Angel Fire East Read Free

watery gray as they blinked at her. When he smiled, as he was doing, his whole face seemed to join in, creasing cheerfully from forehead to chin. He was taller than Nest by several inches, and he stooped as if to make up for the disparity.
    She was reminded suddenly of an old-time preacher, the kind that appeared in southern gothics and ghost stories, railing against godlessness and mankind’s paucity of moral resolve.
    “Good morning,” he said, his voice gravelly and deep. He dipped his head slightly, reaching up to touch the brim of his odd hat.
    “Good morning,” she replied.
    “Miss Freemark, my name is Findo Gask,” he announced. “I am a minister of the faith and a bearer of the holy word.”
    As if to emphasize the point, he held up a black, leather-bound tome from which dangled a silken bookmark.
    She nodded, waiting. Somehow he knew her name, although she had no memory of meeting him before.
    “It is a fine, grand morning to be out and about, so I won’t keep you,” he said, smiling reassuringly. “I see you are on your way to church. I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of a young lady and her time of worship. Take what comfort you can in the moment, I say. Ours is a restless, dissatisfied world, full of uncertainties and calamities and impending disasters, and we would do well to be mindful of the fact that small steps and little cautions are always prudent.”
    It wasn’t so much the words themselves, but the way in which he spoke them that aroused a vague uneasiness in Nest. He made it sound more like an admonition than the reassurance it was intended to be.
    “What can I do for you, Mr. Gask?” she asked, anxious for him to get to the point.
    His head cocked slightly to one side. “I’m looking for a man,” he said. “His name is John Ross.”
    Nest started visibly, unable to hide her reaction. John Ross. She hadn’t seen or communicated with him for more than ten years. She hadn’t even heard his name spoken by anyone but Pick.
    “John Ross,” she repeated flatly. Her uneasiness heightened.
    The old man smiled. “Has he contacted you recently, Miss Freemark? Has he phoned or written you of late?”
    She shook her head no. “Why would he do that, Mr. Gask?”
    The smile broadened, as if to underline the silliness of such a question. The watery gray eyes peered over her shoulder speculatively. “Is he here already, Miss Freemark?”
    A hint of irritation crept into her voice. “Who are you, Mr. Gask? Why are you interested in John Ross?”
    “I already told you who I am, Miss Freemark. I am a minister of the faith. As for my interest in Mr. Ross, he has something that belongs to me.”
    She stared at him. Something wasn’t right about this. The air about her warmed noticeably, changed color and taste and texture. She felt a roiling inside, where Wraith lay dormant and dangerously ready, the protector chained to her soul.
    “Perhaps we could talk inside?” Findo Gask suggested.
    He moved as if to enter her home, a subtle shift of weight from one foot to the other, and she found herself tempted simply to step aside and let him pass. But she held her ground, the uneasiness becoming a tingling in the pit of her stomach. She forced herself to look carefully at him, to meet his eyes directly.
    The tingling changed abruptly to a wave of nausea.
    She took a deep, steadying breath and exhaled. She was in the presence of a demon.
    “I know what you are,” she said quietly.
    The smile stayed in place, but any trace of warmth disappeared. “And I know what you are, Miss Freemark,” Findo Gask replied smoothly. “Now, is Mr. Ross inside or isn’t he?”
    Nest felt the chill of the winter air for the first time and shivered in spite of herself. A demon coming to her home with such bold intent was unnerving. “If he was, I wouldn’t tell you. Why don’t you get off my porch, Mr. Gask?”
    Findo Gask shifted once more, a kind of settling in that indicated he had no intention of moving