Gathering of Angels(32)

“I will not be threatened, and I will not be denied what is mine—what should have been mine. And you will be my first vessel.”

Claire shoved down her panic, met the predatory grey eyes. “It will not be as easy as you expect. I’m not what you think, and your power will not sit well with what I am.”

“Is that meant to frighten me? I am more powerful than you can imagine—death only gave me more, made me more. Your insignificant threat means nothing to me.”

Before Claire could react, Jane plunged her fist into Claire’s chest.

They both screamed—Claire in shock, Jane in agony. Jane tried to pull herself free. Claire’s legs buckled as the shock became pain, icy pain that spread out from her chest and snatched her breath away. She reached up to grab Jane’s wrist, knowing her hand would go straight through—and gasped when her grip held, the ghost’s skin real, solid against her fingers.

Darkness crowded her vision, her lungs screaming for the breath she couldn’t take in. Her fingers scrabbled on the arm that trapped her, her body jerking. She couldn’t escape, and this time her now mortal body would die—

Jane’s scream spiraled, and then cut off as she burst into fire and smoke and disappeared.

Something cold and sharp scraped across Claire’s right arm. Through the smoke she smelled iron—and recoiled, knowing it was already too late, that the contact would burn straight to bone—

“Claire!” Simon’s voice jerked her out of the panic, and she realized there was no pain. No acid burn, no blackened, smoking wound. Just the sting of whatever hit her. “Are you okay? I didn’t think I would be able to stop her in time—”

“What did you do?” Her voice rasped out of her throat.

He hefted the stretching cat doorstop still in his hand. “Iron—ghosts hate it. Add in some nice rock salt, and you have an arsenal they can’t fight. You were holding on to her wrist, like she was—”

“Becoming solid.” Claire took in a shaky breath. “She was. We need to get out of here, there will be others—God above, the chief—”

“He’s alive. I don’t want to leave him, but the only way we can help him now is by getting rid of her. For good. Come on.”

Simon hauled her upright, gathered the hematite scattered across the floor and shoved it in his pocket. He helped her over the window ledge, caught her hand and pulled her behind him, heading down the boardwalk at a fast clip. Claire gripped his wrist, fought to keep up with him as he rounded the corner—and nearly ran into him when he skidded to a halt, inches from the shotgun aimed at his chest.

“What did you do to her?” The woman—who didn’t look much older than Lea—stared up at Simon, wearing the darkness and the cold that marked her as one of Jane’s. She shoved the barrel into his chest. “Answer me!”

“She was not harmed.” Claire stepped out from behind him, spoke quietly, in an even tone she reserved for her more skittish customers. “Simon was protecting me—no,” she held up one hand when the woman cocked the trigger. “Please. As deputy, he was doing his job. Just as you are, trying to protect your mistress.”

Simon glanced at Claire. She shook her head, slightly, keeping eye contact with the woman. Her other hand inched down Simon’s wrist, closing over the doorstop still in his hand. Part of her flinched at the cold touch of iron, waiting for it to burn. She just hoped her theory was right—otherwise one of them was probably going to get shot.

“Your loyalty is admirable,” Claire said, holding the woman’s attention. “I know she will reward you for it. And I am so sorry—”

She swung the iron cat up and into the woman’s right side.

The woman let out a choked scream. Simon grabbed the shotgun barrel, shoved it up toward the sky just before it went off. The blast echoed around them.

The darkness flinched, like it had been hurt by the touch of iron, then spiraled above her head and snaked around the building. Claire dropped the doorstop and caught the woman as she toppled, taking them both to the ground.

Leaning over her, Claire brushed tangled brown hair off the shock pale face. The skin under her fingers already began to warm. “She’s not possessed, Simon. I saw it leave her.” He lowered his gun, the shotgun still clutched in his left hand.

The woman stirred, opened her eyes—and jerked upright when she saw Claire. “Where—what am I doing out here? Oh, God—” Brown eyes widened as she remembered. “Deputy Asher—I didn’t—did I hurt you? I had no control—it felt like I was—oh God—I’m so sorry—”