Doomsday Can Wait (Phoenix Chronicles, #2)(57)

"No one's ever seen it. We have no idea what that book looks like, or if it truly exists."

I had a feeling it existed. A really, really bad feeling.

"Wouldn't it be better to have it in our hands, to de-stroy it?"

"Better it stays hidden. Find the book and there's a good chance the thing could be stolen or used by the one who found it to—"

"You think one of us would try and rule the world?"

"Lizbeth," Ruthie said quietly, "even Christ was tempted."

Silence fell between us. When she was right, she was right.

"Never mind," she said at last. "Huntin' for the thing ain't practical. No one knows where the Book of Samyaza is. No legends, no rumors, not a hint."

That we knew of. I couldn't believe that if the Nephilim had a weapon like that, they didn't have some inkling where it was. I couldn't believe they weren't searching for it.

"The benandanti has more information to help you," Ruthie said.

The thud of a basketball against pavement had me glancing at the kids. A cement court complete with two baskets had replaced the grassy knoll.

"She couldn't tell me yesterday?"

"You didn't ask " Ruthie stood and moved into the sunlight.

"Ask what?"

"How to kill the woman of smoke."

I blinked. "Seriously?" Ruthie nodded. "Why don't you tell me?"

"I don't know."

"Why didn't you tell me to ask her that when you told me to go and see her?"

'There are rules." Ruthie's lips compressed. She didn't appear too happy about those rules at the moment. "There are things you must do. A path you must take. A path others must follow. Everything happens in its time."

We'd had this discussion before. Since hundreds of people had just died by werewolf, and I hadn't been able to stop it, I wasn't too thrilled with the rules then, either.

Ruthie turned and laid a hand on each of my shoulders. Her bony fingers felt like bird talons against my skin. "You're gonna have to be brave, Lizbeth."

I lifted my eyebrows. "Have I been particularly cow-ardly so far?"

"Listen," she snapped, and her grip tightened. "You'll have to do things you don't wanna do; you'll have to hurt people you don't wanna hurt."

She turned away as quickly as she'd turned to me, dropping her hands to her sides and clenching them tightly.

The house, the kids, Ruthie began to fade. Before it disappeared completely, I could have sworn I heard her whisper, "I did."

I awoke in the hotel room. The sun spilled around the edges of the closed curtains and traced patterns across the floor. Sawyer was gone.

That got me out of bed in a hurry. I pulled back the shades. The Impala sat exactly where I'd left it; there wasn't a sign of Sawyer anywhere.

Cursing, I hopped around trying to shove my legs into my jeans, catching one foot in the trailing material and nearly falling on my face. I'd just zipped them when the doorknob rattled. I had my gun in my hand before Sawyer came inside. His calm gray gaze lifted from the barrel, pointed at his chest, to my face.

"What did you expect?" I muttered.

He wore one of my dirty T-shirts, a pastel purple I'd never been wild about. The material strained around his pecs and biceps. I was surprised he hadn't burst through it like the Incredible Hulk.

Combined with the red shorts and my tennis shoes— which seemed too big—he looked like a street person. The bags he juggled only added to the ensemble.

"You went shopping?" I was incredulous.

"I have been known to."

I'd figured he lived on his land near the mountains and rarely, if ever, ventured into a nearby town. Though he had to sometimes if only to buy coffee and eggs.

Sure, Sawyer had been confined to the Dinetah for who knows how long, but Navajo land was the size of West Virginia, so they probably had plenty of malls— definitely a Wal-Mart or ten, which, according to the emblem on the bags, was where he'd been.

I upended several. Clothes poured out. Underwear, shoes, socks, also toiletries. His bags held food. Tiny chocolate doughnuts and bananas, granola—I don't think so—juice and a pack of cigarettes.

I picked them up. "Seriously?"

He lifted a brow. Stupid question. He was probably half mad for a cigarette after loping about without any for however long he'd been loping.

I didn't bother to preach about the dangers. I was a bartender, after all. Those who smoked, smoked. Those who quit would still be smoking if it weren't for that killer of joy everywhere: lung cancer. Since Sawyer didn't have such a worry, I tossed him the pack.

"Any sign of her?" I asked.

Sawyer shook his head.

"You were taking a chance going off on your own."

His lips curved. "You think you could protect me?"

Probably not, but—

"She could have killed you. Then she'd have come for me." I fingered the turquoise. "Will this thing work if you're dead?"

He shrugged. I had a feeling that was Sawyer code for no.

I ate a doughnut, slugged some juice, wished for coffee and started the tiny pot in the bathroom.

"Why hasn't she killed you?" I didn't think the woman of smoke would be bothered by a little kidicide or whatever the term was for murdering one's own child. In my opinion she'd done worse—the thought of which put me off my doughnuts.