by Mia Sheridan
Clara stepped quickly from the doorway, mumbling some form of apology that didn’t even really register in her terrified brain. The man laughed as Clara hurried down the street.
Behind her, she heard footsteps, the sound of a shoe splashing in a puddle and she sped up even more.
“Hey, you,” someone else said, the voice deeper than that of the homeless man and close behind her. Another man called something to her she couldn’t hear, and when she looked behind her, she saw two men walking with a pair of muscled pit bulls. Her heart rate spiked, adrenaline racing through her.
Clara crossed the street, holding the pepper spray in a death grip in her pocket, her fear escalating when the men crossed the street, too, the dogs growling. Oh God. What had she gotten herself into?
She should have remained in Fabienne’s doorway and called an Uber from there and waited. Stupid, stupid.
The men were conversing with each other behind her as if this situation was the most casual thing in the world to them, which scared her even more.
Something shattered in an open courtyard next to where she walked, followed by the sound of someone swearing viciously and the dogs behind her began growling.
“You best get home, girl. You don’t belong here,” the person in the courtyard tossed out at her. Clara ran.
The well-lit bus stop in front of an open gas station was just two blocks away. If she could make it there, she would be fine.
“You don’t want to go that way,” one of the men called. She didn’t answer, didn’t look back.
She ran one block, her heart thundering in her ears, the sound of pounding feet following her and ratcheting up her terror. Oh God.
Tears streamed down her face and her breath came out in sharp gasps as she turned the corner onto the street where the bus stop was—and that well-lit gas station where a clerk would call the police for her—only to find that she’d made a wrong turn somewhere.
It was another dark, deserted street and Clara let out a sob as she sprinted down it anyway, trying desperately to outrun the men following her. Get a hold of yourself. You’re strong. You have the stamina to outrun anyone. A burst of adrenaline spiked through her. Yes! Her muscles were strong and toned. She would outrun the bastards behind her.
She heard the dogs’ pants as they followed, heard their nails hitting the pavement along with the sounds of the men’s boots, and Clara sprinted into the dark street, devoid of any street lamps.
A fence met her at the end of the street and Clara let out a fearful, frustrated grunt, banging her hands on the chains. Oh God, oh no.
She glanced behind her to see that the two men were at the end of the street, walking slowly, the dogs straining at the leashes.
“Hey, stop, we just want to talk to you.” As if.
Clara swallowed down the lump of fear in her throat, turning back to the fence and climbing. She swung one leg over gracefully, and for a moment, her heart lifted, hope dancing through her veins. She was going to make it and the dogs would not be able to climb this high.
Clara swung her other leg over, her foot trying to find a spot to land in the holes of the fence when a shadow moved behind the men, growing in a small shaft of moonlight until it loomed up behind them, impossibly huge.
She gasped and her foot slipped just as the men turned toward the approaching shadow.
“What the fuck are you?” one of the men asked and Clara heard the uncertainty—the fear—lacing his question.
She grabbed for the fence, but she’d leaned too far back and her finger merely brushed a metal link.
Clara screamed, turning her head to see the pavement rushing toward her and all went black.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Clara smelled him—Jonah. My wish collector. His scent was against her nose, that clean, masculine smell she’d breathed in in the masquerade ball’s courtyard and had yearned to breathe in every day since.
She was sleeping and in her dream, he was carrying her, his strong arms wrapped around her body.
Her head cleared slightly, a small moan coming up her throat as some distant fear poked at her memory.
“Shh,” he said. It was his voice. She wasn’t mistaken. She might not be as familiar with his scent—it would have been possible to get that part wrong. But his voice? No, she’d know his voice anywhere. It flowed through her veins and invaded her cells. It had become part of her.
“Can you hold on to me?”
“I am holding on to you,” she said, her speech garbled, feeling the lean strength of him as her arms tightened very slightly around his shoulders.
“I mean tightly.” He sat down on something, holding her on his lap.
She burrowed into him, the fog clearing slightly as she opened an eye and then clenched it shut again, the bare slip of light causing her head to throb.
“Never mind,” he said very softly as if to himself. She just wanted to sleep. She was safe—safe with Jonah—and she just needed to shut her eyes for a little while. “Too dangerous.”
What? What’s too dangerous?
She drifted, swearing she heard him speaking to someone. But his arms were around her and it felt so good, and she was so warm. There was no danger at all.
She slept and when she woke, she heard the slamming of a car door, and then another. Someone spoke to Jonah, his voice raspy and filled with concern, and then she was in Jonah’s arms again, being laid on something soft. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered.
Clara turned, her eyes opening slightly, vision blurry. His face swam in front of her, her heart jumping slightly as he drew closer. The light was so dim and he was so shadowy.
His face moved closer, her breath hitching, skeletal bones sharpening as the gap between them closed.
Clara’s breath released on a loud whoosh of air, her fingers tracing the rubber cheekbone on his mask. “Don’t leave me,” she said again. He could wear a mask if he wanted to, he could put a paper bag over his head if he chose . . . she only wanted him there, with her.
He seemed to still very slightly, and she saw his eyes moving under his mask.
“You were following me,” she murmured, reality flowing in and bringing with it the memory of the men, the dogs, the fence. It had been him, the shadow behind them that had made her lose her footing and fall.
“Good thing.” His voice was gritty, and she saw a muscle in his exposed jaw tick. “You might have a concussion.”
He brought his hand to her hair, moving it off her forehead. She noted a stinging sensation and her head throbbed again. “How do you feel?”
“Sore. And I have a headache. Where am I?”
“Windisle.”
Excitement thrummed through her, but right then she was still in pain, her head was foggy, and she was more interested in the man in front of her. Physically. She understood his need to hide, but he still felt distant too behind that mask of his.
Jonah moved back into the shadows and Clara sank into the soft pillow behind her head. It smelled even more strongly of him. She was in his bed?
A tremble went through her right before he reappeared, handing her a glass of water and two tablets. Clara placed the tablets in her mouth and swallowed them with a sip of water.
She closed her eyes as Jonah moved away and when he came back, he applied something cool and wet to her forehead. It stung very slightly, though Clara didn’t grimace.
When he brought the white cloth away, she saw a trace of dried blood. It should concern her, but she was in his bed. He was by her side. Touching her. I’m safe. Even if I’m slightly hurt.
“I’m not used to playing the damsel in distress.”
The corner of his mouth tipped upward. “No, I imagine you’re used to running the show.” He paused as he dabbed at her cut again and then smeared some type of ointment on it. “And I thought dancers knew how to leap.”
Clara laughed then winced when her head throbbed. “Not quite that high. There were men after me—men with dogs.”
Jonah peeled
the backing off a large Band-Aid and laid it on her wound with a little more pressure than Clara thought was necessary. “The Brass Angels.”
“The . . . what?”
“They’re a gang, but the good sort. They protect the streets of New Orleans, especially neighborhoods like the one you were in. There had been a robbery in the area. They wanted to ask you some questions, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Right, oh. Good grief. Now she really felt like a fool.
“Still,” Jonah said, his voice grating over her skin though not in an unpleasant way, “it was plain stupid to be wandering those streets alone.”
“I wasn’t wandering. I’d gone to see a voodoo priestess I thought might be related to Sibille Simoneaux.”
His hand stilled and he sighed. “I never should have given you that name. You couldn’t sit still once you had it, could you?” He was scolding her, but she loved the underlying warmth in his voice.
Clara sat up slightly, flinching when a slice of pain lanced through her skull. “No. I told you, Jonah, I feel this . . . I don’t know, urgency.”
Despite her declaration of urgency, she suddenly felt zapped of strength and sank back into the softness of Jonah’s bed, her limbs and her eyes heavy.
“You can get back to ghost hunting tomorrow,” he said. “For now, you need to sleep. I’m going to wake you up a few times in case you do have a concussion. Myrtle will see you out in the morning.”
As if she’d heard her name, an old woman with deep brown skin and beaded cornrows that danced around her full face, came into the room. Clara knew immediately she was Myrtle and smiled at her, attempting to sit up.
“No, no,” Myrtle said, gesturing for her to lie down. She looked at Jonah, pushing her thick-lensed glasses up on her nose and scowling. “Good gracious, you could put someone in an early grave wearing that thing.”
She looked back at Clara, squinting slightly despite the glasses. “I heard he almost did. You’re lucky you just got a bump on your head.”
She moved closer, studying her with those dark, magnified eyes and laid her cool palm against Clara’s forehead and then put her knuckles on Clara’s cheek as if testing for fever. Seeming satisfied, her expression evened out, and she sat on the side of the bed.
Jonah stood, walking to Clara’s side of the bed where he picked up the empty glass. “I’m going to go fill this so you have water during the night if you get thirsty.”
Clara nodded and watched him as he walked to the door. Her eyes lingered on his tall physique, apparently not too concussed to appreciate his muscular backside and strong, broad shoulders.
When she looked back at Myrtle, Myrtle was watching her with a small smile on her lips, and Clara blushed, looking down.
“Jonah wanted me to come in and introduce myself and let you know I’m in the bedroom right next door if you need me.”
Clara frowned. “Oh, okay. Thank you.”
“I suppose he imagines you might be frightened if you think you’re alone here with him.”
Clara shook her head. “I’m not scared of him, Myrtle. Not even a little bit.”
Myrtle smiled, and it was warm and soft, her deep-set eyes shimmering under her lenses with what Clara thought were tears. “No, I can see you’re not.”
Myrtle reached out and took Clara’s hand, squeezing it softly. “I’ll let you rest now. You come on down to the kitchen in the morning, and I’ll make you something good and hearty to eat before you go.”
Clara nodded, biting at her lip. Jonah had said Myrtle would show her out in the morning, meaning he likely wouldn’t be around. Why? Because he’d only allow her to see him—even in a mask—in the dark of night?
Myrtle stood and began to turn. “Myrtle?”
She turned back toward Clara, tilting her head.
Clara sat up just a bit, leaning on her elbow. “Myrtle, what does he look like under that mask?” She asked it on a whisper, feeling as if she were betraying Jonah by even posing the question, but too curious to let the opportunity pass.
Sadness passed over Myrtle’s expression for a fleeting moment, her eyes filling with the unconditional love Clara could already see she had for him. “He looks like a man who’s been terribly hurt by the world and believes there is nothing left to love about him anymore.”
Clara’s heart constricted so tightly it was almost a physical pain.
Myrtle gave her one heart-rending smile and quietly left. Clara heard her say something right outside the door and a response in Jonah’s smooth, rich voice, then he was entering the room.
He put the full glass of water on the nightstand. “Here you go. If you need anything else tonight, Myrtle—"
“Please don’t go, Jonah. Lie with me.”
Jonah hesitated, bringing a hand to his mask as if unconsciously, opening his mouth to speak and then closing it.
“Keep that on if you want. I’d just like you to stay. Please.”
“Clara—”
“Please.”
He let out a gust of breath, hesitating again, then nodding slowly. He reached across her, shutting off the lamp that had emitted a very low light, darkness draping over them.
He lay next to her, and for a moment she held her breath, the nearness of him causing the blood flowing through her veins to hum.
She turned slowly toward him, resting her head on his shoulder and closing her eyes. She felt his muscles tense for a brief moment, but then he relaxed, bringing his arm up and turning slightly so she was warm and protected in the cradle of his arms, her head resting under his chin.
Clara closed her eyes, loving the way he made her feel both safe and agitated in some twisty way that was pleasant and exciting. And she liked that she couldn’t see that mask that hid him from her.
The mask was unsettling because it stared at her, expressionless and unmoving. And that wasn’t the man whose arms held her. He wasn’t expressionless. Unmoving. He was sensitive and deeply caring whether he believed it of himself or not.
I do. I believe, she whispered inside of herself.
She reached her hand up and ran it down the portion of exposed jaw and he stilled under her touch.
“Jonah,” she whispered. “In the dark, I picture you the way I saw you in the pictures on the Internet because it’s the only thing I have to go by.”
He remained silent, though she sensed his sudden tension.
“But that feels wrong. Because I know you’re not that man anymore, and I want you to know that I don’t need you to be. I want to see you. I want to know you.”
She drew back and in the pewter light of the darkened room, lit only by the moonlight slipping through the edges of the gauzy curtains, she looked into his masked eyes.
Jonah made a small strangled sound in the back of his throat and broke eye contact, pulling her to him.
“You can picture me the way I was, Clara. I’m glad you know I’m not, but, trust me, it’s better this way.”
Clara was silent. She couldn’t believe that. She cared about him so much, cared about him as a person, as a man. She wasn’t so superficial that she couldn’t accept his scars. And wouldn’t it free him to show them to her? He couldn’t enjoy wearing a mask. But . . . she couldn’t force him to reveal himself. She kept doing that . . . pushing him when he wasn’t ready and then regretting it later. She burrowed into him. “I’m pushy, aren’t I?”
He chuckled softly. “Yeah, you are.” But he didn’t sound mad about it, and his hand was doing something wonderful and calming on her lower back, making her feel warm and sleepy.
And when his arms were around her like this and he was touching her, there was nothing more important in the world—not curses, or riddles, or stories about people long gone from this earth. Not scars or masks or walls or things that kept him from her. There was only his tenderness and his heart and his voice. Only him. And only her.
When she woke, the sunlight was streaming into the room.
Clara sat up, blinking as she looked around. There
was still a dull ache in her head, but she felt better and remembered blearily Jonah waking her up several times during the night, speaking to her for a moment in that hypnotic voice of his and then letting her fall back into sleep. Clara sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the high bed and looking around the room.
There was a beautifully carved fireplace on the opposite wall and the mahogany furniture was obviously vintage. It was old and sparse except for the few pieces of furniture, but it still held charm and elegance due to the molding on the walls and the wide-planked wooden floor that squeaked as she put her weight on it.
Something on the bedside table caught her eye and she picked up a folder with her name written on the front in blocky print.
She opened it, her eyes widening with delight when she saw what it was. It was the folder Jonah’s brother, Justin, had put together of Chamberlain family information. Jonah had hunted it down and left it for her. She squeezed it to her chest. Please, she thought, hope and excitement swirling through her, please let there be something important inside. And let me recognize it when I see it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jonah stood off to the side of the house as Myrtle showed Clara out, his heart clenching as he watched her leave.
The women chatted animatedly, Myrtle’s arms moving as she punctuated her words the way she did. Clara laughed and the sound carried to Jonah, making his gut clench with want, where he stood watching them from the dimness of the surrounding trees.
He wanted to see her out, he did, but he couldn’t wear the mask during the day. It would make what was already creepy, just weird and clownish. At least in the dark of night, the creepiness sort of took on an edge of fiendish, and fiendish he could live with. Clownish he could not.
Beasts were alluring in the dead of night, weren’t they? There was a reason they hid in the light of day. And anyway, the damn mask was uncomfortable after a while—rubbery and sweaty—and he longed to rip it off and toss it aside, to feel the cool air on the damaged skin of his face.
Myrtle said something and Clara looked beyond her for a moment to the plantation house.