Love, Blood, and Sanctuary

by Brenda Murphy

  Laurel shoved her hands in her pockets. “Not just Clan Callan.”

  “Don’t remind me of the unfortunate human dilution of our family’s bloodline.” He shifted his gaze to the portrait of her parents before he brought it back to her. “If you want to avoid contact with Alma, give Sully a list and he’ll pick your things up for you. He’ll be more than willing. I’ll get Ronda to cover his shift.”

  Laurel scrubbed a hand through her hair. “Thank you. I’d appreciate it.”

  Marcus tilted his head. “I know I’m not your father, not even close, but I’ve always wanted the best for you, Laurel.”

  “I know.” Laurel gave her great-uncle a quick hug. “I know.”

  Chapter Three

  The front door to Sanctuary was set into a narrow, brick fronted building. The dimpled steel door was low-key, a dull dirty gray against the blood-red brick. A thick brass sign with “Sanctuary” etched into it was mortared into the wall next to the door. Yellow rays of energy, a hint of the world that lay beyond, seeped out around the edges of the doorframe.

  Humans crowded the street next to the building, their heads bent over their phone screens with white earbuds jammed into their ears. Laurel chewed her lip and stepped out into the flow of pedestrian traffic. She clenched her teeth against the hum of magic that filled her head as she walked the narrow alley between the club and the next building.

  Laurel covered her mouth and nose with her hand against the stench of urine and the faint hint of blood laced with the unmistakable scent of dark magic. After picking her way past dubious dark puddles dotting the brick path, she arrived at the side door to the club. She tapped on a black steel door with “deliveries” printed on it in yellow block letters. The heavy metal door swung open on well-oiled hinges.

  “Yes?” A man dressed in chef checks and a black jacket stood in the doorway. He cocked his head sideways. “Laurel?”

  “Yes.” Laurel wiped her hand on her jeans.

  “You don’t look like him.”

  Laurel shrugged her annoyance.

  He turned and lifted a hand, gesturing for her to follow. “I’m Bruce.”

  Laurel entered the brightly lit space. The receiving area was narrow. Wire shelves lined the passage. Cardboard boxes with neat printing filled the shelves. Her shoes squeaked on the floor as she followed Bruce through the busy kitchen to the front of the club.

  The murmur of voices as staff scurried around setting the tables and preparing the elegant dining room for the lunch crowd created a low-level hum. Bruce waded between the tables as he led her to the bar.

  He leaned his elbow on the mirrored chrome bar. “Carla?”

  “Yeah?” Carla turned to face them. Her steel-gray centurion’s gaze fell on Laurel.

  “This is Laurel. She’ll be your bar back.”

  Carla shifted her gaze to Bruce. “Since when?”

  Bruce crossed his arms over his chest. “Since this morning. And don’t act like you don’t need one.”

  Carla shifted her stance and swept her gaze over Laurel. Her probe was ten times the force of Nadia’s. Laurel pushed back at first and then, seduced by the bartender’s power, she gave over, caught up in her attention. She surrendered to Carla’s invasion of her mind. She flushed as Carla sifted through her memories and thoughts. The sensation of being held down, captured, and the delicious feeling of being known made Laurel squirm.

  “That’s enough, Carla. She’s Marcus’s niece.” Bruce’s voice broke into Laurel’s thoughts and Carla withdrew.

  Laurel crossed her arms over her breasts in a vain attempt to hide her nipples where they pressed against her thin T-shirt.

  Bruce glared at Carla. “Get a room next time.” He flounced toward the kitchen leaving them staring at each other.

  Carla swept her hand over her close-cropped curls. “You okay?”

  Laurel shivered. “I… It’s been a long time.”

  Carla tried and failed to stifle her grin. “I know. Don’t worry. With your looks you’ll have more than a few interested.” Her expression shifted to one of remorse. “Hey, I’m sorry.”

  Laurel frowned. “About what?”

  “I didn’t recognize you as a super, I wouldn’t have scanned you without asking. I’m used to scanning humans. When it’s supers, I always ask first, and go easy.”

  Laurel looked away. “It’s fine. Anyone could have made that mistake. I’m not really a super.”

  Carla rested her fists on her hips. “You’re Marcus’s niece. How can you not be a super?”

  “Great-niece.” Laurel shrugged. “I don’t know. Can you please show me what you need me to do? I’ve worked as a bar back before so just give me the rundown.”

  Carla waited a beat and then stepped back. “Yeah, sure.” She gestured to Laurel’s clothes. “You’re okay wearing jeans and your T-shirt for today. We’ll find you a uniform for later. We serve lunch and dinner. The café handles breakfast and brunch on Sunday.” She waved to the rear of the dining room. “Through the glass doors is a club with a dance floor. There’s a bar there as well. Jay works the bar and Kyle is his bar back. You only have to worry about me and this bar. We keep the restaurant patrons well oiled, and you’ll run drinks for the wait staff.”

  Laurel worried her lip with her teeth. “How’s tipping go?”

  “We share out at the end of the night.” Carla tilted her head and pointed to a locked cabinet. “This is reserved for supers. If we get mixed couples, if the super allows it, the human can be served from the special stock.” She leaned on the bar and knotted her hands together. “We get a lot of humans in here. They’re drawn by the hum, the power they sense. We also get a lot of supers looking to hook up with them. I keep an eye on the ones who look like they have no clue. There are rooms in the back, that can be reserved for private dining or whatever.” She lifted her eyebrow. “If you see something that doesn’t look or feel right to you, let me know.”

  Laurel relaxed her gaze and focused on the glowing doors at the end of the dining room that would be invisible to humans. Wisps of purple energy seeped around the edges and Laurel’s mind filled with images of what went on behind them. “Are those locked?”

  Carla nodded. “Yes.” She held up a ring of old-fashioned skeleton keys and jingled them. “We keep these for show. I change the wards every day so no one gets a room without checking with me.” A lascivious grin spread over her face. “I’d ask if you wanted to see one, but I already know the answer to that question.”

  Laurel scrubbed her hand over her head. “If I weren’t fresh off a heartbreak, I’d be more than happy to let you show me a room, but I’m a bit tender today.”

  Carla gripped her shoulder and squeezed lightly. “Come on, I’ll go over this week’s special drinks and the garnishes I’ll need. We have about an hour before we open.”

  Chapter Four

  Catherine paced her attic room. The discordant strains of experimental jazz were not enough to cover the drone of the man’s voice. His pompous tone grated as he discussed jazz as if he were the arbiter of all that was cool. Catherine wrinkled her nose at his bombastic tirade and praise of vinyl records as if he had pressed them himself. She slid between the gaps in the floor, waiting to coalesce into a form that would haunt the man for the rest of his poseur days.

  He paused and took a sip of his drink. He lifted a bottle of bourbon from the table and held it poised over the woman’s empty glass. “Another drink?”

  “No. I don’t think I should, Jack.” The woman brushed her hair back with her hand. “I have to work tomorrow.”

  He fixed his gaze on the woman’s breasts. “Come on, Sherry. You know you want to.” Jack filled her glass, brown liquid sloshing over the side. “This is hand crafted. I found it on a trip to…”

  Catherine drew herself together and revealed herself to the man. He stared. Standing behind and just to the left of the seated woman, she rested her hands on her hips. Naked, she arched her back and raised her hands to her breasts. She l
ifted them like an offering.

  Jack blinked and replaced the bottle on the table. His expression morphed into one of desire. He licked his lips.

  “You were saying?” Sherry tilted her head at Jack.

  “What?” Jack never took his eyes from Catherine’s body.

  “What are you staring at?” Sherry twisted in her chair to look over her shoulder.

  Invisible to Sherry, Catherine blew a kiss to Jack before she rolled her nipples into stiff points.

  “Nothing.” He shifted his gaze back to Sherry and took another sip of his bourbon. He rubbed his eyes. “Nothing.” Jack spun on his heel and glanced at the bay window looking out over the street. “Must have been a reflection.” He gulped his drink before he placed the glass on the end table.

  Catherine sauntered to the center of the room and then crooked her finger at him. Jack glanced at Sherry before his gaze slid to Catherine’s eyes. A sly smile twisted his lips as he drew nearer to her.

  Catherine held his gaze, raised one hand, and then peeled the skin from her face as one would peel an orange. She dropped the first bit of her ghostly form onto the floor and leered at Jack. His scream reverberated off the walls as he backed away. He stumbled. His arms windmilled as he tried to right himself before he crashed to the floor.

  “No. No.” He crab-walked away as Catherine advanced. She tore more flesh from her face and plopped it at his feet. She leaned into it then, projecting the image of blood oozing from stripped bone into his mind.

  “Get away from me!” Jack kicked at Catherine.

  Sherry shrieked and bolted from her chair. “The fuck is wrong with you?” She grabbed her purse and slung it over her shoulder before she ran from the room. “And I fucking hate jazz,” she called over her shoulder as she ran down the steps to the front door.

  Catherine flicked another bit of flesh toward Jack. He shrieked again. A dark stain covered the front his jeans and the hot smell of urine spread out in the room.

  “God save me. Please. Please, don’t kill me!” His voice rose in pitch.

  Catherine leaned closer and placed her bloody finger over his lips. “Leave. Now. Don’t come back.” She blasted the words into his mind, careful to not rupture the delicate vessels feeding his brain. It wouldn’t do to kill him. That was always more trouble than it was worth.

  “Yes. Yes.” When she let him go, Jack rolled to his hands and knees. He ducked his head and scrabbled away from Catherine. She hovered by the bay window and watched as he fled.

  She pulled herself together, knitting her form back to the perfect one she preferred to hold. Why couldn’t they rent this place to some quiet soul who would leave her in peace? If she had to be trapped in this monstrous house, couldn’t she at least have pleasant company?

  “You’re so good at that. I can’t scare away a mouse. Let alone a human.” Manny’s soft voice floated up from the basement. “Thank you. From all of us. He was talking about asking Marcus about renovating the cellar and filling in the cistern.”

  “My pleasure.” Catherine reveled in the thrill brought about by Jack’s abject terror.

  His fear had spilled over and saturated her. It was always so. The moment her victims succumbed to their fear was delicious. A fine wine to be savored, although she much preferred a subtler approach, sipping her victim’s fears over the weeks and months she sometimes took to rid herself of the endless string of renters.

  But tonight, Jack, with his obvious plan to get Sherry drunk and seduce her, had pushed every one of her buttons, gotten under her skin as it were. She chuckled to herself at her own joke and drew in the intoxicating sensation of power. Catherine released her form and her soul passed through the ceiling, up to the attic and her room.

  The stuffy, hot air of the attic surrounded her. The cloying scent of mothballs and cedar rose to greet her. A chair covered in once-white linen now yellow with age was wedged under the low knee wall that took up one side of the room. Her narrow brass bed, its mattress leaking stuffing where the ticking had split, the bloodstains on it now faded away to a light brown, mocked her.

  Regarding the grim reminder of her last minutes on the earthly plane, she wondered for the millionth time since the night she and her lover had been surprised by her brother if it would have been better to surrender to the oblivion of death. The worn memory of that night wormed its way into her consciousness. The flash of the blade, Nora’s screams and the way they had faded as her brother dragged her from the house, the slam of the door echoing like a pistol shot. Her soul ached as she replayed the lugubrious sounds of her last breaths as Catherine tapped all her power to drag herself to her attic sanctuary.

  Catherine drew her finger along the blade she had yanked from her body while reciting the spell that would keep her spirit alive, even as her guts spilled from the wound in her belly and her earthly form died.

  She shoved the kris away and it collided with her grimoire. It gouged the cracked leather cover before it clattered to the floor. Catherine rested her palm on the book as she turned her decision to stay bound to this place, to remain on this side of the plane, over in her mind. The closeness of the attic pressed around her. Immortality was much easier when you were free to wander the streets and inhabit whatever human form you desired.

  Catherine picked up the kris and ran her thumb along the blade. Revenge and desire burned through her. A heady combination, it had fueled her since the night she had escaped execution and become a prisoner of the townhouse instead.

  She picked up the blade and slashed the air, slicing through the waves of melancholy that roiled around her. Catherine set the blade aside and created a glamour, transforming the room into a charming attic bedroom. She lay back on the bed, resting on the rotted mattress. She pillowed her head on her hands and closed her eyes against the reality of her choice. The scratch-scratch-scratch of mice as they tramped in the walls searching for food disturbed her enough that she sent a lethal wave of energy toward the sound and was rewarded by the silence that followed.

  Restless, Catherine left the bed and sat at her desk. She rested her chin in her hand. How long would she be able to protect Manny and the others? Their spirits were trapped in the part of the house that remained hidden from all but one. And he would never reveal it. Never release them. Marcus Callan’s secrets would die when the house was renovated. Their souls would be trapped in the rubble, consigned to the pit in the basement, or scattered to the four directions and beyond.

  Catherine flipped through the book again, knowing she lacked the power to send the children over to a peaceful rest. Hell, she lacked the power for herself. Without the box and the blood, they were stuck on this plane until the building ceased to exist. The high of her last victim left her, and in that space rose a fierce longing.

  As much as fear fed her, she craved the sweet taste of love and adoration. Catherine closed her eyes and reached out with her mind, testing the bounds of her prison as she had every night since she had lost Nora. Hope warred with resignation. Nora had never believed as Catherine had, had never participated in the rituals, or even believed Catherine’s true identity. She held little hope her lover had survived the years between them or that she would ever reverse the magic keeping her bound to the house. The townhouse would be Catherine’s tomb, her final resting place as sure as if she had been buried in a proper chamber under a pyramid of stone.

  Turning away from her melancholy thoughts, she opened her worn copy of the book and began to read again. Incantations and prayers she had read so many times she could recite most of them filled her mind. Catherine sorted and sifted the words and directions, determined to find a way to release the cellar spirits and herself.

  Chapter Five

  Laurel and Nadia stood on the gray sidewalk in front of the brick townhouse. Trimmed in Indiana limestone, wide curving stairs rose up to the faded black door. Three tiers of bay windows fronted the building. The street was scruffy, and the battered buildings around them were in various stages of disrepair. Laurel
’s rust bucket of a car fit in with the other late models lining the street.

  Nadia removed her Bulgari Flora sunglasses and tucked them inside their case. She snapped it shut and placed it in her suit pocket. Laurel stuffed her hands into her back pockets as she surveyed the street.

  Nadia peered into Laurel’s face. “Would you like me to call for help?” She nodded toward Laurel’s car stuffed with her belongings.

  Laurel rubbed the back of her neck. “No. It’s all portable. I’ve moved too many times to own anything I can’t carry myself.”

  Nadia held out the keys to the building. The afternoon sunlight reflected off them and they glittered in her hand. “Has your great-uncle told you anything about the townhouse?”

  “He only said he couldn’t keep it rented to humans or supers.” Laurel looked away from Nadia’s probing stare.

  “You’re sure you want to risk it?”

  “It’s better than moving back into his house. I can’t work there. It’s too…”

  “Safe?” Nadia spoke over her. “Full of memories?”

  “Both.” Laurel huffed out a breath.

  Nadia pursed her lips. “This townhouse has been in the family for generations. It has been many things over the years.” Her intent gaze settled on Laurel, the fine rim of red around her pupils glowed. “Inform me if any spirits attempt contact.” She whispered in a voice edged in granite. “They are not for you.”

  Laurel stepped back. “I’m not a super, remember? Why would a spirit waste time with me?”

  Nadia lifted her chin. “You are many things, Laurel, don’t underestimate your worth.” She reached across the space between them. “Your great-uncle asked me to link with you, for your protection. May I?”

  “Yes.” Laurel slid her mental shield in place as she braced for Nadia’s linking. Unwilling to give up her secrets to her great-uncle’s personal assistant, she pasted her most benign smile on her face as she let Nadia forge a connection between them.