Boundless (Unearthly, #3)(98)

“I love you,” he murmurs. “Can you feel that? You. Not some destiny I think I’m called to. You. I’m with you. My strength. My soul. My heart. Feel it.”

I feel it. I feel his strength, and more importantly, I feel mine. He’s right. I can do this.

I have to do this.

My light explodes around us. And I send us away.

The light takes a while to fade. I step back from Christian, my breath coming in ragged gasps. He gently brushes a strand of hair away from my face, the back of his hand lingering against my cheek. He wants to kiss me.

“Get a room, you two,” Angela says, taking her hand off my shoulder. With the other hand she’s holding on to Jeffrey’s ear. He pushes her hand away almost absentmindedly.

We made it out.

Christian glances around. “Where are we?”

A cow lows nervously from the darkness, and everybody but me turns to look. I hold up my hand and call glory into it so they can all see what I already know is there: a set of stalls against one side, saddles and tack, farm equipment, an old rusted tractor in the far back, a hayloft over us.

“Pretty,” says Angela, staring into my glory lantern. “I want one.”

I stumble over to the wall to turn on the light. My knees feel funny as I let the glory blink out. I’ve expended a lot of energy in the past few minutes. I’m tired.

“What is this?” Christian asks, still sounding dazed. “A barn?”

“The Lazy Dog,” I say, staring into the dirt to avoid the sudden comprehension in his eyes. “The Averys’ barn.”

Angela bursts out laughing. “You brought us to Tucker’s barn,” she says, her eyes bright.

“Sorry,” I whisper up to Christian.

“Sorry?” Angela repeats. “You’re sorry? You brought us out of hell. You brought us home.” She lifts her tattooed arm over her head and breathes in deep like this manure-scented place where we’ve landed is the freshest, freest air she’s ever smelled.

Jeffrey sits on a bale of hay, his face pale, clutching at his stomach like he’s been punched. “You brought us out of hell.”

“You brought us out of hell,” Christian repeats with such proud conviction in his voice that tears spring to my eyes.

“I was in hell,” Jeffrey whispers, like he only now gets it. “Did you see those people’s eyes? I was in freaking hell. How did I end up in hell?”

“Where’s Web?” Angela asks suddenly. “Where is he?”

“He’s with Billy. He’s safe.”

“I want to see him. Can we go see him? I bet he won’t even recognize me. He’s probably taller than me by now. Where is he, did you say? Where’s Web?”

Christian and I exchange worried glances. “He’s with Billy,” I say again, slowly. “He’s still a baby, Ange. He’s not even three weeks old.”

She stares at me, then at Christian. “Three weeks?”

“We’ve been taking good care of him. He’s great, Ange. I mean, he cries. A lot. But outside of that he’s the best baby.”

“But—” She closes her eyes, brings a trembling hand to her mouth. She laughs again, wildly. “So I didn’t miss it. Every day I thought, I’m missing it. I’m missing his life. All those years I wondered.” Her eyes lift to mine. “But you brought me back.”

I knew time worked differently in hell, but I didn’t expect this. Angela had been gone for ten days when we decided to go find her, but it sounds like, on her end, she’s been gone for longer.

Much longer.

She stumbles, and Christian and I catch her between us, guide her to a hay bale, and sit her down. She grabs my wrist suddenly, and I’m flooded with the tangle of her emotions, amazement and relief and rage, a deep desire to see Web, to hold him and smell that place behind his ears, a fear that it won’t smell the same, that place, or that she won’t be the same. She’s fractured now, she thinks, a broken doll with glassy eyes.

“Ange, it’s okay,” I say.

“Thank you for coming,” she murmurs, then shakes her head, brushes her bangs out of her eyes, and looks up at me earnestly. “Thank you,” she tries again. “For coming for me. How did you find me?”

“Yes, how did you find her?” booms a voice from behind us. “That’s the part I couldn’t figure out.”

Angela looks up. Then she bends her head to her knees and groans, a dying, hopeless noise.

I spin around. There, standing in the shadows at the back of the barn, is Asael.

He looks like Samjeeza, I think. They’re both tall, but that’s kind of a given for angels, with coal-black, glossy hair. This man’s is cut so that it ends just past his ears, a bit wavy whereas Samjeeza’s is straight, but they have the same deep-set amber eyes. I see Angela in his face, too, something about the Roman nose with the slight hook at the bridge, her full bottom lip. And there’s something else about him that strikes me as familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.

Lucy is standing beside him, arms crossed, looking pouty.

Jeffrey stands up. “Luce? Mr. Wick?”

Mr. Wick. Lucy’s dad. The man who owns the club and the tattoo parlor.

“Hello, Jeffrey,” Asael says. He takes a step forward. I counter by summoning a circle of glory around us. I’m so tired. It starts to waver immediately, but before it goes out, Christian replaces it with his own glory. I sigh with relief. At least for the moment we’re safe.