Demon Fire (The Angel Fire Book 3) by Marie Johnston (top 10 novels of all time TXT) 📕

“Okay.” A bag hit the floor and Sierra jumped. The demon had marched out of the bedroom and headed straight for the recliner. “I’m packed, but I need a minute. This heart is fluttering like a billion butterflies.”

He flopped into the chair and peered at her, the host’s eyes narrowing. “What the hell are you doing?”

A crack wrenched the back door open and a man holding a matte-black gun stormed inside.

Who the hell was Sierra? How the hell did she know Alma? And why the hell had she left after a clandestine bathroom conversation?

Boone hadn’t followed Sierra and the old lady here. He’d let her go, disbelief rooting him in place as she hooked her arm around Alma’s and walked out the damn pharmacy and away from him.

But he hadn’t needed to follow her. He’d made free use of the small-town gossip line. After Sierra had left with the lady he’d never seen before, he’d bought a soda and candy bar and made a comment about not having seen her in a while, leaving the her in question nebulous. As he’d hoped, the cashier, who was a good twenty-five years older than his thirty-eight, had filled in a lot of blanks about Alma. Alma Swanson had lost her husband eighteen years ago, kept to herself, and lived on the edge of town. Using his knowledge of what businesses were where, he’d managed to get the address out of the cashier.

Oh, you mean by the old insurance office that’s now a coffee shop?

Yes, Alma’s two straight blocks north of that. Merle used to work there when it was an insurance place.

I’d like to drop by and check on her yard, make sure she’s doing okay. Is it the blue house, or white? The two most popular house colors in any small towns.

Alma hires out the neighbor kid, but I’m sure she’d appreciate the effort. And Merle had the house painted green a few years before he died. I’m so glad he was around long enough to see how cute the new look was.

Ah, small towns. He’d found Alma’s house without a problem.

He was parked a block away. Alma’s old beater was parked out front. Why not use the one-stall garage attached to the small farm-style house?

He pondered the question way too long—no automatic garage door? The space was filled with decades of memories? They were leaving ASAP? The questions kept his mind off of why he was parked and spying on Sierra in the first place. She was nothing to him.

Yet his world had revolved around her for the last two months. He’d planned on helping her, and the whole time he’d stood by the door of the drug store while she supposedly took a pregnancy test, he’d thought about what it would mean. He’d be helping a pregnant lady. Not only was Sierra’s welfare in his hands, but so was a baby’s.

Then she’d left and he’d been angry and worried and full of questions. He had no idea what had happened to her and who had left her with those scars, or who’d abandoned her pregnant in the snow. He didn’t think she was the type to up and leave, but she seemed to know Alma.

But Sierra and Alma weren’t friendly. His intuition screamed that something was off about the old lady. The same sense of wrongness flared whenever he thought back to how tense Sierra had acted around the woman. She’d left the drugstore like someone’s life depended on it.

How could an old woman coerce Sierra to leave him?

He needed to make sure she was all right. He’d left home for work that day years ago, thinking his world would be fine when it had ended hours later.

He peered at the house. Every other house on the block was a similar style to Alma’s. Old, square, farmhouse-style structures. Some were two stories, some had two-car garages, others had none. A few were smaller, but several were larger, wider. All of them had their curtains open in the middle of the damn day. Except for Alma’s.

His gaze dropped to his shoes. Since he’d quit work, he no longer carried a weapon in his vehicle. His hunting rifle and shotgun were at the cabin. For a fleeting second, he wished he had a sidearm again.

Alma had to be pushing eighty. Why the hell was he thinking about being armed?

He fisted his hands on his thighs. The street was quiet for the middle of the week. At the end of the block, a man veered around the corner. He marched, heedless of any icy patches, his gaze glued to the green house Boone had been watching.

The man got closer.

Jim?

What was Jim from the sporting goods store doing out for a walk around Alma’s place?

Jim plowed through a neighbor’s yard and charged through the bushes separating the properties into Alma’s backyard. Snow from the branches rained down on his head and shoulders but that didn’t slow him down.

How were these three people connected? Did Sierra know Jim too? Alma and Jim had to know each other. They’d both lived in Green Valley for years.

It was time for some answers. Boone got out and eyed the front door. Did he just walk up and knock? What would he say? Hey, I’d love to know what’s going on.

As he approached, muted sounds of a crash came from the back of the house. He knew the sound of a door getting busted in. Was that from Jim?

He trotted through the yard, using Jim’s footprints to plow through the snow in less time. The screen door hung off a hinge. Boone scanned the backyard. Tall evergreens cut off the view of the yard behind Alma’s house, and the neighbors each had rows of shaggy lilacs that blocked their view.

Stalking closer to the door, he went as fast as he dared. If he went barreling in, with or without a weapon, he could create more problems.

Scuffles reached him. A grunt.