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Yes, itis.
“The sooner we get rid of him the better,” Liam informedme.
I peeked at our passenger again.Why do I already feel his loss when I don’t even know hisname?
My friend barked a censuring laugh. “No, Wren. He’s not one of your injured birds.” And that was how I earned my nickname. I rescued a Canyon Wren with a broken wing and kept it for awhile.
“I don’t know what you’re talkingabout.”
“You’ve always had a soft spot for woundedcreatures.”
“And you forced me to let them go every single time,” Iretorted.
“Wild birds are exactly that, Blaire. They belong in the wild,” Liamsighed.
And him? I did not say and, instead, looked out my windowwistfully.
* * *
Grant
Grant woke up shivering.The orange glow of a fire taunted him with its warmth, and yet he couldn’t feel its heat. His bleary eyes tracked a shadow moving closer. A vague figure crouched in front of him and his visionfocused.
Hazel eyes assessedhim.
“You’re awake.” The voice, coming from perfectly formed lips, was melodious andsoothing.
A warm hand touched his skin and he leaned into it. She smelled of some etherealmusk.
Anangel.
“You’re not dead, big guy,” she chuckled. “You just have afever.”
Grant smiled despite the goose bumps that ghosted over his skin. He tried to tuck into himself, yanking at the blankets coveringhim.
The angel gotup.
“Stay,” he said in nearpanic.
“I’ll beback.”
He fretted and drew the covers around him. This didn’t feel real. Grant had never felt this needy in hislife.
She returned, holding a tumbler with a straw. No way was he sipping through that thing like a sissy. He tried to get up, but he was pushed backdown.
“I can sit up,” hemuttered.
“Quit the macho bullshit,” the angel admonished. “Just drinkthis.”
Grant gave in and sipped from the straw. Then he spewed everythingout.
“What the fuck is that?” he growled, then was immediately contrite because his involuntary liquid expulsion landed on his angel’sface.
“Spruce tea. It’s an old Indian concoction that’s good for respiratory infections.” She wiped her face, emitted a long-suffering sigh, and held the straw to himagain.
This time Grant obediently drank the bitter liquid, ignoring the urge to spit it up again. When he dutifully finished, he asked, “What’s yourname?”
“Blaire.”
