Demon Fire (Angel Fire #3) - Marie Johnston Page 0,39

Boone could see was Alma.

By the time the lights of Sin City spread before him, Boone wasn’t sure if he was the only one living in reality, or the only one left out of a great cosmic secret.

These people talked about this world as simply and as detailed as he’d describe his time being an agent and the realities of being undercover.

Sylphs were street dealers. Symasters? They were like the midlevel dealers who ran the street dealers who sold the most drugs. But the middlemen could only play at being the big dog. They didn’t have the connections or the money or, most importantly, the power to control others. Lacking political connections and the ruthlessness to hurt innocent people to make a point, they couldn’t be a drug lord. Archmasters were like drug lords.

Boone propped his elbow by the window and scrubbed his face, his mind buzzing with all the information. Sierra hadn’t told him as much about Numen—she’d made Sandeen tell him what he knew so “the demon” wouldn’t learn anything new about their realm.

She didn’t elaborate on what had happened to her, and neither did Urban or Harlowe. And at no point did she tell the others she was pregnant. She hadn’t confirmed it to him, but when he’d asked about bathroom breaks, she’d given him a knowing look.

She had people after her and instead of getting farther away from danger, they were getting closer.

Harlowe’s tone hadn’t left room for him to argue. He was just the driver.

“Where do I go, you know, since I can’t use my map app? On my phone.” The one they’d made him toss outside of Green Valley. Andy has wicked skills. He might be able to track you.

In for a penny . . .

Boone had gone with it. How far was he going to follow this troupe of . . . He had no name for them. Sierra called Harlowe and Boone warriors. Still angels, but they did something called a morph to hide their wings on Earth. All he knew was that he couldn’t return to his isolated life in the mountains without all the questions eating him alive.

That was the excuse he told himself about why he was driving and nodding at Sierra’s descriptions like of course there were angels and demons and they fought their battles on Earth or an in-between realm called the Mist, not to be confused with the realm between the underworld and Earth.

For fuck’s sake.

Had he been alone too long? Did he crave interaction? Or was it the escape from the regrets of his old life that drove him to stay a part of this group?

One of those had to be the answer. It wasn’t the petite blonde in his passenger seat who vibrated with nerves. She was nervous around the two she claimed were her former teammates. Her suspicion of Sandeen lined her speech toward him. But when she spoke to Boone, she was the same fallen angel he’d rescued from a snowstorm.

Fallen angel. His ironic name was what she claimed was her identity. Kicked out of the realm of angels. She was more comfortable around him than anyone else in the cab. She trusted him.

Why was that so important?

The screen of Harlowe’s phone lit up the inside of the cab. “I’ll give you directions to the safe house Dionna had set up.”

Dionna, their team leader. An angel warrior. Right.

Oh, and Sierra had been a warrior. Trained to fight demons on Earth.

She’d taken on an adult male, supposedly possessed, but Boone had witnessed Jim’s irrational anger himself. Whatever the reason for it, Jim had been armed and was over half a foot taller than Sierra. She’d taken him down in seconds.

Boone hated how their fantasy world matched reality so well.

He couldn’t forget the lack of footprints around where Sierra had lain, abandoned and injured. Injuries that resembled an appendage being cut and torn from her back.

He rubbed his face again, concentrating on Harlowe’s directions. The house was in Henderson and this was his first time in Las Vegas.

He and Phoebe had talked about coming here. He’d never made it a priority. His work had been more important. He’d had the ability to save a lot of people. There had been no need to wear a cape or fly around. All he’d needed were the motorcycle skills he’d learned from his dad before the man had died and his detective skills. He’d only needed to be his gruff, quiet self and the club had opened