged more impossible into his life in so short a time he was surprised his head wasn’t spinning.

“Last try got us blasted across the lawn.” Simon ran his left hand over his cropped hair, his right hand smarting from the splinters Eric yanked out of his palm. The bandage made him feel clumsy, but blood dripping down his arm would be a deterrent. “Claire seems to think as long as I can get close enough for this guardian to hear my voice, the banishing will work.”

Theresa crossed her arms. “Do you know a banishing spell?”

“An old one. Don’t look so surprised.” He smiled when she raised her eyebrows. “I have and do read every obscure text I can get my hands on. One of them had a banishing spell. It was in Latin, so I practiced by memorizing it.” With a sigh, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Now all we have to do is get me, or my voice, close enough.”

“What if we project your voice, like over a loudspeaker?”

Simon shook his head. “Santa Luna seems to attract more than its share of the supernatural. I don’t know what this would do to any—thing, that may be in striking distance. So that’s out.”

Eric threw in his two cents. “If we got you close enough to the house and created some kind of distraction—”

“Blasted across the lawn.”

Eric blew out a breath, “Right. What if—”

“I can be the distraction.” Theresa’s quiet voice had them both looking at her. Simon laid one hand on her shoulder, opened his mouth. “I can do this, Simon. He hasn’t seen me, so he won’t know I’m with you. I can keep him occupied long enough for you to do what you need.”

“No, Theresa.”

“Why?” She jerked out of his grasp. “Because I’m not capable? Because I let you down and ran away when you and Claire needed me?”

A combination of grief and remorse clutched him. “Theresa—”

“Let me help you now. For Dad.” Tears filled the dark brown eyes, but didn’t spill over. That hurt him more than if she simply cried. “You can trust me, Simon. I won’t let you down.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were.” She smiled. He’d forgotten how much her smile could light up her face. “And I don’t blame you. Look—we’re eating up valuable time. I go to the front door, be the neighbor, or—someone. I’ll think of who by the time I get there. You go around back—there has to be a back door in a house this size.” She waved her hands at them. “Go on—I’ll take care of the keeping him occupied part. You take care of the sending him back where he came from part.”

“I know you want to help, sweetheart, but—”

“Cut her a break, Simon.” Eric stepped up, surprising him. “She can give us the time we need—”

“I won’t jeopardize her, not when we have other options—”

“What options? We can’t even get close to the damn place, as you so delicately pointed out.”

“So we’ll find another—shit.”

Theresa was gone.

Simon ran across the yard and down to the street corner, skidding to a halt. He caught Eric’s arm as he saw her, heading up the long sidewalk to the Victorian.

He couldn’t call out, couldn’t stop her, and damn if she didn’t know it.

Helpless, he watched her walk straight toward the hot zone.

ELEVEN

M
arcus knelt on the stone floor, wrapped in chain and blood.

Steel chain—to cripple his power.

Half a dozen men stood over him, one of them holding a stained whip. Claire hugged the wall behind her, hidden by the flickering shadows. It was solid, real. She was here.

The man holding the whip spoke, his light voice edged with satisfaction. “You will make your confession, Marcus of Sinai, and accept the sentence laid down by this council.” The whip dragged across stone, leaving behind a dark trail. “Will you speak?”

Swallowing, Marcus said nothing. Before she could react the whip snapped up and out, sliced into already lacerated skin. Marcus hunched over, his sweat soaked hair nearly touching the floor. Agony wrapped him like a shroud.

His tormentor raised the whip again—and Claire pushed off the wall.

“Stop!”

He spun, a knife in his free hand. Shaking, she moved out of the shadows, and stepped between him and Marcus. He hissed, raised his knife. Silver flared around the man, and she realized he was Jinn. “Demon—you dare walk among us—”

“Harm her, Baran, and it will be your life.” Marcus lifted his head; she sucked in a breath when she saw the ugly welt across his left cheek. Pain scraped his sand rough voice. “Claire, what are—
Baran no
—”

She whirled, warned by the panic in his voice—just in time to see Baran raise the whip and snap it forward. Flinging up her arm, she covered her face and stepped in front of the whip.

“Claire!”

Fire ripped across her forearm. She locked her knees, waited for the next blow, determined Marcus wouldn’t be hurt again—

“Enough.”
The giant figure appeared in front of her, catching the whip in his hand. With a start she recognized him—Jamal, the man who had been training with Marcus, teasing him about her. Yanking the whip out of Baran’s hand, he turned, clear, sharp green eyes studying her. “Give me your arm, child.”

She obeyed, dizzy with pain, wanting to sink to the floor. Instead, she watched him remove a length of red silk wrapped around his waist and use it to bind her arm. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Sit now, before you topple over.” He eased her to the floor, crouched in front of Marcus. “This is how you talk your way free?”

Marcus raised his head, blood sliding down his throat. “I was ambushed, on my way to the trial.” Claire flinched at his raw voice.

“I gave you the time you asked me for. You should be grateful I decided to break my promise and check on you.”

Marcus sucked in his breath as Jamal touched the chains trapping him. They snapped open and clattered to the stone floor.

Baran’s furious roar brought Jamal to his feet. “You dare interfere—

“You dare question my authority?” Jamal raised his arms and every door in the chamber slammed shut. The other men trying to quietly sneak out froze. “You may not agree with my decisions, Baran,” Jamal stepped to him, towering over the smaller Jinn. “But you will obey them. Marcus will be freed. This woman knows him, bears witness to his redemption, and I believe her.”

She gave Baran credit; however foolish, he refused to back down. “I have not heard this evidence—”

“And you never will. That is for me to decide, and I decide, demon or no, that she knows the truth.” Jamal leaned down, until he was eye level, spoke in ancient Arabic. The Jinn’s face paled, and Claire understood who Jamal was. What he was. “Leave us, before I bestow on you the punishment you gave Marcus.”

Baran stumbled backward, his face drained of color. The silver Claire saw flaring around him before snuffed out. “You cannot—”

“Don’t tempt me, Jinn. Out—all of you. Now.”

The doors flew open, and the men did the smart thing—they ran. Baran paused at the threshold of the double doors, gave Jamal a mocking bow before he strode out of sight.

“Impudent sand pup.” Another flick of his hand closed the doors, locks clicking over, turning the torture chamber into a safe haven. Jamal knelt behind Marcus, whistled as he peeled what was left of Marcus’s shirt off his back. “Baran always did hate you best, my friend. Can you do this on your own?”

Nodding, Marcus clutched the floor, his left arm shaking. Sand and smoke whipped out of thin air, gathered around his hunched figure. Claire watched him heal, his soul a bright, pure light inside the whirlwind. His power astonished her—he had never completely worn it until now. Three hundred years in a cave, separated from the sun and sand that was his essence, had broken part of him.