“Yeah, that’s just a pipe dream, Ro.” Her whisper faded into silence.
She’d just closed her eyes when the melancholy strains of Patsy Cline filled her ears. “Oh Nana.” She tugged the blanket closer and inhaled the familiar scent of her grandmother. “Stay close,” she whispered.
Rowan hummed along to the song, but within minutes sleep claimed her, and she drifted off into a dreamless state of mind.
Chapter 27
Azaiel avoided Rowan all day. It hadn’t been hard to do. He’d crashed hard and slept until midafternoon, something he’d not done in a long time.
This new existence was going to take some getting used to. The need for sleep? Pain? He stretched tight muscles and groaned. Damn but he’d taken a beating below.
He hissed as a particularly sharp stab tugged at his side, and he rubbed the sore area just to the left of his heart. He’d been pierced by a poison-tipped spear one of the Chakra demons had thrown. It had hurt like bloody hell, and not for the first time he cursed his brothers and their need to make him pay.
Pain—physical pain—was still relatively new for him. And though he would survive a fatal wound, it didn’t negate the fact that getting sliced and diced with any kind of weapon was going to fucking hurt.
“Need help with that?”
He glanced up in surprise. The entire clan was gathered outside, and he’d assumed the house was empty. Cedric had just shuffled by, arms laden with food meant for the three large barbecues that had been set up near the gift shop. One thing he’d noticed about the James clan and their human hunters was that they loved food. And drink. And sports.
All of it in excessive, copious amounts.
Marie-Noelle watched him hesitantly. She wore jeans and a T-shirt with skeletons across the chest and the words GRATEFUL DEAD in faded white. Her hair was thrown up into a ponytail, much like her daughter, the dull amber tones now softer, shinier. The woman looked ten years younger than when he’d first laid eyes on her though the haunted depths of her eyes would never change. Not really.
“I’m fine, thank you,” he answered.
He was still shirtless and very much aware of the scarred artwork on his back, so he kept Marie-Noelle in view. No sense in totally freaking the poor woman out.
“You’re Seraphim.”
He nodded.
“You have the same look about you as Bill.”
At Azaiel’s arched brow, Marie-Noelle smiled, and for the briefest second he saw Rowan reflected in her features. It took his breath away. The simple, classic beauty in these women.
“Not that you look like him obviously. My goodness you’re about as far away from Bill’s physical attributes as oil is from water.” She blushed prettily. “I’m sorry. I’m rambling.”
Azaiel helped himself to a cold glass of water. “No. It’s fine.” He took a long drink and set the empty glass into the sink. Outside the long fingers of sunlight were fast leaving, and it would be time to patrol. “Bill and I are . . . well, brothers.”
He wondered if they knew what hid behind Bill’s human mask. Bill. Was he ever going to get used to calling him that? Though he supposed it fit his current state of being. He wore the mantle of small, shuffling, and plain, but he was a Seraphim, and his true visage was nothing like “Bill.”
“He meant a lot to my mother,” Marie-Noelle said softly.
“I never had the pleasure of meeting your mother in person, but I know a lot of people who cared deeply for her.”
He watched a host of emotions flicker across Marie-Noelle’s face. “I just wish . . . I just wanted to be stronger.” Her eyes fell away from his, and her voice broke. “I was never strong enough.” Her pain was hear
t-wrenching. It coated her words and clung to her shoulders, hunching them forward.
“Marie-Noelle. We all have strength within us. Sometimes it takes a while for it to grow and mature.” He glanced around. “You’re here. You survived. Isn’t that what’s important?”
“But at what cost?” She shook her head. “You’ve no idea the things I did. How low I stooped in order to disappear in a haze of drugs and booze. All of it because I wasn’t strong enough to face my destiny and now”—she sighed—“now my children are paying the price. Rowan is paying the price.”
When she lifted her head her eyes were haunted, and he recognized it for what it was because the same emotions plagued him. Guilt. Anger. And shame.
“How can I be happy about being here when my mother is dead, and my daughter is about to sacrifice herself to that . . . that abomination. It should have been me.” Her voice was hoarse, and she put her fist to her mouth in an effort to stop the tide of emotion that threatened.
“I’m not sacrificing myself.” Rowan walked into the kitchen from the front hall. Her cheeks were flush and judging by the ponytail, T-shirt, shorts, and athletic shoes, he was guessing she was just in from a run.