I was afraid that soon I’d be wearing even less, because I didn’t seem to be able to pull away. He licked his lips, and it was all I could do not to gasp at the tug of arousal in my center. I tried to think of Brian, but Lugh’s face filled my vision.

Then two things happened simultaneously. I heard a strange ringing sound. And Lugh pulled back, his nostrils suddenly flared.

“Something’s wrong!” he said, not looking at me anymore. “Wake up.”

And I did.

The ringing came from my phone. Rubbing my bleary eyes, I reached over to the nightstand and fumbled for the receiver. I almost knocked it to the floor, but managed to catch it.

“Hello,” I said, holding the phone to my ear as I turned on the bedside lamp.

A fax machine screeched at me. I muttered a couple of curses and slammed the phone down. The bedside clock showed it was three AM. Who sends faxes at three AM? And why did they have to pick my number?

I almost lay down and went back to sleep, but I remembered Lugh saying something was wrong. I didn’t think he’d meant the ringing phone.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, finding my slippers. And that’s when I noticed it. The smell of smoke.

I moved away from my bed and saw a wisp of smoke seeping in from under my door. As I watched, the wisp thickened and grew, pouring in more aggressively.

Why wasn’t my smoke alarm pitching a hissy fit?

I bit my lip and went to the door, tentatively touching the wood to see if it was hot. It was. The smoke came ever more heavily, and now I heard the distinctive crackle of flames.

Shit!

The heat told me I didn’t dare open the bedroom door, so I lunged for the window. I shoved it open, only to find a neat little bonfire blazing beneath it.

I went cold. Somebody had disabled my smoke alarm and cut off my escape route.

Someone wanted me dead.

The smoke in my room was now thick enough to make me cough, so I dropped to the floor and considered my options while my heart hammered.

There were only two options available-the door or the window. I didn’t think I was getting through either one without getting burned. But better a few burns than death, right?

Flames licked under my door, drawn by the steady draft from my window. I had to get out of here, and fast!

I chose the window escape route, but before I leapt out, it occurred to me that I might need a little extra protection. My feet propelled me toward the bathroom before my brain caught up with me. Holding my breath, I turned the shower on and hopped in, soaking my PJ’s with freezing cold water.

I hopped out, my lungs burning from lack of oxygen, then sprinted to the window.

The bonfire had grown, but I had no choice. I ducked my head down into the sopping wetness of my pajama top and jumped, trying for as much horizontal distance as possible.

Intense heat surrounded me, tried to eat me alive. I landed on the ground on my hands and knees, my feet still in the fire. I rolled away as fast as humanly possible.

I pulled the pajama top away from my face, trying to see if I was on fire anywhere. Nothing seemed to be burning. Nothing except my house, that is.

Panting, coughing, dazed, I watched the flames spread through my beautiful English cottage.

CHAPTER 12

I escaped the fire with nothing worse than a few second-degree burns on my feet. My house, however, burned to the ground. Everything I owned, my books, my clothes, my furniture, even my car…gone. One of the neighbors called the fire department, but by the time they started pumping water on it, it had a life of its own. The good news was they got to it before it spread to any of the neighboring houses. When the shock wore off, I’d try to be grateful for that.

The police followed soon after the fire department. Having escaped out my back window, I hadn’t seen the burning cross on my lawn. God’s Wrath and the KKK both agreed that the burning cross made for a neat calling card.

Now why, you might ask, would God’s Wrath burn down the house of an exorcist? We’re supposed to be on the same side, right?

Wrong, according to God’s Wrath. They think that exorcists are soft on demons because we don’t target the demon hosts. They’re really, really into burning people alive, and we spoil their fun. Plus, they feel the human host is just as deserving of death as the demon-even hosts who were taken against their will. Because in the World According to God’s Wrath, only the Wicked can be Possessed by Satan’s Minions. They were the Crusades, the Spanish Inquisition, and the Salem Witch Trials all rolled into one.

The neighbors poured out of their houses to watch the show as I sat with the EMS folks, sucking down oxygen and wishing my burned feet would do me a favor and drop off the ends of my legs so I wouldn’t have to feel them. When the paramedics finally let me take the oxygen mask off, Mrs. Moore, my next door neighbor, brought me a cell phone so I could call Brian.

If I’d had a choice, I’d have spent the night in a hotel. Not because I didn’t want to be with Brian, but because I was scared to death I’d be endangering him. You see, although this had all the classic makings of a God’s Wrath attack, it was just too damn coincidental. I mean, really, what were the chances my best friend would try to Taser me, armed men would invade my house in the middle of the night, I’d be framed for murder, and God’s Wrath would just happen to pick that moment to burn down my house with me in it?

I hoped like hell whoever was out to get me only had one murder attempt in them for the night, because without a wallet, I wasn’t getting a hotel room. Reluctantly, I called Brian. I let him think the police were right and it was a God’s Wrath attack. Just for tonight. Tomorrow, I’d tell him my fears that someone was seriously out to kill me and that I didn’t want him caught in the cross fire. I figured that would be a really unpleasant discussion, especially since I wasn’t willing to admit why I thought it was happening. Honestly, I didn’t think he would turn me in as an illegal demon host, but after his performance at the police station the other day, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure.

I borrowed something that looked like a moomoo — yes, I know that’s not how you spell it, but I defy you to wear one and not feel like Bessie the milk cow — from Mrs. Moore. It was better than my wet pajamas, but not by much. It hung almost to the ankles on her, but it barely skimmed my knees. And there was no way I was getting my size-nine feet into her size-six shoes, even without all the bandages.

I looked like the Mummy’s grandma when Brian arrived to pick me up. My knight in shining armor scooped me into his arms anyway and carried me to his car so I wouldn’t have to walk on my raw, bandaged feet. He held my hand for the entire drive. We hardly spoke a word. I stared out the window at the first hints of dawn, trying not to think, as tears leaked out of my eyes and cooled my cheeks.

When we got to his condo, Brian carried me again. If I’d been anything like my normal self, I would have objected. Once inside, he got me out of the muumuu in record time, but for once seemed oblivious to the fact that I wore nothing underneath. He tucked me lovingly into his bed, then climbed in beside me, still fully clothed. I laid my head on his lap and fell asleep to the feel of his gentle fingers stroking my hair.

Annoyingly, Lugh didn’t fix my French-fried feet during my sleep. I guess he’d learned his lesson, but when I finally woke up around noon, I wished he hadn’t. Every step I took made my feet blaze. I had to keep reminding myself how much worse it could have been.

Brian was downright incredible. During the time I’d slept, he’d gotten me a new bank card, ordered me a new credit card, and had me added to his own credit card account to tide me over. Not only that, he brought me breakfast in bed.