* * * *
Luke swore, frazzled, his heart beating wildly. The interstate was a mess. First it was the five o'clock traffic. A misnomer that actually should have been termed “never-ending traffic.” He had tried a number of detours, all of them poor choices that added another hour to his drive.
Now he was at a dead stop, thanks to a catastrophic fuel spill. Workers had damage control underway but were working in slow motion.
Luke had managed to weave his bike between stalled cars, minor fender benders and the occasional incensed driver who had taken to pacing around his or her vehicle shouting obscenities. At the front of the two-mile long parking lot, Luke watched orange-vested city workers bumble around as if they had never cleaned up after a tipped-over fuel truck before.
At this rate he wouldn't make it to Bianca's until close to midnight, as long as forces of nature, lousy drivers and even lousier luck kept working against him. He could only hope she'd heard the messages he'd left on her machine. And, damn it, why didn't he have a cell phone, anyway?
Maybe he was overreacting. After all, what was he going on? A gut feeling? It wasn't as if he was like Bianca. He didn't have visions or strong sensations. Still, the icy darkness that slithered into his belly was unmistakable. There was nausea. And a headache, centered at his temples, where his heart had taken to pounding. The more he tried to discount or rationalize the feeling that something was wrong the stronger it became, until the agony it caused him couldn't be ignored.
He had to get there. Fast. He didn't have time for fuel spills. Or the patience to continue being a law-abiding driver.
With the only two police officers at the scene breaking up a fight between several angry motorists, Luke gunned his bike and maneuvered around obstacles in his path to Bianca. Angry city workers shook their fists at him, but Luke waved an apology and kept moving through. Once in the clear, he took the motorcycle up to breakneck speed.
If he'd had wings, Luke would have flown. And still the urgency in his gut taunted him with the possibility of being too late.
Too late ... for what? That was the question. Whatever it was that drove him like a demon had to do with Bianca. And that was all he needed to know.
* * * *
Cabot was there at the Honeywell place at eleven that night. He skulked behind bushes and watched the house, keeping track of lights that went on and off, until he saw the flicker of what could have been candles in a room in what might be the attic.
A half-hour crept by like a million years.
When the flickering in the upstairs window went out, he made his move. He'd brought two five-gallon gas cans along. He circled her house with them, spilling a pungent trail, creating what would be an impermeable boundary of flame, heat and smoke.
There was hardly a sound—nothing but the chirp of a cricket, the song of a night bird and the soft glug-glug of gasoline pouring from the spout. In the distance a dog howled. The moon was full, big and round, almost too bright. If her house hadn't been nestled so far back from the street, Cabot might've risked being spotted by someone.
He paced circles around her house until the cans were emptied, almost two complete trips. When he was done he stashed them in the bushes and sauntered to the front of the porch.
He was excited, his heart pounding in quick snaps, goose flesh prickling over his skin. His daddy would've been proud. No other Halestrom ever had the balls to come this far. Cabot did. It was all about guts and glory—that's what his daddy had taught him.
In the distance he heard the low rumble of a motorcycle. He considered waiting for it to pass, but it was after midnight now. He had a red-eye flight to England to catch in a couple of hours.
He'd light the match, watch to be sure the fire surrounded the house. Then, unfortunately, he'd have to go. Cabot would've loved to watch the place burn. He'd had dreams of seeing her in the window, sobbing, begging someone to help her. He'd imagined the flames dancing over charred wood, the frame caving, all of it engulfing the witch until her cries were silenced.
His sigh was sad and regretful. Cabot wouldn't see any of that because he wouldn't risk being caught. There was still another witch to fry, and being arrested would screw up his plan. He'd light the match and run.
Reaching into his pocket, he was so absorbed in his mission he no longer heard the motorcycle. Fisting the Clover Falls Inn matchbook he flicked it open, tugged a match and struck it once, then let it drop.
It was amazing, really. The explosion of flame was instantaneous. In the blinking of an eye, it made a complete circle around the old Victorian house, taking everything in its path. Shrubbery. Rose bushes. A sunflower-shaped bird feeder. A pair of gardening clogs. Tiny statues of fairies and elves. The morning newspaper. All of it. The fire ate as if ravenous, then moved on to what it would consume next.
A gentle breeze blew and, just like that, the flames were licking the front porch posts. Not devouring yet, but teasing. Knowing soon that the old, brittle wood would go up as if Cabot had doused it with gasoline as well.
The heat was incredible. Scorching. Almost unbearable. In a brief flash of perverted humor, Cabot wished he'd brought a bag of marshmallows.
* * * *
Luke saw the fire the moment he swerved onto the driveway.
Sheer black fright swept over him, turning icy, wrapping cold iron fingers around his heart then squeezing. Choking for air, he jumped off his motorcycle in one powerful spontaneous motion. The bike fell unheeded to the ground, the engine still sputtering, its tires kicking up dirt and rocks as they spun and gyrated then finally ceased.
Luke didn't stand there long enough to watch. As if not in his own body, he heard himself bellow, “No!” His voice was booming, almost louder than the crackle and roar of the flames which had already begun to devour and destroy.
Seeing Bianca's pick-up in the driveway had panic like he'd never known before welling up in his throat. Nausea, biting nausea, punched his stomach. In a moment of hysteria he couldn't breathe. Edges of his vision blurred, but his feet took him to the wall of fire.
Luke had never been more scared in his life, not for himself but for Bianca. He was going in there for her. And, damn it, he'd bring her out alive.
He was supposed to save Bianca Honeywell. Or die trying.
Awareness clicked in his mind, jarring, but crystal clear. It was why he was there. Why he'd gone to Clover Falls in the first place. To save Bianca.
There wasn't much time. He found her watering hose then located the spigot. Turning it on, he doused himself head to toe. Seconds seemed like hours as he thought of her, alone and frightened, inside of a house that was about to burn down around her ears. It was fear that gave Luke strength.
Dripping wet, he would pick the safest route, find an ample opening in the fire, and cross over. He'd only be inside for a minute or two at most, find Bianca, and then get both of them the hell out of there.
He could do this. Fists clenched at his sides, he confronted the flames.
Luke hadn't even noticed the man standing there, watching, waiting to make his move. With an iron grip, the man clamped a hand on Luke's shoulder, yanked him back, and sent him tumbling to the ground. The air knocked out of him, Luke floundered a moment, dizzy and disoriented, struggling to focus.
In the bright dancing light of the blaze, he saw him. The man who had been at the motel the night before. In an instant the name flashed through Luke's mind. He recalled seeing it, months ago, when he'd conducted a search to find surviving Halestrom men.
"Cabot!” It choked past his throat as his lungs fought to reclaim air.
Cabot towered over Luke, his eyes dark, his jaw set. When Luke spoke his name, Cabot sneered. The flames, red, yellow and orange, licked his shadowy features and made him look evil. Satanic.
Luke propelled up from the ground, swearing, and shoved past Cabot. He didn't get far. Cabot grabbed Luke by the shirt, swung him around then tossed him aside with veritable ease. Luke stumbled, regained himself, and charged at the man.
Cabot decked him, a solid punch square across Luke's jaw. A second hook plunged into his gut and Luke felt his bruised ribs shatter.
He doubled over, fighting to catch his breath. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the flames jump. They were working on the porch now. Worse yet, Luke had no idea what was happening around the other side of the house.
"There's a woman in there!” he shouted, the words scraping past his raw throat.
"Not a woman. A witch,” Cabot said with a demonic grin. “And it's her time to burn."
Realization hit Luke like another blow to his gut. “So that's what this is about? Killing a witch?” he demanded, his temper increasing threefold. “Are you insane? That's not going to end the curse!” He shoved past Cabot. “Stay out of my way, you sick son-of-a—"
With a wave of his arm, Cabot sent Luke stumbling backward again. “I'm sorry, but I can't let ya go in there.” Cabot reached a hand into his pocket and tugged something free. With a flick of his wrist, the knife extended and gleamed deadly red from the reflection of fire. “I didn't come all this way just to let some jackass save the day."
Luke lifted his hands and took one step back. Alarm shot through him, turning his blood to ice water. “Cabot, you don't want to do this."
"I don't know how the hell ya know my name—"
"We're cousins,” Luke snapped with urgency, as the fire crept along the porch posts. “And the woman in there hasn't done anything to hurt either of us."
Cabot peered at him with eyes that were beady and dubious. “We ain't related."
"Cabot, if this woman dies, you'll spend the rest of your life in prison."
Cabot leered at him. “I can't be caught if there ain't no witnesses.” He lunged toward Luke, wielding the blade, coming dangerously close to Luke's midsection.
Gasping, Luke could taste and smell the fire as he jumped back, every square inch of him rigid with panic and fury. “Damn it!” he cursed with a frenzied glance at the house. His heart sank. The porch was engulfed.
Enraged, Luke kicked at the knife but Cabot, towering over him by at least five inches, was surprisingly faster. The blade caught Luke's leg, ripping through his jeans then slicing into his calf. The cry that sprang from Luke's throat was not from pain, but from rage. The sound erupted in the air and momentarily distracted Cabot.
It gave Luke the opening he needed. He turned and bolted toward the house, the roaring fire an unexpected respite from the maniac and his knife. But Cabot wasn't through with him yet.
Luke dodged between flames, hot, stifling and robbing him of his every breath, in search of the opening he so desperately needed. He was barely cognizant of the knife puncturing his shoulder, carving a four-inch cut, as Luke vaulted through the flames and across the porch and kicked the front door in.
* * * *
Cabot Halestrom spewed a stream of cuss words. The crazy jackass had better be dead. If he didn't burn in there with his witch, then he'd surely die from the knife wound.
Cabot had stabbed him in the shoulder. He'd been aiming for his heart. The idiot was fast, he'd give him that. Ducked into the flames before Cabot could make sure he was dead.
He didn't have any cousins. Not alive. Not anymore. They'd all died because of the damned curse. So where did that jackass come off calling himself a cousin?
Stupid fool thought he was some kind of superhero.
Shaken, Cabot heard sirens approaching. He grabbed superhero's motorcycle, climbed on, revved it up and put distance between him and the Honeywell place. Zipping down the road, he took corners too fast, unsure where he was headed, only wanting to get as far away as he could, as fast as he could, to avoid capture.
Risking a glance over his shoulder, for a split-second Cabot lost focus on the road ahead. He wasn't accustomed to driving a motorcycle. When the machine gave a sickening lurch, he jerked back around. Pumping adrenaline had him overcompensating and he veered off to the side, nearly plowing through a cornfield, then swerved back onto the road. He saw the bridge in the distance, not knowing where it led, only hoping to find a main highway soon.
The sirens were a vague noise in the distance now and he no longer smelled the acrid smoke. Still, something icy slipped into his belly, as if he was being followed, or watched. It sent a chill scrambling up his spine. Cabot looked over his shoulder again.
When his eyes darted back to the road, he saw it. At first he wasn't sure what it was. He was going so fast and everything happened quick as an eye's blinking. But as Cabot veered in an effort to miss it, he realized it was a small white poodle, sitting smack dab in the middle of the bridge.
He swerved, lost control and skidded, then felt the bike hit the rail. The impact catapulted him. His tall lanky body shot over the side, the motorcycle following. He tried desperately to grab for something, anything, the rail, a post, but his efforts were in vain.
It had to have been a hundred foot drop. Cabot Halestrom was going to die.
His life passed before him in one bitter, regretful split-second as he plummeted to the riverbank below. Then the bike fell on him, a crushing blow that Cabot felt rip flesh, break bones, and puncture vital organs.
Everything went blank, as his very existence slipped away into inky cold darkness.
* * * *
In a flash of white light, a reel of memories began playing in Luke's mind. He saw Mom and Dad on his eighth Christmas. The Grand Canyon the summer before his dad passed away. His college graduation. His Grandma Aurora making cookies. Jack, a scruffy mutt that Mom had rescued from the animal shelter then given to Luke on his twelfth birthday.
The reality of those swift, fleeting memories meant Luke was dying.
He had made it through the flames. Made it inside the house. But that was as far as he got before smoke stole his breath and loss of blood dropped him like a newborn babe to the floor. Blood seeped from the knife wounds, smoke filled his lungs, life slipped away. He heard death come for him, steady as a heartbeat, and felt the peaceful awareness that accompanied it.
Luke saw his mother, in the hospital dying from cancer. He remembered how she had taken his hand and told him she was ready. The way she had smiled for the first time in months when she drew her last breath. Funerals and flowers. The beach in Southern California. Sailing at Cape Cod. His first kiss with the girl next door who died three years later from leukemia. Pitching his first Little League game. Riding his motorcycle along quiet highways that wove through farmland, during the early morning when the sun came up and the dew was still fresh. Camping in the Catskill Mountains. Breaking his arm when he fell from the neighbor's tree.
He felt Bianca, lying beside him in bed, with candlelight licking her face, lighting her eyes and playing on her beautiful smile. She rose from the bed, in a white flowing gown, her face ethereal as she floated over him, still smiling.
"I thought you couldn't levitate,” he mused groggily. Not with words. His parched throat wouldn't even allow breath past it, much less words. The thought was just that—a thought.
Then he realized—it wasn't Bianca anymore.
The woman had long dark hair. It danced on the hot, balmy breeze. Her eyes were coal black, deeply mysterious, but patient. The smile curving her mouth said she understood. She knew. And it put him at ease.
Celia...
You have to go now, Luke, she told him. Her voice was an echo in his ears, a hum in his thoughts, and as gentle as a caress.
"I know. It's time,” he thought, speaking to her with his mind, his heart only a little heavy. “But Bianca ... Please let me save her..."
That's why you came, was her reply. Love changes things, Luke.
"The curse?"
Her smile broadened and her beauty was magnificent. Not just the curse. Everything. She held out her hand. Now come.
"I can't go without helping Bianca first.” Wit
h the last vestiges of strength left in his dying body, he tried to shove himself up from the floor, but couldn't. The agony of failure rocked his soul.
She took his hand. Her laughter was like music. With a mischievous smile much like Bianca's, she lifted him effortlessly. Come, Luke Samson. She needs you...
Chapter Eighteen
"Oh ... God! I can't stand this!” Fallon shrieked.
She stood beside Miles, wavering between exasperation and hysteria faster than he could keep up. Worried and edgy, he eyed the yellow-tape boundary the police officers had already put up. They refused to let anyone cross it.
The fire trucks were late in responding. Another fire across town in the business district had started first. A pharmaceutical company bordering Clover Falls and the suburbs of Asheville. According to Officer Not-So-Friendly patrolling the yellow-tape barrier, the trucks were on the way, but it would take time for them to arrive.
More time than either Miles or Fallon had the patience for.
Meanwhile another police officer manned Bianca's watering hose, though he may as well have been attacking the flame-engulfed house with a water pistol for all the good it was doing.
Miles watched his sister from the corner of his eye. The flames flickered across her dark, somber stare, and his heart wilted. Tears of anger and a loss greater than he could possibly imagine stung his eyes. “Damn it to hell! If anything has happened to her—” Every inch of him shook. He swiped a hand through his hair, then over his face, as if he could smooth over the tension.
"Go in there and get her, you stupid idiot!” Fallon shrieked at the police officer. He paced, wielding a flashlight and a grim expression. “Put your damned flashlight away and do something!"
"Miss ... settle down,” the officer warned, one pale brow arched over keen eyes.
"Miss? It's Fallon, Bob. Don't pull your ‘I'm the big bad policeman’ routine with me! It was just this side of a month ago that you had me in the back row of the theater trying to shove your grimy paw up my—"
Miles slapped a hand over his sister's mouth as Officer Bob Kent stood there gaping and, apparently, not at all pleased that Fallon would bring something like that up under the circumstances.
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