What a pity. If ever she met a man who might understand, he wasn't it.

"And if I do?"

He shrugged. "Personally, I've never held much stock in fortunes that are yet to be made or lost."

It was her turn to frown. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He picked up her dusty set of tarot cards. "It means that I think most of this is just for..." He shrugged again.

"Show?" she finished for him. It wasn't all that far from what she herself believed, but yet, the fact he was so condescending about it bothered her.

"Not show exactly, what many believe in, isn't show, but what makes them believe in the first place?"

"A philosopher," she muttered. She huffed a breath and shoved a wayward curl behind her ear and strode to the bookshelf. "You in town for long?"

For a minute he didn't answer. Then he said, "Depends."

He had a deep voice. Why hadn't she noticed before? And it mattered why?

It didn't.

Without looking at him directly, she pulled a book off the bookshelf. Pagan Beliefs and the Resurgence in Modern Civilization. That should do it. She handed it to him. "Here, you can buy this and then let me know all the answers."

"But aren't psychics supposed to know all the answers?"

She glanced at him, angered, yet not surprised. Turning back to the bookshelf she grabbed Harper's Guide to the Psyche: Sensitives. "Here's another one. That'll be..." she quickly added it up in her head, "...thirty-three dollars. Though I need to add tax."

His lips twitched as if he wanted to laugh at her, but didn't. Instead he took the book she held out to him and stacked it with the other one. "I'd like to look around a bit more."

Cora glanced at the clock. It was already after four. "Fine."

She walked to the door and turned the sign over so it read Closed to the outside world. Looking out over the street, she shivered and an image from an old nightmare rose up.

Eyes in jars...

Pretty, pretty angels...

Again she shivered and looked back at the man in her store. Where did he come from? What did he want? And why did she think of her stupid dream now? She'd only had it that once, but it had stayed with her. She studied the man who was now looking through her lotions and shampoos.

A man who knew such things was either gay or in a relationship.

"What scent does your significant other like?" she asked, not wanting to label either way.

He flashed her another smile. "As I'm currently without a significant other, I don't know."

She felt a blush stain her cheeks.

"I thought of getting something for my mother."

"Oh. And what scents does she like?"

A frown appeared between his brows. Cora walked over to him. "She doesn't like things that are too floral, but she's not really into spices either, or too fruity."

"Hmmm..." She looked over the shelves. There was a jasmine one that was popular, but it was very strong. Another was apple blossom, but it was also strong. "Here's one with a light citrus scent." She opened the bottle and let him smell it.

His eyes met hers and the corner of his mouth edged up. "Not bad." She started to pull the bottle back, but he leaned closer and smelled her wrist.

A shiver danced up her arm, down her spine to pool at the base of her back. His eyes held hers. "What kind are you wearing?"

For a minute, she couldn't think. Then shook her head. "The uh-uh..." The bottle slipped from her fingers. Damn it. Not only was she an idiot, she was a klutz too.

They both reached for it and she bumped her head against his, then stumbled back. His hand snaked out and latched onto her arm. "Easy."

She glared at him and jerked her arm. He let her go, but with the momentum, she landed on her ass.

Cora closed her eyes and then picked herself up. "You know, I was just thinking what a quiet and calm day this was. How it was almost closing time and then you walked in."

"Yeah, I know the feeling."

He picked up the lotion and handed it to her, both of them staring at each other.

"Vanilla and nutmeg," she blurted.

"I'm sorry?" he asked, picking his books back up.

She waved to the bottles stacked on their stands. "Vanilla and nutmeg. It's very popular. So is Vanilla Cookies."

A slow grin lit his face. Rolling her eyes, she walked back to the counter. A klutz. Lake would laugh her ass off. Here was the first cute guy in a long while. She glanced back over her shoulder to see him trying out different worry stones and had to admire the way his ass filled out the pair of Levi's.

"You are in sad, sad shape, Cora O'Donnell."

"Did you say something?" He unscrewed the top of another bottle and took a whiff.

"No." She checked the register and rearranged the packaging. Okay, straightened the clear tape and restacked the bolts of ribbon. She could dust the shelves, but she already did.

Cora glanced back over her shoulder, watching him. He moved around the shop, picking up this or that, unfurling material swaths, the few dresses she carried, tie-dyed and slip-like. Then he moved onto the incense. She watched as he picked up the passion one and sniffed.

He sneezed.

She smiled.

He looked at her with an arched brow and rubbed his nose. Then he gestured to the entire shop. "People really buy into all this crap, don't they?"

She narrowed her gaze at him and propped her elbows on the counter. "Why did you stop in here again?"

He rubbed his nose and strolled to the counter. He set the books down and leaned on his elbows as well. "To see you."

She straightened. "Well, you've seen me." She quickly rang up the total for the books.

"The lady down the way said you were psychic."

She'd kill Lake later.

Cora waited. "You going to get those books or not?"

"Don't you know?"

She closed her eyes. "The narrow-minded ass will probably buy the books so he can disprove every point in them." She opened her eyes and smiled at him.

A slight smile played at the edge of his mouth. He dug forty dollars out of his wallet and handed it to her. "Keep the change."

He walked out, pulling shades from his pocket and slipping them on.

Cora let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She hurried over and locked the door. The sun was already low in the sky. She wanted to be home before it set. She didn't like the dark. Not lately.

She stood back from the door, looking out the big picture window and watching as he climbed on his Harley and revved it up. She'd never ridden a motorcycle, let alone a Harley. And he looked liked he knew how to handle that bike.

Shadows were creeping out. She sighed and rubbed her arms, chilled now that she was alone.

Something was coming. What or who, she didn't know, but it was in the air-dark, thick and threatening.

Chapter Six.

He looked down the dark road and then up to the star studded sky reminding him of grade school and art projects with lots of silver glitter.

Silver glitter on black paper.

He looked over his shoulder back towards the lighted window. She was waiting. It was so quiet out here. Here where no one could hear.

He hummed as he looked up, took a drag on his cigarette and wished, just for a moment, things were...normal.

Wishing... He'd go in. She'd have dinner ready. Ready for him, her clothing neat, her hair just so, and no make-up on.

He really hated make-up. It made women look cheap most of the time and too...something the rest of the time. But his angel wouldn't have make-up on, especially not on her eyes. Her lashes would be clean, the lids as translucent as they were created to be. No liner to mar and smear her skin.

No, she was perfection and she was waiting for him inside. Where the warmth wrapped around him, where the fireside beckoned. His dinner would be ready and waiting. She by the stove, the table set.

Smiling. They should always be smiling.

But they never did, did they? Oh they did at first, at first when thought they'd landed a nice, rich man. Someone to feed them, franchise them and fuck them. It's what they wanted. Nothing more, nothing less. It was nice to think he'd take care of them, in their minds, under their terms. However, he wanted to take care of them his way and that always left them fighting him for some reason.

He would never figure it out.

He loved them.

Worshiped them.

Wanted them.

But they didn't always want him, love him or worship him. And in the end, they always looked at him as if they couldn't stand the sight of him.

He frowned and took another drag. He should really quit the disgusting habit. It was bad for him, but it was a vice he always gravitated back to for some unknown reason. He was stressed. And stressed was never a good thing to be.

Taking the last drag, he watched as the cigarette lit bright orange in the night, disintegrating as he sucked the last of the nicotine out of it. He flicked it to the gravel path and crushed it out with the toe of his shoe. Turning, he studied his humble abode.

A traveling businessman always worked wonders. Or a dot com retiree who was smart enough to get out while the getting was good. Still dabbling in the markets, after all, there was never enough money.

The ranch house sat along the plateau base in the high priced subdivision. Yet it was still unsettled, a bit unspoiled on the thirty-five acre plots.

He rather enjoyed peace and quiet.

The adobe walls glowed in a faint arching peach, the darkness lit from the little domed lights strategically placed along the walkway.

A pretty place. A pretty home, just for his angels. Always wanted him, then rejected him. They might not worship him, want him, or love him in the end. But he made certain he was the last thing they ever saw, the last thing they thought of.

They were angels, his angels.

In the end, he became theirs. He became their Angel of Death.

Humming he walked back into the house. The door clicked shut behind him.

"Honey," he said softly. He hadn't moved her to the basement yet.

She was tied to the kitchen chair, her head lolled forward, her hair hanging around her face in a blonde curtain.

"Honey, I'm home."

Did she whimper?

Time would tell.

His shoes clicked across the tiles. He ran his hand softly over her head, the hair silky and salon soft. Healthy hair. No junk food for her, no frying and over styling. No, she took care of her hair.

A shame almost.

He ran his fingers through her hair and then fisted his hand in it and tilted her head back. Her eyes, glazed and vacant, stared up and around. But not on him.

Not at first.

"Angel..."