Lucas laughs, the sound deep and thrilling. “You must read a lot of science fiction.”
“Listen,” I correct. “I listen to a lot of science fiction. On audiobook.” My hands press against my stomach, and I know by the way it doesn’t pain me that the claw marks are gone. “Will it hurt?”
I try to hide the fear I’m feeling, but my voice cracks.
Lucas places his hand over mine on my stomach, squeezing my fingers just enough to be reassuring. “He won’t physically burst out of you, but he will torment you. Be prepared for that. He’ll use your energy to bring himself into the physical world, so he’ll need you near.”
Relief is a pleasant feeling that’s all too fleeting.
I won’t be giving birth to any grotesque beings, but the demon can harm me. As a psychic from a long line of psychics, I know enough about spirits to know they have the ability to harm someone they’re attached to. The physical stuff is rarer—it takes a lot of energy for a spirit to manifest—but it’s possible.
I have another question, but I leave it unasked.
If this demon is strong enough to nearly strangle me in Jeanine Turner’s office and claw me at my aunt’s shop, what’s to stop him from killing me?
“How about that grilled cheese sandwich now?” I ask instead.
Lucas smiles. “Okay.”
Chapter 7
The last thing I remember before falling asleep is the way the sun moved over the living room as it set, cloaking the house in darkness, the fire in the hearth crackling.
Lucas sat on the end of my couch while I curled against the opposite end, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. Empty plates rested on the kitchen counter, the silence in the room a lullaby urging my eyes to close.
I fought it, but in the end, weariness won out over wariness.
The angel watching me couldn’t be any worse than the archdemon haunting me.
On the heels of another nightmare, debilitating nausea wakes me, and I find myself in my bed, my bare feet tangled in sheets I’ve apparently been fighting. My room is dark, the window to the side of my queen-sized four poster bed revealing a snowy ground under a star-dotted sky.
My breath comes fast, and I swallow the rising bile in my throat.
The nausea worsens.
Kicking myself free of the sheets, I tumble out of my bed, my knees hitting the floor hard before I drag myself toward the bathroom adjoining the bedroom.
I gag.
Hands lift me, and I struggle.
“Shh,” Lucas’s voice soothes. “It’s me.”
The bathroom light clicks on, casting a glow over soft yellow walls and ivory-tiled floors. Sunshine and sunflowers.
My stomach cramps, and I fight the angel holding me. “Please.”
He sets me down in front of the toilet just as the vomiting begins. It comes so hard and so fast, I can’t breathe through the heaving. Worse yet, blood gushes from my mouth. Straight blood, the metallic taste of it making the nausea sweep me in increasing waves.
My hands grip the porcelain, desperate for the coolness.
Lucas sits behind me, his long legs swallowing me, his thighs embracing me. Pulling my hair back, he fists it in one of his hands.
“I’m dying,” I manage to gasp.
“No,” he assures me, “but you’re going to feel like you are.”
The cramps subside, and I sag against his chest, too afraid and spent to be embarrassed. Lucas leans away from me and reaches into a cabinet under the sink. A pile of folded washcloths sits on a shelf. Taking one, he squeezes it in his fist. When he places it against my face, it’s wet. The cool moisture feels so good against my heated flesh; I don’t even care how he dampened the material.
“Have you been going through my house?” I ask weakly, accepting the cloth.
He drops his arm and slides it around my waist. “Preparation.”
Silence.
The embarrassment finally washes over me, thick and uncomfortable. “Oh, God.”
Lucas’s arm tightens. “It’s only going to get worse. The stronger he becomes—the more energy he pulls—the weaker and sicker you’re going to be. I can’t stop him until he’s here. I can’t go where he is.”
A solitary tear slips down my cheek. It’s all I care to give the being tormenting me. One tear packed full of fear and resentment.
“I bet this makes me the first girl you’ve ever watched vomit blood,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. It comes off too soft to be funny.
Lucas combs my hair with his fingers. “You’re the first girl who’s ever channeled a demon with a vendetta against me. You shouldn’t have been drawn into this. If I was able to enter where he is, you wouldn’t be his way of getting to me. You also wouldn’t be my way of reaching him.”
Something in his voice catches me off guard. “Do I hear regret?”
“Don’t push it,” he mumbles.
I can’t help it; I laugh.
Nausea slams into me again, out of nowhere, and the laughter ends on choking sobs.
Lucas rushes to help. I heave over and over until there’s nothing left. Until I’m a crumpled mess of weakness. As limp as the washcloth.
Blood and anguish.
A burning pain replaces the nausea in my gut, and I cry out.
Growling, Lucas stands, dragging me up with him. “Damn you, Levi.”
Without bothering to ask, he tugs my shirt up and off. Drained, my head hangs, my gaze falling on fresh claw marks on my skin, deeper than the ones that had been there before. Blood drips from the wound, the liquid soaking into the band of my jeans.
Lucas unbuttons my pants.
“What are you doing?” I try struggling, but spots dance before my eyes.
“Remember earlier when I suggested we have sex?” he asks while dragging my jeans down over my thighs. “Maybe you ought to have taken me up on the offer. Into the shower with you.” He leaves my bra and underwear on, but everything else goes.
Near the bathroom’s entrance is a small stand-up shower. Lucas slides the beveled glass door open and steps inside, bringing me with him. The stall is barely big enough for one person, much less two, but this doesn’t deter him.
“Hold on for me, Harper.” Resting my hand on the bar inside, he releases me, and with a swiftness that doesn’t help my lightheadedness, he sheds his clothes, chucks them outside, and slides the door shut.
“What—?” He turns on the shower, and the initial blast of cold water tears a yelp out of me that drowns out any protests.
Pulling me against him, all of him, Lucas slides his hands over my wound. “I can’t stop the nausea, but this I can fix.”
Cool heat flares where he touches me. Blood mingles with water at our feet.
The world spins away from me, making all of this seem surreal: his hands against my skin, the warming water pounding us, the blood, and the sensations pouring through me.
Lucas slips his fingers into the sides of my panties, and when I don’t fight him, he slides them down before unsnapping my bra.
His arms circle me, steam rising around us.