Doomsday Can Wait (Phoenix Chronicles, #2)(5)

I shoved the amulet into my jeans. Since I'd yanked it off his mother's skinny neck, maybe Sawyer would have a clue as to what it was.

And speaking of Sawyer's mother—

I opened the dresser drawer next to my bed and removed the photo I kept there. When I'd first seen this picture in the lair of the leader of the darkness—a quaint term for the other side's big boy—I'd nearly had a heart attack. I'd recognized her face from the night Sawyer had conjured her in the desert.

Until today, I hadn't known the woman of smoke was also a Naye'i. I hadn't known she was Sawyer's mother.

I had known she was evil, and I hadn't liked at all finding her likeness next to the place where Satan's henchman slept. So I'd snatched it.

Now I was wondering if that hadn't been a less than brilliant idea. Before I could think about it too much, I tore the photo into itty-bitty pieces, then ground it up in the garbage disposal. Maybe that would keep her from finding me again. But I doubted it.

I kept a duffel under my bed, always packed and ready—clothes, cash, my laptop. I'd had no call to use the bag in the past month. My visions of supernatural baddies had dried up as thoroughly as the small plot of grass in my backyard.

I hadn't been sure if that was because I was a little short on demon killers, having only two in my arsenal after last month's massacre. Jimmy, who was in the middle of a mini-meltdown and no help at all, and Summer Bartholomew, who I just plain didn't like and wouldn't call unless I had to.

When push came to shove—and it would, it always did—I had myself. I was the first demon-killing seer in history. Let no one say that I am not an overachiever.

However, I found it hard to believe that the head honchos upstairs—my name for whoever sent me information via Ruthie's voice or an old-fashioned vision— would have given me a break in my duties just because I was shorthanded.

The other option was that I'd lost my power, and it hadn't felt that way, even before Ruthie had whispered Naye'i.

But now I had a third option in the amulet I'd yanked off the woman of smoke. She'd been able to get close to me because I hadn't received the usual advance warning of impending doom. Until I'd gotten my hands on the medallion, Ruthie's ghostly voice had been silenced.

I really needed to find out what that thing was.

I stowed my knife in the duffel, then cast a glance at the safe under my sink where I kept my gun when I wasn't at home. I could bring the knife on the plane as long as I checked the bag, but there were rules about transporting firearms by air—particular cases required, certain ways the ammunition had to be packed—and I didn't know them all.

That sense of urgency that had been riding me since I left Murphy's won, and I decided to make do with the knife. Guns weren't all that useful against Nephilim anyway, unless you knew where to hit them, how many times, and with what.

Looping the luggage strap onto my shoulder, I turned. Someone stood in the doorway.





CHAPTER 3


Ruthie's voice remained silent. But after the incident with the Naye'i, the lack of that whisper wasn't as dependable as it used to be.

Whoever this was, they were short. Really short. But if they were a demon, short didn't mean squat. Ha-ha.

I hoisted my duffel at the person's head, then rolled across the floor in the direction of the safe. I'd been a state champion in high school gymnastics, which was coming in a lot more handy than I'd ever dreamed.

I doubted I'd get the safe open in time to shoot, had no idea if the silver bullets I now habitually loaded into my Glock would work, but I had to do something.

The duffel connected with the intruder's chest. I heard a soft "Oof," then "Hey!" just as my fingers touched the keypads. I lowered my hand; I recognized that voice, should have known from the tiny stature who was here even before the lights went on without either one of us touching them.

Tiny and blond, the woman in the doorway resembled a pixie with a country-western fetish. Her tight jeans, fringed halter top, cowboy boots, and white Stetson were slightly out of place in a land where people wore cheese on their heads.

"What the hell do you want?" I climbed to my feet.

She lifted her eyebrows and pursed her perfect mouth. I wanted to slug her. I usually did, but I refrained. Summer Bartholomew was the only one of my demon killers, or DKs, still alive and available. She was also a fairy.

Really.

To fight supernatural evil, more than just plain folks were required, so most of the DKs were breeds— descendants of Nephilim and humans. The added influx of humanity with each successive generation diluted the demon enough so that breeds could make a choice about which side they fought for.

The ones who weren't breeds were angels who hadn't succumbed to temptation but were caught on the other side of the golden gates when God slammed them shut on the fallen. Not good enough to go to heaven, but not bad enough to go to hell, they became fairies.

'There's a problem," Summer began.

"I know. I was on my way to New Mexico."

"He's gone."

"Gone? That's impossible."

"No," Summer said. "It isn't."

"How long?"

She shrugged. "I hadn't seen him for weeks. Then I stopped by and ..." She spread her hands.