Demon Bound

didn’t know if getting up would freak her out, so he moved his arms up and down, as if were perfectly normal for a dead man to be making a snow angel in his daughter’s backyard.
    The bag dropped into the can, and the lid clattered over the top. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her puffy coat, took a step toward him.
    God, she was beautiful.
    She had her mother’s hair. Thick and red, with only a few strands of gray at her temples, and she wore it in a loose ponytail at her nape. Her rounded face was his grandma’s, and her eyes were his. Laugh lines had settled around the corners, but hadn’t touched her mouth yet.
    He frowned and stopped moving his arms when he saw her feet, her pink-painted toenails. She’d come out here in a coat, flannel pajama pants, and flip-flops . Jesus Christ.
    But he held his tongue.
    She didn’t. “Are you nuts? Lindsey’s going to see you and think she can come out here in her swimsuit.”
    Okay, that was fair. He stood, vanished the snow off his chest and legs. “Sorry. I didn’t think about that.”
    “Well, maybe you should have—” She cut herself off, pressed her fingers to her eyelids. “Oh, Lord. I’m sorry. I go into Overprotective Mommy mode when I’m in shock.”
    She was? Maybe his own shock was preventing him from feeling it. He pushed his hands into his pockets. “It’s fine. I’m actually surprised you aren’t thinking that you’ve gone crazy.”
    “I might have if I hadn’t sat on the fifty-thousand-dollar chair you left in Lindsey’s bedroom. After that, I was ready to believe her when she said you scared away the monsters under her bed. And there are . . . other reasons.” She pushed her coat closed, shivered. Her chin jerked toward the back door. “Do you want to come in? I could use a drink.”
    Snow crunched beneath his toes as he followed her to the stairs. He vanished the ice from the steps so she wouldn’t slip, then felt like a dick when her surprise made her trip.
    He caught her arm, then immediately let her go. “You know, it’s probably not a good idea to invite strangers into your house.”
    Her snort of laughter was just like Barbara’s. He grinned, but it faded with nervousness when she turned, her expression apologetic.
    “Look, I should be up front about something. I’m not looking for another dad.”
    That hurt—but he was mostly just glad that she had a dad. “If we’re being up front, I don’t think I’d make a good one.”
    Not right now. If Khavi’s prediction didn’t come true, maybe someday—someday far in the future—he’d be ready.
    She smiled and unlatched the screen door. “That’s not what Mom said.”

    Her name was Grace. She sat him down at the same table he and Billy Hopewell used to eat cookies and milk on—and when she gave him hot chocolate with marshmallows, he wondered if he should have appeared his age instead of looking like himself.
    But she made the same for her own drink, left the room, and came back with a flat box. Several picture frames were piled on top. “Lindsey and Sarah—my daughter-in-law—are already in bed. This is Brandon.” She passed him one of the frames, and Jake looked down at a replica of himself the year before he’d died. The uniform was different, though—Marine Corps. “He was deployed just after Lindsey was born.”
    There was a note in her voice that he couldn’t ignore. “All right. I can jump over there now and then, see how he’s doing.” Probably would anyway, even if he didn’t introduce himself. “But I can’t . . .” He gritted his teeth, forced himself to say it. “But if it’s something people are doing to each other, I can’t interfere.”
    She bit her lip before nodding.
    Fuck it. That was the Guardian line. But he had a personal line, too. “But if I was there and something did happen that I thought I could stop, I wouldn’t just stand by.” Even if it meant he had to Fall for it.
    This time, there was a shimmer in her eyes when she nodded. “Thank you.”
    “Okay, but listen. The chances of being there at exactly the right time—”
    “I know.” Grace pressed her fingers over her eyelids again. “Drink your cocoa while I pretend I’m not crying.”
    Oh, man. “Is it good crying or bad crying?”
    She looked up, waving her hands in front of her eyes as if to dry them. “Both. I just . . . He’s my baby. He never met his dad, either. It was so stupid, a fling, the summer after I graduated, and I was feeling so