Chapter 5
FIVE
I’m not superstitious.
I’m just a little stitious.
—Meme
The force of Dora’s fear hit Amber square in the chest. The air whooshed out of her lungs. She flew back, clipped one corner of the table, and expected to land hard on the floor head-first. Instead, she tumbled into a net of thick, suffocating blackness. The world tilted and turned as if she’d been caught in a tornado. Then, she was flat on a hard surface, looking up at a ceiling with exposed rafters, fighting to fill her lungs with air.
Quentin was on top of her at once. He pulled her into his arms and covered her body with his, just as the entity attacked. Holding her with one arm, he sucked in a sharp breath and fell to the floor.
“Quentin!” Amber shouted as the darkness shot toward them again.
He reached into his pocket and, first, tossed some of the salt into the air and, second, formed a thin circle around them, pivoting on his feet while holding her in his arms. Once the circle was complete, he took out a locket of some kind and waited.
The salt in the air dissipated the demon, but not for long. It reformed its energy and scurried to a corner, hiding behind a shelving unit to lick its wounds.
“That hurt it,” Amber said, surprised, wondering if she could get black salt and brimstone on Amazon.
Quentin eased his hold, and she slid off his lap and onto the floor, careful to stay in the circle he’d made. But she felt something on her cheek. She touched it and then pulled back her hand. Blood. But not hers.
She looked at Quentin.
He was looking at her, too. He brushed the blood off her cheek with a thumb, then visibly relaxed and asked, “You okay?” He pulled her forward and patted her down, checking for injuries, but the only wounds she saw were on him.
Quentin now had a gash across his cheek—frighteningly close to his left eye—and three slashes on his neck. The skin around it was red and irritated, and blood ran from the gashes into the collar of his shirt.
“Quentin,” she said, not sure what else to say. She lifted her sweater over her head, thankful she’d thrown a tank on underneath, and pressed it to his neck.
He took the opportunity to check her out further in the tiny space.
“I’m okay. It didn’t hurt me.”
They were back in the attic and now stuck in an even more confined area, Quentin on his knees and Amber on her butt with her legs drawn up.
“We have to get out of here.” He signed it but also used his voice, the sound barely above a whisper. It was soft and deep and flowed over her like warm water. Then his gaze locked onto hers, and she wanted the water to rise and drown her.
Tears stung the backs of her eyes, and she pressed her nails into her palms again, trying to draw blood. After a prolonged moment, she tore her gaze away and looked toward the corner the demon had scurried into. She saw nothing but shelves of merchandise and art supplies, but she’d felt it when it grabbed her. Read it. Almost lost herself inside it like she sometimes did with her clients. “It’s angry.”
Quentin followed her line of sight and nodded. “I felt that, too.”
“It’s looking for someone. Waiting for someone. Someone it is very angry with.” When Amber looked back at Quentin, he was staring at her mouth. She knew the feeling.
His lips were fuller than most men’s, a masculine shape framed by a healthy dose of scruff a little darker than his hair. He snapped to attention and continued checking her out, running a hand down her back, searching for wounds.
“It didn’t hurt me.”
“No, it only abducted you. We have to get you out of here.” He scanned the area, looking for an escape.
Two small, round windows allowed light in, one in the front of the cottage, and one in the back. But the cathedral ceiling had no other openings. No other routes of escape, even if they could get past the demon’s barrier.
“We need to get back downstairs.” Quentin was signing everything, using his voice minimally. And Amber wondered why, when he was so good at talking now. He bit down, working his jaw, then said, “I had a plan.”
“To get us out?” she asked.
He hadn’t been looking at her, yet he nodded. How? How was he hearing her?
She pulled back the sweater. His neck was still bleeding, so she pressed it against him again. “That salt seems to work well.”
“Yeah, and that was the last of it.” He frowned at her. “You’re ruining your shirt.”
“Sweater,” she corrected. “And I don’t care. Are you okay?”
Her question seemed to surprise him, and he signed, “Always.” He’d said that to her so many times. That exact sentiment.
Will you stay with me?
Always.
Will you be there for me?
Always.
Will you love me?
Always.
And she’d believed him. To the depths of her soul. “It’s hurt.” When Quentin questioned her with a raised brow, she said, “The salt. It hurt it. I felt it. It burned like acid.”
Quentin stilled and asked, “Did it hurt you?” Like he cared. Like her pain meant anything to him.
Remember who he is, Amber. “No. I’m fine. I told you.” She struggled to get up, but he still had an arm around her waist to hold her inside the circle.
He stood instead and took her with him, lifting her to her feet as if she weighed nothing, then kept his hands on her to steady her. “How hurt is it?”
She brushed off his hold. “Very, but it could still attack.”
“We’re going to have to risk it.” He sank onto one knee and signed, “When I break the circle, run.”
“I didn’t think the circle held us here.”
“It doesn’t, but I need the salt.”
“Oh, right.” Her pulse started to pick up speed.
“We need to get into the circle in the kitchen.”
“Okay.” She nodded, feigning confidence. “I can do that. Then what?”
He looked over his shoulder. “Told you. I have a plan.”
She glared. “Well, is it a good one?”
One corner of his mouth crept up suspiciously. “Always.”
She tossed her sweater to the side, readying to run, but reminded him, “You clearly don’t remember the time we skipped school and went to look for the Blue Lady in the cemetery.”
“Right.” He winced. “Okay, besides that time.”
She drew in a deep breath. “Just say when.”
“Now.” He said it so softly, she almost didn’t hear, but the minute he broke the circle by scooping some of the salt into his palm, the demon darted out from behind the shelves.
She panicked and bolted toward the stairs, taking them three at a time, sparing only a quick glance over her shoulder about halfway down. It was the wrong thing to do. She almost pitched forward when she tried to stop. She had to grab the balustrade to stop herself as she looked back.
Quentin stood motionless as though waiting for the demon to attack him. Yet he watched her. Gave her time to make her escape. A microsecond before the darkness raked across him, he let the salt go, flinging it into the air and at the entity.
It still sank its claws into him.
He flew back against a wall, almost knocking the house down, then ran for the stairs. He took nearly the entire floor in one jump, grabbing Amber along the way and scuttling into the kitchen. He propped her onto the table. She’d never felt so much like a ragdoll as she did today.
Then, he sank to his knees beside the table and fell under it.
“Quentin!” She scrambled off the top and crawled underneath with him. He doubled over and held his head with both arms. “Quentin, what did it do?”
He shook his head and rocked, and when she touched him, carefully placing a hand on his shoulder, he exploded. One second she was under the table with him. The next, the table crashed against the refrigerator, and she was looking up at a ceiling again, pressure on her throat.
He pinned her to the floor, his teeth clenched, his forearm pressed against her throat.
“Quentin,” she choked out, but his blue irises had turned black. No. Not just his irises. His eyes in their entirety. They’d literally turned black as she watched. Tendrils of ink sprouted from the corners and covered the white and blue. He looked…possessed.
“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice deeper than before. Animalistic. Preternatural. And then he stopped. Blinked. Shook his head as though trying to clear it before looking back at her. “Traveler.”
She tugged at his arm and tried to summon some of the moves she’d learned in self-defense class, but all rational thought had fled the building. So, she decided to state the obvious, her voice strained. “Quentin, I can’t breathe.”
He let her go instantly, released a growl of frustration, and turned away from her.
She rolled over and lay in a fetal position as she coughed and tried to fill her lungs. Her cheeks, hot and wet with tears, burned almost as much as her throat did. She coughed until she gagged and almost threw up on Dora’s floor. The departed woman stood over Amber, her face brimming with concern.
Kyle was still there, as well. “Ms. Kowalski,” he said, kneeling beside her, clutching his clipboard tighter to his chest. “What can I do?" He tossed a glare over his shoulder.
“Nothing,” she said through a few more coughs. She sat up. “I’m okay. Really.”
Dora held her fists over her mouth. “ Mija , you’re covered in blood.”
She looked down. Blood did indeed cover her tank, but it wasn’t hers. “Quentin!” She scrambled closer to him but didn’t dare touch him. He’d changed more than she could’ve imagined.
He jerked away and kept his back to her.
“Stop being an ass. Turn toward me.”
He eased farther away when she tried to see around him. He’d been hurt. Badly.
“Either turn toward me, or I’m stepping out of the circle, getting my phone, and calling for help.” She hadn’t wanted to bring anyone else into the situation, but things had escalated far beyond her comfort level. As a former angel, her stepdad would know what to do.
Quentin’s head swiveled sharply toward her, anger evident in his moves. His every breath.
“That’s what I thought,” she said, satisfied. “And you can just shove that attitude up your ass.”
He glared at her, then looked at her throat. Guilt washed over him. She could see it in every line of his exquisite face. His eyes were blue again. A little darker than before, perhaps, but blue with a white sclera. Oh, yeah. They definitely needed to talk. But for now, the demon had clearly tried to rip him in half.
Amber leaned around him and tried to suppress a gasp. More slashes ran along his stomach and rib cage. His shirt was now more red than blue, the front soaked through, the viscous liquid seeping into his jeans. “Oh, Quentin.” She tried to raise his shirt, but he didn’t let her.
He covered his stomach with an arm and struggled to his feet.
“Wait, Quentin, wait.” She stood, as well. When he looked down at her, she put a hand on his chest. “We have to bandage this.” There was so much more blood this time. They had to get him to a hospital.
He shook his head and signed, “I’m okay. We have to get out of here.”
“I’m all for that.” The faster they got out, the quicker she could get him to an emergency room. The closest was probably Santa Fe. “You had a plan?”
He stepped around her, and she saw how he’d drawn the black salt on the floor. He’d created an outer circle around the entire house, then, at the back door, he’d drawn two straight lines, the width of the door, that connected the inner circle they stood in, to the outer loop around the house. The circle that had been around the table. The table now sat upended on the other side of the small kitchen, but the salt ring had miraculously remained unbroken.
He stepped to the part of the circle with the two lines drawn out from it and glanced at her over his shoulder.
Dora made the sign of the cross again and clasped her hands together.
Kyle hugged his clipboard.
Amber stood too close to both of them. Their emotions mixed with hers, and she didn’t know if terror actually filled her or if it came from her two friends. Probably a little of both. Without her sweater and with her tank now soaked with Quentin’s blood, she started to shiver. It wasn’t cold out, but it was just chilly enough to cause gooseflesh to sprout over her skin. Then again, that could’ve been the terror.
Quentin grabbed the dagger that had fallen just across the circle, drew in a deep breath, and broke the line by swiping his boot through it.
They waited, all four of them looking up, listening intently for any rustling sounds.
When all remained quiet, Quentin stepped into the little corridor he’d created to the outer salt line that ran parallel to the door. He turned to her. “This should contain the demon inside that part,” he signed and spoke simultaneously, pointing to the new enclosure he’d created. Again, his voice was so soft and deep, he was hard to understand, and Amber was beginning to believe he did it on purpose. As if he were embarrassed by the way he talked.
He unsheathed the dagger, dipped the toe of his boot into the salt near the door and then dragged it across, breaking the line.
They waited again. Nothing. And Amber released a breath. “The door?”
He tried it. The knob turned, and he slowly cracked it open. Dora and Kyle rushed through, not waiting. Amber could hardly blame them. But she and Quentin couldn’t get out of the crack he’d created.
The door pushed the salt along the floor as it opened, and he was careful not to break the barrier he’d created for the demon by widening it ever so slowly. When he opened it enough for them to squeeze through, he stepped back through the short corridor and gestured for her to go ahead.
“Oh. Right. Like last time?” She planted her fists on her hips. “You get to sacrifice yourself while I get away?”
A rustling came from upstairs, and she tore out of the house at the speed of light. If he wanted to sacrifice himself, fine. She was not waiting around. But she did stop, turn around, and watch as he grabbed the satchel that he’d brought in. It required him to step into the bad part , and Amber lunged at him when darkness entered the kitchen.
She grabbed Quentin’s arm and pulled.
He was right there with her. He rushed through the door, dragging her with him, then turned back and closed it.
Amber clung to him as if her life depended on it. Then, realizing her mistake, she jumped back from him and hugged herself. “Are you okay?”
He put the dagger back into the satchel and draped it carefully over his shoulder. “I’m okay,” he signed, suddenly unwilling to look at her. “We need to get cleaned up.”
“We need to get you to a hospital.”
“No. I can’t risk losing this one. I’ve been tracking it for a month. It’s been all over the place. I won’t get another opportunity like this.” He started walking toward the main road, clutching his stomach.
It was still early enough that only a few people were out. Oddly enough, they didn’t notice a bloody man with an Indiana Jones-style satchel, walking along the highway toward a dusty black Ford Raptor. Strange, that.
“Quentin, we look like we just walked out of a horror movie.”
He kept walking, unfazed.
“Quentin Rutherford. I know you can hear me. What do you mean?” Amber hurried to catch up. “How have you been tracking a demon for a month? How do you track a demon at all?”
“Later. I need to change and get back in there.”
“What?” she screeched, the sound not unlike a barn owl.
They’d reached the black truck parked just off the main road. Hopefully, it was his since he opened the back door and was rummaging through a duffle bag inside. “I need food. It will help me heal.” Instead, he grabbed a handful of painkillers, unscrewed the top of a whisky bottle, and downed them. Amber’s stomach hurt just watching it.
“So now you’re Superman? You have super healing?”
He put the whisky away and pulled out another long-sleeved T-shirt, this one a faded salmon color, one of her favorites. “Something like that.”
Holy cow. She hadn’t been dreaming. Or hit on the head. Well, yes, she’d been hit on the head, but it hadn’t caused a hallucination. His eyes had really turned black. Her knees weakened, and she leaned against the door for support. “Does your healing have anything to do with what’s inside you?”
He stopped, his jaw flexing in annoyance. “Something like that.”
She slammed her lids shut, every scenario imaginable running rampant through her mind. When she opened her eyes again, she looked around and saw Kyle and Dora standing close by, their expressions worried as though unsure of what to do.
Quentin opened a first-aid kit, found a roll of bandages, and gingerly lifted his shirt over his head.
Another wave of lightheadedness washed over her. The slashes on his back were so much deeper than she’d thought they were.
He took the bandage roll and started to wrap it around his torso without a single drop of Neosporin.
“Stop.” She took the gauze out of his hands and stepped around him to look in his kit. She found antiseptic spray. It wouldn’t feel good, but he seemed perfectly able to work past the pain.
She turned to him and finally saw his stomach. His rock-hard abs, the muscles ripped. But she could’ve sworn she saw a rib peeking out of his side.
The world spun. She fought off the wave, took a towel and a bottle of water, and started cleaning the blood off him, readying to apply the spray.
He sucked in a sharp breath when the cold water hit him, then signed, “I don’t have time for this.”
“Make time. This must be disinfected, at the very least.” She could only pray he hadn’t been lying about his ability to heal quickly. Charley had been like that. The last time Amber had seen Quentin, he had been nowhere near Charley’s caliber of being. Clearly, a lot had changed.
Thankfully, the only people who would be able to see them were the ones in the house immediately to their left. The door blocked the other side well, but it would be a small miracle if the police weren’t called.
Amber cleaned his wounds the best she could, her hands shaking. Whether from the chill in the air or the fact that her ex had been ripped to shreds by a demon, she couldn’t say. She finished by drying Quentin off, then reached up and cleaned the gash in his cheek, as well. The bleeding had stopped, even from the deepest cuts. She’d never felt the demon’s claws. It didn’t escape her how lucky she was.
He watched her from beneath thick lashes, his blue eyes trained on her face as she sprayed the gashes with the antiseptic. He sucked in another sharp breath. For the one on his face, she took a piece of gauze, sprayed it, and blotted his cheek.
He shouldn’t even be standing, and yet he stood there as if he’d barely had his bell rung. Whatever— whoever —was inside him was powerful. At the moment, she decided to be grateful for that fact. But still, watching him in pain, in such agony, was almost more than she could bear. A lump formed in her throat as she thought about it, and she fought the quivering of her lower lip.
“This is so bad, Quentin.”
“I’ve had worse,” he said, his voice barely audible.
That was when she saw the thin scars across his back, chest, and arms. Were those once like these had been? Did he really heal so well that his scars were almost imperceptible? She motioned for him to hold up his arms. He lifted them, and she began wrapping the bandage around him, tight enough to hold him together but not so tight that it cut off his circulation. He needed about a thousand stitches, but this would have to do for now.
“Do you have extra pants?” she asked when she finished wrapping the wounds. The blood had soaked the front of his jeans.
He gazed down at her for a long moment and then, without fanfare or ceremony, started undoing his belt buckle. He kept his hawklike gaze on her as he unfastened the button and split the fly open.
Too late, she remembered that he wore no underwear. She whirled around, but not before she got a rather good look at the exquisite package he carried between his legs. His body wasn’t the only thing that’d grown up.