Rogue Rider

Some demons were invisible.

Eight

Jillian’s friend Stacey was a hardass. Reseph had decided within thirty seconds that he didn’t like her. He did, however, approve of her as a friend for Jillian. Reseph was sure the cop had clawed her way out of some bitter acid pit in hell, but he couldn’t fault her protectiveness of her friend.

She’d walked into Jillian’s house like she owned it, gave Reseph the evil eye, and then interrogated him as if he were the prime suspect in a plot to assassinate the president. Whoever the president was. Not Washington, apparently.

It wouldn’t have surprised Reseph if Stacey had broken out a bamboo cane and a pair of pliers for the next level of questioning. When he told her as much, she’d been less than amused.

No sense of humor, that one.

He’d left Jillian and Stacey alone for a few minutes to talk while he rummaged through the kitchen. When he went back into the living room where Jillian and Stacey were seated on the couch, it was with a cup of hot tea. Crouching at her knee, he put the mug in Jillian’s hand.

“You’re shivering,” he said softly. “Drink.”

Her startled eyes snapped up to his, and he was glad to see that at least they’d lost the stunned glaze. The Wilsons’ deaths had hit her hard, and he’d seen how difficult listening to Stacey question him had been.

“Thank you.” Jillian graced him with a smile that made his pulse kick up a notch before she turned to her friend. “Stace, why are you handling all of this? Shouldn’t the state police be in charge of the investigation?”

Stacey shifted and averted her gaze, and yeah, that chick was hiding something. “The state police are passing on this,” Stacey finally said. She paused for a few taut seconds before she continued in a low, conspiratorial voice. “We’re supposed to keep this under wraps, but there are paranormal investigators coming to look into the killings.”

Jillian’s hand shook so hard that tea sloshed over the rim. “I thought you said animals were responsible.”

“From what I understand, it’s just a precaution.” Stacey eyed Reseph as he grabbed a napkin and mopped tea off Jillian’s arm. “I haven’t seen either crime scene, but I’d feel better if you came into town and stayed with me.”

“I can’t leave the animals,” Jillian said.

Reseph took the cup from her before she spilled more. “Maybe you should go with Stacey. I can take care of the farm.”

“No!” Jillian’s voice was little more than a snarl. “I will not live in fear again. Do you understand that? That… thing… will not win. You can both go to hell if you think I’m running away—”

“Hey.” Reseph took her hand, and when she jerked out of his grip, he took it again, more firmly. “It’s okay. No one is forcing you to run anywhere.” He slid Stacey a give me a nod of agreement right now look, and she did. “If you want to stay, I’ll stay with you.”

Jillian’s face flushed, and he had a feeling she was a little embarrassed by her outburst. She didn’t need to be. She clearly was harboring a trauma that was simmering hot. The release of steam could only be a good thing.

Stacey pushed to her feet. “I need to get back, but Jill, you know if you need anything…” She left the rest unsaid, the bond between the two friends needing nothing further.

“Thanks.” Jillian gave her friend a fragile smile. “I’ll be fine.”

Stacey grabbed her parka and shot Reseph a meaningful stare. “Care to walk me to my car?”

It wasn’t a question. It was an order full of do it or I’ll shoot you subtext. The women in this part of the country loved their guns, didn’t they? Sexy as hell.

Jillian huffed. “Stacey—”

“It’s okay,” Reseph said, heading off any tension. “I’ll be right back.”

He followed Stacey out to her police cruiser, where she rounded on him, a bundle of brunette fury.

“Listen up, whoever you are. Jillian has been through hell, and it’s only been in the last couple of months that she’s come out of her shell. She doesn’t need you hanging around here like some mangy tomcat carrying God-knows-what kind of baggage.”

Mangy? And he really wanted to know what kind of hell Stacey was talking about in regards to Jillian. “It was a demon, wasn’t it?”

“That killed the Bjornsens and Wilsons? I don’t know.”

“No. That put Jillian through the hell you just mentioned.”

Stacey’s expression went utterly flat. “That’s none of your business. I want you out of here by morning. With you gone, maybe she’ll come stay with me.”

Fat snowflakes began to fall in lazy swirls as he casually reached out and braced his hip against the roof of her car.

“Yeah, see, that won’t happen. You have a point about the baggage. And it’s cool that she has a buddy like you to look after her. But she also has me to do that. We both know she’s not leaving her farm, and as long as there’s something out here killing people, I’m not leaving her alone. I won’t let anything, or anyone, threaten her.”

Her chin came up. “What if you’re the threat? Can you honestly say that you aren’t? What if you wake up tomorrow and remember that you’re a serial r**ist? Or a drug lord? Or slave trafficker?”

Stacey the Hardass had just tapped into Reseph’s own fears, but her examples didn’t even come close to where his thoughts had gone. He couldn’t explain it, but he got the feeling that if he was going to be a scumbag, he’d make a drug lord look like a playful kitten.

Not that he’d tell Stacey that. “If I were any of those things, I think the last place I’d be is in the middle of nowhere. I’m guessing you don’t have a huge drug or slave problem in your one-stoplight town.”

“Two,” she snapped. “There are two stoplights.”

“Oh, well, then, I’ll see if I can get the slave trade going in your thriving metropolis.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, which just made him grin. “Just keep in mind that if you hurt her, I’ll come after you with everything I have.”

She shoved his arm out of the way, got in the vehicle, and took off. The slight fishtail from hitting the gas too hard probably pissed her off, but it amused the hell out of him.

At least, he was amused until he felt a presence. He listened to the fading sound of Stacey’s vehicle, and then he listened to the forest. An owl’s hoot pierced the night, but other than that… nothing. But he felt like he was being watched. The odd thing was that this time he didn’t get a danger vibe. The opposite happened, in fact. There was something comforting about the feeling he got.

“Whoever you are,” he said quietly, “I’d like to see you. Because right now, I’m thinking I might be a little touched in the head.”

No one popped out of thin air or stepped out of the woods. Naturally.

“Come on, you damned voyeur. Throw me a bone.” He did a three-sixty, looking in every possible direction. “I don’t suppose you can tell me who I am. No? Well, f**k you.”

He waited another minute, and the sensation faded, leaving behind only an awareness that he was outside in the cold, in the dark, and Jillian, who was warm and light, was inside.

Frustrated, he went back into the cabin, alarm spiking when he didn’t see her. He checked the kitchen, and then found her in the unlit bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Did Stacey read you the riot act?” Her voice was gravelly, with a note of tears.

“Little bit. I think she wanted to shove that nightstick up my ass. And not in a fun way.”

She looked down at her feet. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. She’s a good friend.” He climbed onto the mattress and stretched out, wrapping his arms around her to pull her down beside him. “You okay? Is there anything I can do?”

“This is perfect.” She snuggled into the crook of his arm. “Too perfect, I think.”

“How can anything be too perfect?”

“Because,” she whispered. “That’s when everything falls apart.”

Reaver was happy to see that Reseph was doing well. The Horseman seemed to have adjusted to life in the human world, and he certainly hadn’t looked any worse for wear when Reaver had spied on him and the female deputy from the cover of the Khote.

The same couldn’t be said of Reaver.

Harvester had gotten him out of Sheoul-gra as promised, but he was still bearing the wounds he’d gotten from the demon that had been eating him slowly for the last three months. And Harvester, the bitch, hadn’t even offered to heal him. Not that he’d have taken her up on it. But still.

As an angel, Reaver healed quickly… unless the damage had been inflicted in Sheoul or by a particularly powerful angel. Then all bets were off and he got to look like he’d spent some time in a meat grinder.

So as he strode down the pristine white walls of the Archangel Multiplex, his bruises and raw skin added a much-needed splash of color. He had, at least, taken the time to stop by his residence to shower and change out of Harvester’s pajamas and into jeans and a blue T-shirt. In Heaven and a few places on Earth, angels could snap their fingers to clean up and change, but he’d opted to enjoy the feel of hot water sluicing over his aching body. His time spent as a fallen angel had given him a taste for simple pleasures, and he really didn’t give a damn if his fellow angels looked down their perfect noses at him for that.

Ahead, crystal arches marked the entrance to the compound’s Watcher headquarters, where teams kept track of the goings-on of beings all over the world. This was where Reaver’s bosses worked, as well as the bosses for other classes of overseer angels, such as Memitim.

Reaver took a hard right at the second archway, passing through a sparkling membrane that acted as a sound barrier. Inside the seemingly endless room, angels flipped through books and perused scrolls, monitored screens that hung in the air like holograms, and chatted among themselves like office workers around a water cooler.