Demon Fire (Angel Fire #3) - Marie Johnston Page 0,10

snow pants.

She frowned. He was still outside?

She bypassed the bed. Her back tightened up, pulling at the scabs that remained. She ached with the effort not to crawl beneath the covers and try to forget who she was and what she’d done.

At the chest of drawers, she found a new shirt of his and a pair of sweats she’d swim in. With enough rolling and tucking and tying, she got them to stay on. Her heart hammered from the effort, but she didn’t dare sit on the bed. She had to keep going.

She made it to the kitchen, which was a trek measured in feet, not yards or meters. Her stomach rumbled. Between the fatigue, the mental fog, and her constant nausea, she’d rarely experienced true hunger since her fall.

She was starving.

Searching the few cupboards on either side of the oven, she found the oats that Boone was so fond of. A little brown sugar would make all the difference, but the cupboards were like the rest of the cabin. Plain and uncluttered.

Other than the oats, she found baking supplies like flour, along with staples like rice and pasta. Jars of tomato sauce and cans of vegetables. The freezer wasn’t any more exciting, but he had some meat packaged in white butcher paper. Since she found rolls of butcher paper in a cupboard, she assumed the meat was from Boone’s hunting efforts and not a grocery store.

In Numen, she got food from the market. Angels who had assumed servile roles in the realm procured all the items they needed, mostly fruit and vegetables, some grains, and the occasional chicken breast. They either grew it or transported it from the human realm. Food broke up the days, brought loved ones together.

Sierra had often eaten on Earth, preferring the variety. And the isolation. In the home base her team would help her make, she had stared at screens all day. She’d learned to cook during the longer missions.

Skills that were more useful to her now than knowing ten ways to kill a demon.

She dug out meat labeled pheasant and wished for a little internet. A pheasant might be a bird, but did she treat it like chicken?

It was getting treated like chicken. Thankfully, Boone had used scant counter space for a microwave. While she thawed the bird, she came up with a side of pasta and tomato sauce. In between thaw cycles, she wandered to the windows.

Where was he?

Her back ached and sleepiness weighed down her eyelids. Her stamina had turned to shit. She shook herself and stretched her arms to the side, then over her head. The pleasure-pain the slow moves caused was worth it.

Boone had been right. This needed to be done.

She dug out the flour. Fried pheasant might taste like crap, but that was what they were having. If Boone complained, he should’ve come back.

It took less than an hour to cook the small bird and make her pasta. She didn’t feel right eating without Boone. He’d done so much for her and this was the first time she’d done anything in return.

Where was he?

She left the food and went to the coat rack. His parka was long enough to fall to her knees. His spare pair of boots would be enough to keep her warm as she searched for him. Light was fading fast and she was no longer immortal. If she was going to look for him, it had to be now.

Outside, she sucked in a breath. Damn, it was cold. Air wicked across her face, stealing all heat. Her breath puffed out around her. The world was still, like all life had frozen. So quiet, she could either forget everything that had happened, or do nothing but remember it.

She worked on forgetting as she slogged around the cabin in boots that were too big. Snow had been meticulously cleared from the door and windows, all the way down the drive that disappeared between towering evergreens. They weren’t as close as she expected, not having bothered to look out the windows. They were massive and spread out, kind of like Montana itself.

“Boone?” Behind the cabin was a shed. No wonder he’d cleared such a wide path around the cabin.

The shed was actually a garage. Was he in there?

A muffled thump caught her ear. Instead of calling for him, she shuffled toward the noise. The sound wasn’t rhythmic. It sounded more like he was stacking something.

She rounded the back of the garage. A massive wood pile was haphazardly