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And into Tomas Martinez's competent arms.
"You could come for individual counseling," Father Gregory had been saying moments before. "Or you
could join one of our groups."
Tomas, unsettled by how the priest hadn't been able to see anything unusual in Marcy's apartment, was
barely listening. Were he and Marcy Bridges crazy? The burned red slash on his hand said differently,
priest or no priest.
Maybe Father Gregory was just too godly to recognize something that evil& which also said interesting
things about Tomas and Marcy.
"It might do you some good to share your challenges with others," the priest continued over the rumble
of the arriving elevator.
Arriving?
Hadn't Tomas turned it off and put an out-of-order sign on it? He wondered what meddling tenant had
been messing with a broken elevator& or one that was supposedly broken.
Then a cage of pure flame rose to the third floor and someone stood in the center of it, weirdly
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untouched.
Marcy!
Tomas didn't stop to think. He tore open the door, iron grillwork burning his palms, and reached into the
flame. His hands closed on Marcy's shoulders and he yanked her clear, backing quickly away.
Only as her arms closed desperately around him did he realize that he wasn't injured. The grillwork had
been hot, but not injurious. And Marcy
He pushed her back from him, oddly reluctant to do so, but needing to see. She wasn't burned either.
Not at all. Her pale skin had a feverish flush of pink about it, but her brown hair and wide, winsome lips
seemed untouched. How was that possible?
Were they really imagining& ?
But Father Gregory, Tomas now saw, was staring, horrified, at the flaming elevator. No& he was
staring at the creature that the flames created. Fire. Horns. Darkness.
"In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit," the priest said, hoarse, "I command thee to be
gone!"
Two coal-like eyes in the midst of the flaming form seemed to spark with unearthly emotion.
"In the name of the Lord and all the saints," insisted Father Gregory, extending the crucifix that hung
around his neck, "I command thee, be gone!"
And in a puff of smoke it was.
Just like that.
Marcy, with a mew that wrung Tomas's heart, ducked her head back into his chest. He not only let her,
he closed his arms around her, tight. Possessive.
What the hell was that?
And why did Marcy feel so good?
"Thank you, Father," he said belatedly.
The priest did not sayyou're welcome . He was too busy clutching his crucifix and staring at the empty
elevator. "Good God."
That's what Tomas hoped, anyway.
"You weren't making it up," said Father Gregory, bending to lean into the iron cage, looking more
closely for signs of fire damage. "This is really happening."
With a little snuffle, Marcy turned her head so that her cheek, instead of her nose, was smooshed against
Tomas's chest. When Tomas tucked his chin to better see her, she looked confused. Then her eyes
widened. "No!"
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Tomas looked back but not in time to stop a spiral of flame, from the center of the elevator,
surrounding the priest&
And vanishing with him.
"No!" screamed Marcy again, but it sure wasn't making a lot of difference.
All but paralyzed, she watched Tomas launch himself into a full-body dive for the priest. Flames
swallowed the clergyman too quickly, with an audible pop, leaving nothing to tackle. Tomas landed
hands first, somersaulting with his momentum, and crashed into the barred, back wall of the elevator.
Then, pushing himself up into a sprawled sit, he swore.
Darkly.
It was Spanish, but Marcy got the gist. She also saw that he was in the elevator. "Get out!"
He lifted his furious tiger eyes, half-lost under long strands of dark hair, to meet her gaze.
"Tomas, get out! What if it conies back?" She reached for him but from a safe distance, several feet
back from the cursed contraption. She wanted to step forward, to pull him out. She wanted to be a
person of action, like him.
After her ordeal with the demon, she couldn't seem to make her feet move.
"Please," she whispered, hot tears finally welling out of her eyes and down her cheeks without
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