Page 14 of Calling All Angels
“Winston. He’s been alone since…all this. I have to go home. You need to help me get me there.”
“We’ve been over this—”
“Yeah,” she said. “That might fly if I hadn’t already been outside the hospital, a thousand feet away. But here I am. And…there I am. Nothing went haywire. I think you’re just making it up that it’s dangerous for me to be separated from my body.”
“Do ye now?”
“Yes.”
“Are ye always this much trouble, Emma?”
She lifted her chin. “Absolutely.”
Might’ve known.Once a troubled soul, always a troubled soul. Connor slouched down into the chair beside her bed, slinging one knee over the armrest. “And what exactly do ye think you’ll do once you get to your place? Ye canna feed the wee cat. Ye know that, right?”
“But you can.”
“Beg your pardon?”
She knelt beside his chair, folding her hands prayerfully atop his knee in a most disconcerting way. Or, rather, her hands atop his knee had the most disconcerting effect on him. “You can be seen if you want. You said so. You can be physical if the situation calls for—”
He practically snorted. “Not for a cat.”
“For Winston you can. He’s very special. He—”
“I’m allergic.”
Her lips parted with a look of incredulity. “No, you’re not.”
“Aye, I am.”
“You’re not even human,” she pointed out. “That’s impossible.”
Not even—? Blast the woman! He rolled to his feet to pace the perimeter of the small room. “You’re right. I’m not. Allergic.”
She frowned. “Then why not?”
“Just…no,” he snapped.
She studied him for a full ten seconds with a perplexed expression before a grin appeared on her lips. “No,” she said. “Wait. You’re not afraid of cats, are you?”
He pulled a face, then turned away from her. “I am not.”
“Youare.”
He spun to find her colliding into him, but he caught her by the arms to set her away from him. “No, I am not.”
Emma bit her cheek to contain her smile. “Prove it.”
Oh, he was going to have a talk with Roland about this assignment, all right, and sooner rather than later. But before she could accuse him of anything else, he took her by the arm and transported her to the stoop of her front porch.
Off-balance, Emma swayed beside him and blinked hard as if trying to clear the dizziness from her head. She glanced up at her front door, then at the street behind them, then pressed her fingers to her temples. “How…how did you do that?”
“Never mind,” he said. “You’re here. Let’s get on wi’ it.”
Emma stared at the door. “How good are you at picking locks?”
He gave her a condescending look. In the next instant, they were inside, standing in the foyer—staring at the contents of every drawer, shelf, and table strewn all over the floor of her living room. Every piece of furniture was upended or torn open. Every cupboard emptied. Every picture frame smashed and shattered on the floor.
