Chapter 4 (Clare)

Clare gasped and snared at the sound, knowing without a doubt she had awoken someone.

The rose chose that moment to poke her, she cursed and slapped a hand over her mouth. Slipping the rose from her breast she dropped it carelessly on the bench nearest to the door.

The holy place was much bigger on the inside than it looked, with stained glass windows of at least a meter and a half on the right. Various shades of neutrals colored the Altar floors. And a deep brown wood finish made up the rest of the church's flooring. High stretched ceilings that crossed with wooden beams left no place for ceiling lights. A soft glow from the candles on the side walls showed the pole-styled lampshades at the end of every second row of wooden benches.

Hearing faint voices coming from outside, she moved toward the Altar. Just people walking past, was her first thought. She dismissed the voices until they became clearer. For reasons she knew came solely from hearing bad stories about South Africa, she felt the urge to hide. Not wasting a second to think, Clare ran to the middle aisle of wooden seats bumping her knee in the process. It didn’t slow her rush to the row of seats. Or the speed her heart was racing.

Ducking under one of the plank benches she sent a silent thanks to herself for being thin. The throb in her knee protested the cramped space. It was a stark reminder not to jinx her luck. The louder the voices grew, the faster her heartbeat. She drew in a long breath. Without releasing the air which now filled her lungs, she froze at the loud screeching sound of the church doors opening.

The people were moving with a speed that said they were in a rush. Their boots clattered the ground like a pack of soldiers competing to the beat that drummed in her chest.

Where they would've been rushing too, Clare couldn't figure out. It’s a church for crying out loud, and after midnight, she harrumphed inwardly.

At the sound of a male voice, someone in their twenties, she tried to sneak a peep. Not wanting to get caught, her attempt was futile. She wouldn't take the chance. After all she was no fool to late nights, these people could be killers.

Though this particular guy spiked her curiosity because he sounded more like her, American. With an eagerness to his tone his voice drew louder, “We need the extra weapons Alonso, demons are pouring in by the day, Azazel’s loose doing hell knows what.”

Pause, more walking, shuffling, “We have no help from the other realms since the attacks. Four found dead in the last forty-eight hours and descendants are still blaming each other, even the Asguardians are now hiding.”

He was no doubt American, someone educated, if his proper tone was something to go by. The words however, though spoken in English sounded more gibberish to Clare’s ears. Was it her imagination or did she walk in on a movie set. But that voice, she had this vision or was it a sense of recognition, and as fast as it came, it vanished.

The clearer the voice became, the faster her heart raced. What were they talking about, she prayed they weren’t drunk.

After minutes that felt like hours, she heard another guy, “Taking weapons from the dead isn’t the smartest of your plans, Nathan, the Garde won’t be as forgiving as the last time.”

The silence which followed was intense before the second talker said, “Listen, man, you just nervous about tomorrow, you not thinking.”

Nathan’s growl warning sounded so inhuman, she almost stumbled in the small space, “Stop telling me what I am, and what to do,” his voice got nearer, harder, “I’m older than you, which means you do as I say.” Pause, “You'll make a good Garde one day but you will still take orders from me.”

Feeling like a hammer was knocking nails in her chest from holding her breath, she released her lungful of air. The cramps in her legs from being in a constant crouch fought to be subsided. Clare couldn't take the pins and needles prodding beneath the skin in her limbs much longer. The sensation of her calf being crushed made her grit her teeth.

She listened attentively to the sound of heels thumping fast, down towards the aisle near where she hid. It was an attempt to block out her body's feelings. Clare scrunched up her face because it wasn't working as well as she’d hoped.

Not able to see anything she instead paid attention to the woman’s sultry voice,

“Men, why must you gauge each other? It’s not like we have a mission together every day. Nathan doesn’t plan on using the weapons. Kalbreal asked him to retrieve it but we need to be quick. The Caster won’t stand by the gates forever.”

The woman paused and lowered her voice, “We are who we are, don’t let everything become a battle. One blood, one cause, one path together makes one soul, forever united, don’t you remember?”

Nathan she presumed was the one who sighed in frustration, “Now’s not the time or place for ceremonial quotes Nadia, let’s get what we came for and get outa here.”

In normal circumstances, Clare would’ve laughed at these people and told them how ridiculous they sounded. But if she didn't change her position and soon, her legs were going to fall off from the feelings attacking them. Trying to do just that she moved her arms first, doing her best to go for that subtle way her mother was able to do things, bit by bit without making a sound.

All was going well until her foot slipped as she moved her leg, hitting her head in the process. A loud yelp escaped her. If her loud ‘ow’ didn't alert them to her presence, the smack across the mouth she gave herself did. She cringed right before she inhaled another breath of air.

It took only seconds before she felt the fingers of a masculine hand curling around her waist lifting her up and spinning her around with an effortless yet aggressive force. Desperate to get away from him she kicked and screamed trying to dislodge his hands from its powerful grip around her waist. But he was huge, like almost 7 feet, and too strong for her to take on.

The church lights went on.

She squeaked, “hey.”

Clare’s heart wanted to collapse with terror when she looked at him. His caramel skin under the dim light was darker than hers. Someone born that way, definitely. And very muscular with broad shoulders resembling a well-groomed German warrior, or maybe a Therian warrior she read about in one of her books. She could see hints of Asian blood by the upper tilts of his eyes, but his American side won out with the strong nose and unusual tall height. Black shoulder-length hair covered his thick eyebrows. Harsh hazel eyes, which now focused furiously on her, wouldn’t define him as handsome. More like scary, crazy dude scary in her book.