“And you don’t worry enough.” The way she glared at him said everything.
He released a long breath, well aware of what everyone said about him. Who the hell gave a shit if he spent his spare time jumping out of a plane or off a building? He loved the adrenaline, and sometimes it was the only way to stop his memories from driving him insane. The memory that reminded him of what he’d done to his girlfriend, Cherri-Anne. How his decision had led to her death. For that, he’d never forgive himself, and that was the number one reason he had to keep his distance from Cyra.
He was there to look out for her as a favor to a friend. Nothing else. Then he could return to his life of catching demons and working on his bike. Simple and mundane. Exactly what he deserved.
Trudging across the lawn, he collected his helmet and motorcycle off the ground. He rolled the bike out of view from anyone looking to steal it and placed it alongside a tree.
A white cat slinked out from behind a shrub and meowed as it approached him. “Lucky you weren’t here a few minutes ago.” He leaned over and scratched it behind the ears.
“Didn’t take you for someone who liked cats.” Cyra bent over to collect a small bag, and his line of sight settled on her firm ass.
“You referring to that macho thing again?” He frowned. “I love animals. My foster parents used to run a rescue shelter.” Yep, he had a soft spot for felines and platinum blondes with long, toned legs clothed in black pinstriped pants, hips for him to hold on to, and a killer body.
When Cyra turned, her gaze narrowed. Gunn stroked the feline and said, “Better hurry along, little one.”
“Anyway, nice seeing you, Gunn.” Cyra picked up a plastic spray bottle from the ground and headed to a window. “But I’m here to work, not chat.”
Her stubbornness turned him on. She might use her bravado to push people away, but for him, it did the opposite. “Sweet. I’m here for the same reason.”
She spun toward him. “I don’t think so. This is just a ghost haunting...” Her words died as she focused on a window, lost in thought.
Even with his six-foot-two height towering over her, she didn’t seem to back down from a fight. But he wouldn’t be deterred. “Well, while you cleanse the place with your mojo, no harm in me checking out everything inside the property. Never know, there could be some demonic activity.” He winked at her, and she shook her head.
“My mojo? Right.”
He’d pissed her off with the almost-accidentally-killing-her thing. Sure, he’d be mad, too, but how was he supposed to know she’d be out in the yard as he attempted a crash landing? He didn’t want her hating him, so the least he could do was show her he wasn’t the prick she thought he was.
“Look, let’s start again,” he said.
Her mouth opened, but her words faded at the crunch of snow behind him. And her face fell faster than he’d tumbled off the motorcycle. He turned to find an older man in a puffy vest, his face pale and distraught. Must be the homeowner.
“What happened out here?” he gasped, his eyes widening. He scanned Gunn’s bike then the damage to his wall. “I was informed only one person would assist us. This isn’t the place for your boyfriend to visit.”
Her cheeks burned bright red. “Oh, no, no. H-he isn’t my boyfriend,” Cyra fumbled over her words. “He just works with me.”
“Two people attend each job for security reasons,” Gunn blurted out. “Sometimes hauntings can get out of control.” He extended his hand toward the man. “Hi, I’m Gunn, your friendly neighborhood supernatural hunter.”
Cyra rolled her eyes, and the old guy shook his hand, then broke their hold. Yet the darkness beneath the man’s words told Gunn his problems had zilch to do with the torn-up shrubs and skid marks on his wall.
“Everything good?” Gunn asked.
“Of course not.” Cyra turned in his direction. “You messed up his yard, remember?” Facing the man, she said, “Listen, Henry, we’re so sorry. I’ll have the plants replaced and arrange a cleaner to fix the damage.”
But the man wasn’t listening as he kept moving his jaw from side to side, deep in different thoughts. Gunn had worked at Argos for the past five years, catching and bagging demons that claimed people and objects, so he recognized the look on the man’s face. Not that Henry was possessed, but Gunn was familiar with the worrisome fear paralyzing Henry.
“Did you want me to come back another day?” Cyra asked. “I can return on my own after Christmas perhaps.”
“No. I need—”
A blood-curdling scream streamed out from within the house.
The man jolted as if he’d been prodded by electricity and turned toward the front door. “Nora!”
Gunn launched himself past him up the steps and burst into a lavish marble hallway with paintings everywhere. Was he inside an art gallery? His frosty breath floated in front of his face.
When the scream came again, from farther to his left, he darted after the sound, footfalls catching up behind him. He rushed into an enormous living room with fancy red drapes tied at the sides of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Christmas decorations adorned the wall, fairy lights hanging over the display cabinets. Leather couches filled the room and an active fireplace tossed shadows across the plush rug.
In the far corner stood a woman in her late sixties. She had streaked gray hair and was pulling her yellow cardigan around herself. Her skin looked whiter than milk.
Gunn ran toward her, weapon tight in his hand. “Are you hurt?” He scanned her from head to toe, the faint aura around her clear and transparent. Not a single blotch or stain of darkness. Everyone working at Argos had undergone mandatory eye surgery that allowed them to see the dark aura of anyone possessed. Except, this woman was
