He did see the sparks flying off her wedding ring. Red sparks. He went on high alert. “You know all you have to do is ask, sweetheart.” He kept his voice quiet, neutral. “You want me to leave, I’m gone. Or I’ll stay. It’s up to you.”
“You’re leaving me?!” Obviously he said the wrong thing. She pointed at him, those red sparks shooting over her hand, massing at the end of her finger. “Over your dead body, mister. Take one step out of this room and I’ll—Eric?” Between one second and the next, Annie changed from harpy to—Annie. The red sparks winked out, leaving her hand raw. “Oh, God—my head is killing me.”
She started to wobble, headed for the floor. Eric lunged forward, catching her.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart.” Carefully, he eased her to the carpet, afraid she might topple if he tried getting her to the sofa. “Just hang on to me. I’m not going anywhere.”
“What are you talking about?” She looked at him, those vibrant, warm brown eyes dull. “You just got here—ouch—what the hell?” Clutching her wrist, she looked at her left hand. “What did I do?”
Before he could answer the front door burst open. Claire pushed past Marcus, dropped to her knees. “Oh, sweetheart.” Her fingers hovered over Annie’s raw, blistering hand. “Marcus felt your temper blocks away.”
Marcus eased Claire to one side, cradled Annie’s hand. “What caused this?”
“I don’t—”
“Red sparks,” Eric said. He sat on the coffee table before his legs gave out. Claire sat next to him, took his hand. “Coming from her ring. Right after she started accusing me of leaving her.”
“I—what?” She shook her head, her good hand spread over her swollen stomach. “I know you’d never leave us.” His throat tightened at the plural. “I’d kill you first.” She smiled. “Slowly.”
“There’s my Annie.” Thank God. He didn’t recognize the crazy woman who was seconds away from blasting him with magic. Annie never used her power against an innocent. And Eric damn well wanted to know what had happened to push her that far. “Now, let Marcus take care of your hand. I’ll make you some tea.”
Her shout followed him into the kitchen. “Not chamomile!”
He smiled. It faded the second he was out of sight. Shaking, he laid his hands on the island, lowered his head. Gentle fingers closed over one hand. “She scared you.”
“I didn’t recognize her, Claire.” Turning, he leaned against the island, ran one hand through his hair. “What is going on?”
She rubbed his arm, her touch soothing. He’d always admired that about her. Even when he didn’t deserve it, after trying to kill her, she gave him only care and kindness. “Let me catch you up.”
*
Simon walked along Forest Avenue, breathing in the salt-tinged air.
He had missed the smell, the cool touch of that ocean breeze brushing over his skin. He planned on enjoying it while he was here. Stopping, he turned, admired the tree lined street, the beach just beyond it. Another thing he would enjoy were moments like these. He’d learned not to take anything for granted when he traveled through Asia.
And at this moment, he planned to enjoy Claire’s company. He had missed her as well, more than he expected. More than he wanted to admit.
The Wiche’s Broom came into sight, and he took a deep breath. It had been more than six months, without even a letter from him. His welcome home might be less than welcoming.
A kid ran across the street, familiar brown bags in both hands. “Hey!” He waved one big bag at Simon. “You know Zach, right?” Simon opened his mouth to answer; the kid never gave him a chance. “Can you take this? I’m already behind and Lily’s gonna dump all over me if I don’t finish these.”
He shoved the bag in Simon’s hand and took off.
Shaking his head, Simon smiled, hefting the bag. It was for Zach, all right. And it gave him a legitimate reason to be here.
“Time to face the music.” Bracing himself, he pushed the door open.
The power blasted him.
“Claire!” Simon dropped the bag and sprinted through the long, narrow shop, wishing to God he had a weapon. The dark power coated the air, angry at his presence. It flinched away from him, flying back to the source. Simon followed it, pulling his crucifix out from under his t-shirt. And halted when he reached the back of the shop. “Sweet Jesus—”
Zach snapped his head up, his clear blue eyes glowing. Just like the rest of him. The rich dark blue that was his power as an angel surrounded him—the same glow Simon hadn’t seen since the night Claire helped Zach fall. His tattoo stood out on his right wrist, the wings and flaming sword outlined with an almost blinding white light.