anymore. Certainty swelled within her, bitter and cold. Something was coming for them.
Her head jerked up, and she stared at the kitchen doorway, waiting, her blood frozen in her veins, her heart beating in an erratic dance. There was a sharp bang as her front door slammed against the wall. The sound of heavy footfalls carried from the hallway. For some crazy reason, all Clea could think of was short, round Mrs. Garfinkle in the apartment downstairs and how the noise would upset her.
A current of air swirled through the kitchen doorway, thick and pungent, carrying the stink of death and decay, the smell reminiscent of the demon last night, but not quite as strong.
She couldn’t breathe. Her chest felt tight, blocked.
Two men slunk toward them, and behind them two more. She registered the appearance of the man closest to her, thick and barrel-chested, his face brutal. Then her eyes locked on his, and in that instant she realized he wasn’t a man at all. His eyes were bottomless pits, soulless, the entire socket filled by a round black marble with no white showing, no color. Whatever it was, this thing wasn’t human.
A chill of certainty scurried across her skin. It was here for her.
Well, bully for him, because she had no intention of letting him get her.
With her forearm pressed tight across her belly, she backed up a step, and another, toward the counter and the butcher block of knives. Her breath chuffed in and out. No. Not a knife. She needed something heavy she could wield. Gram’s rolling pin.
Ciarran glanced at her, his body tense, and when he moved, it was so fast, she could do little more than let out a startled squawk. He yanked her hard against him, wrapping his arms around her, half-carrying, half-dragging her across the kitchen. Then he leaped, catapulting them both up and over the ancient counter, his booted feet punching through the window above it.
A wild, terrified cry escaped her. Clea was aware of the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood, the shards that flew in all directions, the steady thud of Ciarran’s heart; then they were falling, hurtling through air and space, the ground rushing up to meet them.
Chapter 10
C LEA WAS AWARE OF COLD AIR ON HER FACE AND the frantic blur of windows and brick wall rushing past. Spinning them in midair, Ciarran twisted beneath her to take the blow as they landed with a heavy thump on the grass. A wave of nausea crashed through Clea, the impact forcing the breath from her lungs.
Five stories. They’d fallen five stories.
He had to be dead, or smashed to pieces. And she ought to be dead.
“Come on,” Ciarran snarled, pushing himself upright. Blood dripped from his shoulder, running down his arm.
Words tumbled out of her in a wheezing rush. “ OhMyGodOhMyGodOhMyGod— ”
He yanked her to her feet, and as she swayed, he glanced up at something behind her. With a muttered curse, he hauled her against his side and sprinted forward, half-carrying, half-dragging her to a sleek black car parked illegally at the curb. The landlord, Mr. Koschitsky, would have a fit if he saw that.
Ripping open the door, Ciarran shoved her in and bolted to the other side. In the mirror, she watched the men. . . . were they men? She didn’t think so because no one could have made it down the stairs that fast. God. Whatever they were, they cleared the front door of the building just as Ciarran rammed the car in gear and peeled away from the curb.
Clea’s hands shot out, the right one digging into the grab-handle, the left grasping at the console as the car flew along the street. Trembling, she uncurled her fingers and fumbled with the seat belt, taking three tries before she finally got the pieces to snap together with a solid click.
Ciarran glanced at her, his gaze running over her from crown to toes, as though assessing any damage. Apparently satisfied, he returned his attention to the road.
Swallowing, she stared at the blood trickling down his arm, at the
Her head jerked up, and she stared at the kitchen doorway, waiting, her blood frozen in her veins, her heart beating in an erratic dance. There was a sharp bang as her front door slammed against the wall. The sound of heavy footfalls carried from the hallway. For some crazy reason, all Clea could think of was short, round Mrs. Garfinkle in the apartment downstairs and how the noise would upset her.
A current of air swirled through the kitchen doorway, thick and pungent, carrying the stink of death and decay, the smell reminiscent of the demon last night, but not quite as strong.
She couldn’t breathe. Her chest felt tight, blocked.
Two men slunk toward them, and behind them two more. She registered the appearance of the man closest to her, thick and barrel-chested, his face brutal. Then her eyes locked on his, and in that instant she realized he wasn’t a man at all. His eyes were bottomless pits, soulless, the entire socket filled by a round black marble with no white showing, no color. Whatever it was, this thing wasn’t human.
A chill of certainty scurried across her skin. It was here for her.
Well, bully for him, because she had no intention of letting him get her.
With her forearm pressed tight across her belly, she backed up a step, and another, toward the counter and the butcher block of knives. Her breath chuffed in and out. No. Not a knife. She needed something heavy she could wield. Gram’s rolling pin.
Ciarran glanced at her, his body tense, and when he moved, it was so fast, she could do little more than let out a startled squawk. He yanked her hard against him, wrapping his arms around her, half-carrying, half-dragging her across the kitchen. Then he leaped, catapulting them both up and over the ancient counter, his booted feet punching through the window above it.
A wild, terrified cry escaped her. Clea was aware of the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood, the shards that flew in all directions, the steady thud of Ciarran’s heart; then they were falling, hurtling through air and space, the ground rushing up to meet them.
Chapter 10
C LEA WAS AWARE OF COLD AIR ON HER FACE AND the frantic blur of windows and brick wall rushing past. Spinning them in midair, Ciarran twisted beneath her to take the blow as they landed with a heavy thump on the grass. A wave of nausea crashed through Clea, the impact forcing the breath from her lungs.
Five stories. They’d fallen five stories.
He had to be dead, or smashed to pieces. And she ought to be dead.
“Come on,” Ciarran snarled, pushing himself upright. Blood dripped from his shoulder, running down his arm.
Words tumbled out of her in a wheezing rush. “ OhMyGodOhMyGodOhMyGod— ”
He yanked her to her feet, and as she swayed, he glanced up at something behind her. With a muttered curse, he hauled her against his side and sprinted forward, half-carrying, half-dragging her to a sleek black car parked illegally at the curb. The landlord, Mr. Koschitsky, would have a fit if he saw that.
Ripping open the door, Ciarran shoved her in and bolted to the other side. In the mirror, she watched the men. . . . were they men? She didn’t think so because no one could have made it down the stairs that fast. God. Whatever they were, they cleared the front door of the building just as Ciarran rammed the car in gear and peeled away from the curb.
Clea’s hands shot out, the right one digging into the grab-handle, the left grasping at the console as the car flew along the street. Trembling, she uncurled her fingers and fumbled with the seat belt, taking three tries before she finally got the pieces to snap together with a solid click.
Ciarran glanced at her, his gaze running over her from crown to toes, as though assessing any damage. Apparently satisfied, he returned his attention to the road.
Swallowing, she stared at the blood trickling down his arm, at the
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