Demon Fire (The Angel Fire Book 3) Read online

  Demon Fire

  Angel Fire, Book 3

  Marie Johnston

  LE Publishing

  Copyright © 2021 by Marie Johnston

  Editing by Razor Sharp Editing

  Proofing by MBE, Deaton Author Services, and Judy’s Proofing

  Cover Art by Mayhem Cover Creations

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Marie Johnston

  She betrayed her kind and was exiled from her realm. When Sierra is dumped in a snowy forest before an impending blizzard, that should be the end of the newly fallen angel.

  Boone wanted isolation. He wanted peace. He wanted to be left the hell alone. But a last-minute trip before he’s stormed in for days turns up more than spare wood and a rabbit in his snare. He finds an unconscious and bloody woman.

  Sierra’s realm might have erased her existence, but that doesn’t mean she’s been forgotten by those who want to use her for their own means. Demons have found her, and sticking around puts Boone at risk, the one man who makes her think she might deserve more than shame.

  Boone’s not going to let his fallen angel go. But going on the run with Sierra means discovering a terrifying new world, one with monsters who aren’t much different than the ones who killed his family. He barely survived then. Will this time end up killing them both?

  Chapter 1

  If the world were fair, Boone Reamer wouldn’t be squirreled away in the Montana mountains, miles away from nosy people and their “Are you doing okay?” questions. If the world were fair, there wouldn’t be a snowstorm barreling down on his little cabin, keeping him isolated just the way he wanted, but also the way he hated. If the world were fair, he wouldn’t be staring down at a rumpled, bleeding woman who for all intents and purposes seemed to have been dropped in the middle of nowhere.

  And if his luck weren’t shit, he wouldn’t have decided to check his snares before the bad weather bore down and dumped its load of heavy, wet snow on him and he wouldn’t have found this . . . person.

  “Hey. You alive?” It wasn’t a stupid question, but he felt foolish asking it. He strapped his rifle over his back and adjusted the strap over his puffy winter parka. He leaned over her. There was no way she was alive. All that blood? No.

  Was he hoping she was dead?

  Either way, he’d have law enforcement crawling up his ass. Someone might google him and figure out who he was. Then he’d get those looks. The ones full of pity. The offers of help that he didn’t want or need.

  If this woman was alive, he could drive her far enough to meet up with EMS, be nothing more than a Good Samaritan, and be on his way. He’d be quickly forgotten. The sooner he could be left the hell alone in his cabin, the better.

  Alive was better. Alive was also better because he wasn’t a heartless bastard. He hadn’t dedicated his life to protecting the innocent only to lose his damn soul in the middle of Montana.

  “Hey,” he tried again.

  The woman didn’t twitch. Her slight body was crumpled in the snow, her back a bloodied mess, like someone had carved their initials on either side of her spine, tossed a burlap sack over her shoulders, and poofed her here. He couldn’t see her face, but she had a short mass of dirty-blond hair that looked dirtier against the pristine snow. She was on the petite side, but most women seemed small to his six foot two. Her bare legs were pale but that could be due to the cold. Any longer and they’d probably turn blue.

  He squatted, his keen gaze searching the area around her. Large tracks were in the snow, but only by her body. They didn’t extend out. The guy—and from the size of the footprints, it had to be a guy—hadn’t dragged her. He hadn’t carried her. He hadn’t walked any fucking where but stood in this spot and left.

  How had the mystery man pulled that off?

  Boone adjusted his stocking hat and puffed out a breath. Condensation fogged up from his mouth. He was done with police work. This wasn’t his problem. Getting her to safety was. The cops could deal with the rest.

  “Hey, lady,” he called louder.

  Reaching out, he paused with his hand over the woman’s shoulder. For over two years, he’d been away from civilization, doing nothing more than grabbing a few groceries every other week. This moment loomed over him, more momentous than it had a right to be.

  For fuck’s sake. She was dying and he was taking his time?

  He tapped the stiff, cold shoulder. “Hey. Lady.”

  She let out a low moan.

  He blew out a hard breath and ran his hand over his black stocking hat. She was alive, then. He should check for a pulse or something. How quickly he’d lost those instincts, but it wasn’t like he’d had to use them recently.

  “Can you walk?” His voice grated from disuse and he cleared his throat. The few times he’d gone into town, he’d said nothing more than “Yes, please” and “No, thanks.”

  The woman shifted, a move as weak as the sun behind the thick clouds overhead.

  He’d have to carry her. Good thing he traveled light otherwise. He had his rifle, and under his snow pants, he had two knives strapped to his hip. His parka pockets were loaded with trail mix and a cell phone—because as much as he didn’t want to deal with people, he also didn’t want to hurt himself and become wolf kibble in the mountains.

  “I’m going to pick you up.” He said it so loud it startled a bird out of the trees to his left. The caws died in the wind and snow drifted down from the disrupted branches to land soundlessly on the ground.

  The woman didn’t respond.

  He considered the best way to transport her. He did not think about how he’d have to bring her back to his place. His sanctuary. No one else had been there since he’d moved in, since he’d put his suitcase down and tucked away his tormented memories as he stepped over the threshold.

  But his pickup was as cold as the dirt in his driveway. The woman needed to warm up. He’d call for help from his cabin.

  It’d been a long time since he’d been in a position to save someone. He’d constructed a new life, one in which he wasn’t responsible for anyone or anything. He didn’t even have a fucking dog—a stupid idea in a place where bears got a little too comfortable around humans.

  Damn. He’d rather save a dog than this lady. He didn’t want her to die, he just didn’t want her to be his problem.

  She needed to get out of the snow. Shrugging his rifle strap over his head, he set the weapon down, away from the woman, and took his coat off. The cold barely touched him through his red flannel shirt. He draped the coat over her body and put the rifle back over his head against his back. He steeled himself and wedged his arms under her, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t pick her up without jostling her wounded back. A sharp gasp emanated from the mystery woman and she stiffened. She jerked her head around, her eyes wide, frantic.

 
He opened his mouth to tell her to calm the fuck down. He had to get her out of here before a nasty storm covered her in two feet of snow, but—

  Her ethereal eyes were the loveliest shade of blue he’d ever seen. Tiny flecks of yellow deep in her irises sparkled like a thousand city lights under the cloud-covered sky.

  Just as quickly as it had happened, her eyelids slid closed and she went limp once again.

  He still didn’t move, afraid to cause her more pain, afraid she’d pierce him with those cornflower beauties that came too damn close to making him wish for things he had no business thinking about.

  A gust of wind kicked up, stirring the loose top layer of snow and swirling it around him and the woman.

  The storm.

  He’d be slow as it was carrying another human being. Delaying any longer just because she had really pretty eyes wasn’t helping either of them out. It’d be a race to make it back to his cabin before the weather made it too difficult for an ambulance to make it out to him.

  As he carefully gathered her into his arms, he adjusted his coat and searched the rest of her body for obvious signs of injuries. Nowhere else was bloody, not like her back. He turned her over his shoulder to keep the pressure off her back and took one last look at the ground where she’d been lying. Nothing that’d give him a clue about who she was and how she’d ended up in the middle of the forest with nothing more than a sack to cover her.

  Where had this angel come from?

  Sierra struggled against the sweet lure of consciousness. Memories settled in place like a losing game of Tetris, showing her that she hadn’t been good enough to win at life. She’d played a hard game, tried to fit in, but the secrets had piled up too fast until she’d lost. She wasn’t ready to face the dismal circumstances of her new life. The closer she crawled out of the depths of nothing, the more she hurt.

  Pain seared her back like out-of-control lightning up and down her body. She deserved it. Deserved all of it.

  Especially losing her wings. Having them carved out of her was just the tip of what she was owed.

  A male had lost his legs because of her. His position in society. His purpose.

  They were angels, as immortal as a being could get. Yet she’d cost an immortal his limbs, thanks to angel fire and the intel she had given the enemies of her realm.

  A product of my birth.

  She’d tried so hard to be what her father had wanted her to be.

  The memory of a tall shadow prowling around from behind her, boots crunching in the gravel, rose in her mind. Winger—aptly named, as he was the one responsible for physically cutting her downy, dark gray wings off. He was also the one responsible for wherever the hell she’d ended up.

  “As per our laws, I’ve dumped you somewhere on Earth. A place where you have no friends, no family, no connections. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that as a fallen, you can have no contact with any angel from Numen. You can’t talk to them, and if they talk to you, they risk becoming like you—alone, pathetic, and bleeding in a heap.”

  She hadn’t had the energy to look around. Light had pained her eyes, the agony in her back making everything hurt. The cold blunted it. Winger had abandoned her in some winter hell, as if he’d known she used to sit outside and soak up the rays, thankful for each day she had the opportunity to do so.

  A sardonic laugh had rasped from her cracked lips after Winger had finished his declaration. Ow. Another part of her body in agony. Another memory that was crystal clear. She’d gnawed her lips raw trying to remain strong as her connection to the only home she’d ever known was sawed away.

  Brutality and pain. It was inevitable. She caused it; she reaped it.

  “Find something funny?” Winger’s voice had dripped with hate. A male she once used to joke around with had showed her no friendliness—and no mercy.

  Wouldn’t he like to know what she found tragically humorous? Wouldn’t the whole realm of Numen like to know? But a stubborn part of her had held out. She should’ve learned her lesson and done whatever she could to protect her home, the place she’d sworn to protect as a warrior. But she’d held back. Letting her realm—her former realm—learn her deep, dark secrets would do her no good.

  So she hadn’t answered and he’d left with a disgusted snarl, ascending back to Numen, a home she could never return to. She no longer had the ability, even should she wish to. And she didn’t wish to. Not at all.

  Maybe if she weren’t such a shitty liar, she wouldn’t have found herself in this dire situation.

  Something crackled. Her senses started firing and the smell of smoke tickled her nose. Her fingers were no longer blissfully numb. They ached, along with the rest of her body, but she wasn’t cold.

  That didn’t make sense. She’d been outside in the snow. Now she wasn’t and it wasn’t due to any effort of her own.

  She kept her eyes closed as she took in her surroundings, learning as much as she could while playing dead.

  Crackling, interspersed with pops. A fire. She kept her breathing steady. The smoky smell was fresh, seeped into the very fibers of her surroundings. She didn’t get to experience a real fire too often. Over the years, she’d traveled and experienced the pleasantness of a hearth fire. But there was no need at home—

  Her heart wrenched. Not home.

  She took another measured breath, refraining from a deep inhale. Other than the campfire smell, there were hints of pine and soap and not much else.

  Where was she?

  “You can pretend you’re still sleeping,” a deep voice rumbled, making her jerk, then hiss as pain flared through her back. She winced as her dry lips cracked. “Or you can open your eyes and help us both get some answers.”

  His voice, whomever it belonged to, held no hint of humor. As serious as a gravestone, he spoke evenly, but she couldn’t escape the feeling that he was hiding an exorbitant amount of emotion. So much that it was smothering him.

  Maybe she was just imprinting her own feelings onto him.

  She opened her eyes and blinked. The place wasn’t bright. The only light came from the fire crackling on the other side of the room. The walls of her new shelter were made of large brown logs. One wall was two feet from her and there was no furniture, not even a small end table. Just enough room for someone to walk around the bed and slide in. The owner of the voice had propped her on her side, leaving her back blissfully free of pressure.

  The bed itself was nice. Soft and cozy, made more so by the plush blankets piled on top of her. Between the fire and how close the man sounded, she was either in the bedroom of a cabin, or the cabin was one room in its entirety. She suspected the latter.

  “Who are you?” Her voice cracked. Her mouth was dry and her tongue woolly. How long had she been out?

  “Just a guy living in the middle of nowhere who found an unconscious woman in the middle of nowhere.”

  Explaining that would be tricky. If he was human—which was likely—he would have her committed if she told him the truth. Or if he believed her at all, then he’d despise her as much as she despised herself. If he wasn’t human and had saved her, then he was probably Numen and she’d risk his standing in Numen society if she told him she was fallen. If he wasn’t human, then he was from Daemon and she had bigger problems than how to explain herself.

  Her heart rate kicked up as her mind whirled over how she could defend herself. Her breath eked out of her. Would she defend herself? For what? She had nothing but her body and she couldn’t summon enough energy to care about it. Those weeks spent imprisoned in her realm, when she hadn’t talked to anyone, had given her time to think. Time to reflect on what little she’d contributed in her forty-eight years. Young for an angel, but she’d been a warrior.

  And now she wasn’t.

  Curiosity propelled her next question. Winger would’ve ensured she’d been put nowhere anyone could help her. “Does this ‘just a guy’ have a name?”

  “Boone.”

  “Boone,” she rasped, te
sting the name out. It told her nothing about the type of male he was. “First or last name?”

  “Does it matter?”

  She chuffed out a breath and fire laced down her spine, seizing the air in her throat.

  “You’re in pain.” Not a question. He must’ve seen the damage.

  “Stings a bit.”

  She got the impression he nodded, but he was sitting out of her line of sight, likely on purpose. Maybe he thought it gave him an advantage. Maybe he feared her, though from his steady voice, she doubted it. Maybe he didn’t want to scare her.

  He could’ve left her, but he hadn’t. He might be some sadistic asshole who wanted to use her in terrible ways. She tried to summon some fear.

  She was unsuccessful. Did she even care what happened to her?

  “Your name?” he asked.

  Her lips twitched, but she paused. He didn’t know who she was, and she doubted he had any idea what she was. She was no longer Numen. No longer a warrior. She was fallen. Fallen didn’t last long on Earth. Except for Jameson, though he was dead now too.

  The thought of Jameson was the shiny cherry topping her mountain of shame. How could she have done what she had with him?

  Duh. Because she was no better than him.

  Maybe a little better. He’d fallen and turned more thoughtless and awful than he’d been in Numen. She wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t do anything. That way, she couldn’t hurt anyone else.

  This could be a new start.

  She shoved that traitorous thought away. She was who she was and she wouldn’t forget what she’d done, or who she’d done when she was at her lowest point in life.