Chapter Three
Keegan dropped to his knees. The room spun before his eyes and his stomach heaved.
Echo set the box holding the bottles of holy water on the end table and caught him before his face hit the floor. “It’s the speed travel. Zaps the energy and makes you squeamish. It used to affect me the same way, too. With enough travel, your body will adjust.” She helped him to the sofa and propped him against the cushions. "Let's hope I won't be around long enough for you to get used to it."
He placed his hands on his head and groaned.
“Bad headache, huh?” She patted his knee. “It'll go away in a little while.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has a band drumming in her head.”
“I see we’re a little cranky.”
“If you tell me that'll go away in a little while too, I’ll hogtie you and string you from a ceiling beam.” He jerked his thumb at the roughly-hewn logs above them.
She stood and placed her hands on her hips. “That I’d like to see.”
“I could, if sufficiently motivated.” He sat up and put his feet flat on the floor.
“Feeling better?” she asked.
“Some.” He studied her as she walked business-like around the cottage, pouring holy water across the windowsills and doorways. Her face was flushed, probably from the demon workout. One unruly curl, dampened from perspiration, dangled against her cheek.
With the last of the bottles emptied, she stopped to finger a knickknack, then continued on to run a hand over the cherry-wood mantle on the fireplace.
She looked exciting and adventurous and as alive as anyone. “What are you, exactly?” he asked.
“I feel a chill.” She rubbed her arms.
“It’s the cold air off the lake. I’ll make a fire.” He stood gingerly, shrugged out of his coat, and slam-dunked his umbrella into the brass holder at the door. “I asked you a question, Echo,” he said, walking to the stone fireplace. He laid a few sticks of cedar over wadded pages of yesterday’s news. “Are you going to answer?”
From her flinty expression, Keegan inferred that she wondered whether he could take the truth. He would help her decide. “In the last several hours, I’ve been dead, resurrected, stripped of my soul, jumped off multi-story buildings, witnessed demons feed on a man’s heart, and watched a fight between inhuman beings, one of whom might or might not be a demon herself. The jury’s still out on that one.” He ran shaking fingers through his hair. “Now, I can honestly say I saw and heard everything, so don’t think anything you say will frighten me or make me jump from rooftops. Again. I’m over that. No more self-pity.”
“I’m a mal’ak,” she said.
“And translated, that means what?” He noticed her scowling and didn't appreciate that she did. “Don’t give me that look.”
“What look?”
“The look that says, ‘the trials I must put up with.’ I may not have lived as long as you or seen what you have, but that doesn’t make you any wiser or smarter. Now, let’s try this again. What is a mal’ak?”
He watched her ponder, standing as still as a statue, arms crossed against her chest, eyes staring into space. Her trance-like state had unnerved him in the church. It had the same effect on him now.
Perhaps she was telepathically communicating with someone, or maybe – he hated to consider the notion – she was formulating a lie. He shook his head, thinking that he spent his days with people who embellished the truth and out-and-out fabricated lies to serve their needs. Echo should be above that, but if she lied, he would know. He'd become quite adept at separating fact from fiction. He’d give her time to think, hopefully to reconsider a fabrication. In the meantime, he needed something to help him relax. “I’m having a drink,” he said, striding to the bar. “Would you care for one?”
“I’ll have a double of what you’re having.”
He poured generous amounts of Glenlivit in tumblers and handed her one. “As you were saying?”
She saluted him. “A cruce salus. From the cross comes salvation.”
He raised his glass to hers. “Amen. Now then, shall we get back to what you are?”
“In simplest terms, a herald.”
He took that to mean an angel, an angel who did God’s bidding. “How many are there like you?”
“Many. In fact, you already know one.”
He quickly overcame his surprise. His thoughts flashed on the people in his life, none of whom seemed a plausible heavenly being. “Who?” he asked, thinking the answer would straighten his hair.
“Benny.”
“Benny, the janitor in my office building?”
“Uh-huh.”
Keegan would never have guessed. “What service does he perform?” He watched as Echo’s eyes darted around the room and determined she was formulating a discreet response.
“He cleans up.”
“Of course. He’s a janitor, after all. Why wouldn’t he?”
“Sometimes deplaning gets messy.”
That conjured up all sorts of happenings – bodies combusting, bodies…He closed his mind to the hellish thoughts and with a jerk of his chin, prompted her to continue.
“Not unlike earth, there is still some bias against the female gender in the higher hierarchy, but because of progressive thinking, I’m happy to say, our division is finally being recognized as entities with all working functions and senses while on this plane.” Not that she considered him a low-budget intellect, but she hoped he understood what that meant – that she had the use of all her body parts.
“Are you human?”
Aha. He did. She virtually saw his brain engaging. “Not as defined by man’s law.”
“Do you have wings?”
She giggled. “We don’t need wings to fly. We are not your stereotypical supernatural beings.” She walked to the sofa and sat. “This is a nice place. Did you build it yourself?”
He envisioned himself in jeans, steel-toe boots, and red-and-black-checkered flannel shirt and chopping down a tree with an axe and smiled, but liked the idea that she thought him that accomplished with his hands. “No. The previous owner did, though. Cut and stripped every log.” This dredged up a memory Keegan had buried long ago.
“Is something wrong?” Echo asked. “You look like a lawyer who just learned he was disbarred.”
“This cottage was very special to Henry.” He looked at her. “Henry Wilkins, the man who built the place. It killed him to sell it.”
“Why did he?”
“He needed the money to pay a bill.”
She studied him. “Does that make you feel guilty?”
He gulped his whiskey. “It was my account he didn’t have the money to pay.”
“For services rendered?”
“I represented him in a criminal matter.”
“Did you win?” she asked, staring at him with an upturned chin.
“Uh-huh, and Henry died shortly after. They visit from time to time.”
“Who?”
“Henry and his wife, Dena.” He noticed Echo didn’t blink at the mention of ghosts inhabiting his house. Why would she? With good reason, he had never told that truth to anyone, but now that he had divulged the secret, purging himself, Keegan felt good.
“I thought I was losing my mind the first time they appeared.” He chuckled. “She hates it when I rearrange the furniture or make any changes in the cottage. That plant, for instance.” He pointed to the Chinese evergreen standing sentry at the garden doors. “I like it next to the fireplace. Dena likes it there.”
“She won.”
“She always does. Guilt is a powerful motivator.”
“Did you misrepresent him?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then you have nothing to feel guilty about.”
True. He had not only done his duty to his client, but also gave him market value plus twenty percent for the property, which gave Henry a chunk of money in exchange. Perfectly comfortable in his condo in t
own, Keegan had offered him free lodging at the cottage, but Henry was too proud to accept the offer.
“We should discuss plans and strategy,” he said, hoping to steer the conversation away from himself. When it came to his personal affairs, center stage made him uneasy.
“The best defense. Always the lawyer, huh?”
He took insult. “Not always.” Echo was a kick-ass beautiful woman. He loved the color of her hair, like harvest gold, and how her curls bounced rhythmically around her face when she moved, and how her eyes expressed her emotions. Nothing about this woman was put on. He liked that, too. So many of the women in his past relationships had been superficial, caring only about him as a good catch, that he'd left the dating scene. Echo was a welcome change.
God. Listen to me, anticipating taking Echo, an emissary of God, to bed. For sex. I'll surely be punished for those thoughts.
“How do you plan on finding my soul?” I want you under me right now.
What was the matter with him? Crudeness was unlike him.
“Perhaps Henry and Dena can help with that in the nether regions, but before that, we need to find out where the demons are gaining entry to this world and close the gateway before…”
His thoughts centering on the satin sheets on his bed, he sensed rather than heard her falter. “Before?”
“I was trying to spare you, but I see you’re a man who likes to know all of the truth. As I was saying, before the earth is flooded with heart-snatchers from Hell.”
“When you were so determined to find the portal, even at the chance that it might put me in jeopardy, I figured the reason was something like that.” Without all of his essence, with each passing hour he was feeling more discombobulated. He was holding himself together, but barely, and for how much longer, he didn’t know.
“How did you know where to go when we left the church?”
“The speed travel?” At his nod, she said, “I didn’t. You did. I tapped into your thoughts. When you mentioned cottage, I took the chance that you envisioned it.”
“I could have been thinking about the rainbow trout in my lake, which I do from time to time, by the way, when I think about home.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“We could have taken a taxi.”
She scoffed. “And risk the demons following us? I don’t think so.”
“I know some people who might be willing to help you in the fight, should it come to that again. They’re a little rough and don’t mind bending the rules.”
“Have you used their,” she made air quotes, “expertise before?”
He shook his head. “I helped them out a few years back. Seems they never let a favor go unreturned. They get in touch once in awhile to inquire.”
“Who are they?”
“The Harley Riders. A biker gang living up in the Tretemps hills.”
“I’ll keep them in mind. For now, though, I’d rather this stayed between us. The fewer who know, the better.”
True. His reputation would never survive if it became public knowledge that he cavorted with a centuries-old emissary of God.
He peered at Echo peripherally, who was looking pensive and vulnerable when he wanted vibrant and impenetrable. He needed to unburden himself.
Smith was a good listener. Best friends since grade school, Keegan could talk to him about anything…anything but this. Not only would the truth make him look like a loony, the story was too preposterous to believe. Even Smith, who believed anything, would balk at this tale.
Mum was his best advice. He’d go with that. Besides, Echo didn’t want this getting out.
As though on cue, the telephone rang. Keegan jumped at the sound.
Echo looked at her watch. “It’s eleven-twenty. Who would be calling at this hour?”
“Probably my friend, Smith. He has no perception of time and blames every faux pas on spontaneity. The machine’ll get it.”
On the sixth ring, Keegan heard his voice say, “Leave a message at the beep.”
Beep.
“Yo, stud-meista, pick up, will ya. Got a story to tell.”
Keegan grinned when Echo mouthed ‘stud-meister.’ He hadn’t earned the characterization. Smith had a contrary sense of humor.
Smith’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“Okay, maybe you’re not home. Where the hell are you, bro? Drop a dime. If you don’t, I’ll keep calling. You know I will.” Then came the hum of a disconnected line.
“Sounds like a threat,” Echo said as she sat in the leather wing chair next to the fireplace. “The heat feels good.” She warmed her hands in front of the fire.
The phone jangled again.
“That’s probably Smith calling back,” Keegan said, making no move to answer the phone. Afraid he might blurt what happened to him, he couldn’t take the chance of talking to Smith. He sighed with relief when Echo took the initiative and answered the persistent ring.
“Hello,” Echo said in a breathy voice. She winked and pressed the receiver harder against her ear. “This is Echo. Who’s this?”
He watched as she waited. Her legs never seemed to end. Tight ass, full breasts…what's the matter with me? God.
“Ah, Smith. Keegan told me all about you.” She listened. “Well, no he didn’t tell me about that.” She listened again. “Not about that, either.” She looked at Keegan and raised her brows. “I stand corrected. He hasn’t told me everything.” She looked at him. “Keegan can’t come to the phone right now. He’s otherwise occupied, if you catch my drift.” She nodded and raised a thumb in the air. “I’ll tell him you called. Ciao.” She set the cordless phone on the coffee table.
Keegan was afraid to ask, but his curiosity would torture him if he didn’t. “What did he say?”
“He told me about the time he fell into poison ivy and that you spread anti-itch cream on the areas of his body he couldn’t reach.”
He groaned. The heat of a blush burned him like a branding iron. “Did he tell you we were six at the time?”
“No, he failed to mention that. He also told me about the time you dove into the bay and the current took off with your trunks and you climbed onto the pier nekkid,” she made air quotes, “like the day you were born with His Lordship Beatty shriveled ―”
He signed a time-out. “Okay, okay. Spare me, please.” He hid his face between his hands and vowed Smith would pay for his honesty-is-the-best-policy take on life.
She laughed, reminding him again how incredibly sexy that laugh was. In fact, everything about her was tantalizing, and it took a great deal of restraint for him not to act on his impulse to satisfy his desires, which were growing more intense with each second.
This is not like you, Keegan.
No, it wasn’t.
A part of you is missing. An integral part.
He knew that.
You’ll have to be strong to survive.
What if he wasn’t?
Something in his peripheral vision was trying to get his attention. Straightening, he peered through the window. It took him a moment to realize he looked at a severed head bobbing in the air.