The Seven Year Witch: That Old Black Magic, Book 2

by Jodi Redford

  “Really?” A fraction of the tight heaviness eased behind Clarissa’s sternum. “That’s good.” Hopefully it meant he wouldn’t be on his typical quest to venture down nostalgia lane, dredging up painful memories neither of them needed to obsess over.

  “I think it had something to do with his visitor yesterday afternoon.”

  Clarissa blinked. “Visitor?” For one terrifying moment her mind veered to Seven.

  “Your mother.”

  The unexpected reply squeezed the air from her lungs. “What?”

  “Your father was so excited,” Janet chattered on, apparently oblivious of the scab she’d just ripped open in Clarissa’s soul. “I take it it’s been a while since they’ve seen each other. Reunions like that always make me teary.” Sniffling, Janet reached for a tissue from the dispenser resting on the corner of the desk.

  Not sticking around to hear another word, Clarissa spun and rushed toward the dining room. She spotted her father sitting at a table with three other gentlemen. Her heart cramped. No matter how many times she tried to steel herself, she would never get used to seeing him look so frail.

  Sucking in a deep breath, she approached the men. She noticed her father was the only one conversing amongst the group. Judging from the expressions of his breakfast companions, he’d been talking their ears off from the moment he’d joined them. Her suspicions became verified when one of the men turned down the volume on his hearing aid. She tapped her father’s stooped shoulder, and he jerked his gaze upward, causing his bifocals to slip backward on his nose.

  “Clarissa!”

  A tiny sliver of the panic that’d seized her since learning of her mother’s visit dissolved as she took in her dad’s beaming smile. Today he remembered her. The realization was bittersweet because she knew that tomorrow he’d likely forget. Dropping onto her haunches, she leaned in to peck his wrinkled, papery cheek. She used the opportunity to blink away the moisture collecting in her eyes before shifting her head and returning his grin. “Hi, Pops.”

  “She came back. Told you she would.”

  The ache resettled in her chest as she surveyed the unrestrained jubilation shining on her father’s face. He looked so damn happy. All she could do was pray that he’d forget about her mother’s visit come tomorrow. Because she didn’t think she could handle having to be the one to break his heart all over again.

  Not a second time.

  “She asked about you. Wanted to know if you’re doing okay.”

  A mixture of wariness and anger stiffened her spine. After all these years, the woman wanted to know how she was doing? Gee, how fucking maternal of her.

  “I would have told her where to find you, but I…I couldn’t remember your address.”

  The distress that flashed across her father’s features instantly overruled her silent grievances. She reached for her dad’s trembling hands and tucked them within her own. “It’s okay. If she really wants to see me, she can look me up in the phone book.” Please, goddess, see to it that she doesn’t. Not that she expected her mother to do any such thing. If she hadn’t done so by now, why would she?

  Then again, the woman hadn’t sought out Clarissa’s father in all these years. What had possessed her to do so now? Or more to the point—what did she want?

  Whatever her mother was up to couldn’t be good. Steely resolve armored Clarissa’s doubts. She’d do whatever necessary to protect her father from further heartbreak.

  A portion of her panic resurfaced when she realized that come next Sunday, she’d no longer be around to watch over him. She stared at his wrinkle-lined face, hopeless defeat swamping her as he started jabbering away at his tablemates again. The cruel irony of her predicament wasn’t lost on her. To protect her father, she was willingly turning over her soul to Seven. But after she was gone, who would safeguard her dad from future threats? She would have to find someone to assume the responsibility. Someone she could trust. Her first instinct was Logan. Goddess knows, he was capable of taking over the job. The only sticky part would be getting him to agree without explaining why she needed him to look after her father.

  Her temples began to throb as she contemplated that unpleasant conversation. She had six days to come up with something, no point in giving herself an ulcer over it just yet. Besides, there was one step she could make now that would take care of the biggest of her worries—her mother. She pushed to her feet and returned to the lobby. The reception desk was unmanned. Janet must have stepped away to use the restroom or help a resident or staff member. Drumming her nails on the counter, she eyed the overhead clock.

  The heavy scuff of soles treading across the linoleum flooring squeaked farther down the corridor. She turned to see if it might be Janet but spotted one of the orderlies maneuvering a stocked cart from the supply closet. He swung the door shut and continued across the hall. Clarissa’s gaze remained riveted to the spot just beyond the closet, where two figures were bent close together, engaged in what looked to be an engrossing conversation. She stared at Seven, a shiver of foreboding heralding a colony of goose bumps along both her arms. This wasn’t the same personality who’d sealed their contract with a kiss last night. Instead, it was the grizzled, potbellied trucker she’d tracked down seven years ago and begged to exchange the contract on her father’s soul for her own.

  What was it doing here?

  A hot wash of anger sizzled through her as the obvious answer materialized. Seven was contracting more souls. And preying on the helpless elderly in the process.

  That fucking, heartless son of a bitch.

  “Ms. Miles, there you are.”

  Janet’s perky announcement was loud enough to draw every gaze within two hundred feet. Including Seven’s. The creature locked stares with Clarissa, the mouth tucked within that overgrowth of beard curving in a sinister grin. Plump fingers tapped against the bill of the green-and-white baseball cap smashed low on Seven’s wide brow, giving Clarissa a mocking salute.

  Janet stepped forward, momentarily blocking Seven from view. She held out a matchbook. “I found this on the floor in front of my desk. You must have dropped it earlier.”

  Clarissa gaped at the large red T stamped on the matchbook’s glossy cover. Equally repelled and captivated, she reached for the matchbook. She flipped it open, her pulse stuttering at the sight of the name scrawled in blue ink. Barry Tatum.

  She remembered how shaky her fingers had been while writing that name in this very matchbook seven years ago. Remembered the weeks of agonizing she’d put herself through while she’d struggled over the decision to set her plan in motion—the plan that literally brought her life crashing down around her.

  Now the matchbook was back. Another reminder of her guilt.

  “Are you okay?”

  Janet’s concerned tone snapped Clarissa out of her daze. She lifted her head, her gaze skipping past the receptionist to the far corner.

  Seven was gone.

  Swallowing past the unease tightening her throat, she glanced at Janet. “I’m fine. Or I will be, after you promise to restrict my father’s visitor list.”

  The receptionist frowned. “But—”

  “Promise me.”

  Finally clued in to the severity of the situation, Janet bobbed her head. “Okay, if that’s what you want. Who do you wish to restrict?”

  Clarissa took a deep breath. There was only one answer that’d keep out a creature that could wear a variety of faces. “Everyone.”

  Chapter Eight

  Logan silently bitched to himself while he mopped a bar rag across the handful of damp condensation rings topping the counter. The one downfall to the lunchtime crunch fizzling to a trickle of customers was now he had way too much time to mull over his situation with Clarissa.

  If he’d hoped for one damn minute that sleeping with her would cure him of his constant obsession, his present state of mind more than kicked that fallacy square in the balls. Only now it wasn’t ruminations about how sweet she might taste or what kind of so
unds she made when she was seconds away from coming that consumed his every waking thought. No, he knew all too well the answers to those burning questions. His current dilemma—and the reason for his unflagging erection for the past four hours—was anticipating all the things he’d do to Clarissa the next time they were in bed together.

  Realistically, twenty-four hours wouldn’t be adequate time for everything he wanted to do. Hell, a lifetime would be cutting it pretty damn short. And that was another sobering conclusion he’d come to. A night or two would never be long enough to get Clarissa out of his system.

  Any lingering illusions he might have tried to fool himself with in regards to his feelings for Clarissa were now dead. This went miles beyond desire and obsession. The awful pain that’d ripped through his rib cage when she’d dashed from his house this morning and sped off like the hounds of hell were snapping at the Miata’s tailpipe had hammered the final nail in his coffin.

  He was bat-shit crazy in love with Clarissa Miles, the woman who lived by the motto of allowing no one past the closely guarded gate shielding her heart. Hell if that wasn’t a big-ass fucking complication that would likely make him drink himself into an early grave. He eyed the empty bottle of Bud that rested on the corner of the bar like a taunting premonition of his fate. Grimacing, he scooped up the offender and chucked it into the recycle bin beneath the counter. The frantic, staccato tap-tap of heels on the wooden floor planks drew his gaze upward just as Willa wobbled to a halt in front of the bar.

  She plunked a purse that could easily be mistaken for a piece of luggage onto one of the stools and blew her bangs out of her eyes before straightening her glasses. “Please tell me the kitchen didn’t forget Domino’s lunch again. Otherwise I might be forced to do something stupid that will earn me a spot on the six o’clock news.”

  He rubbed his goatee. “Depends. Would this something stupid involve public nudity?”

  “No, I’m thinking more along the lines of homicidal rage.”

  Feigning disappointment, he reached for the phone bolted to the support post located near the taps. “Let me check with Paolo.” After a thirty second conversation where the temperamental cook managed to curse a dozen times, disparage Emeril Lagasse and point out that they were out of the shrimp-gumbo special, Logan secured the phone back in its cradle and gave Willa a sympathetic smile. “That trigger finger isn’t too itchy, is it?”

  A menacing noise came from the back of Willa’s throat before she slumped against the stool. “Domino is going to have a fit. More than her typical one, too, since her damn one-meal-a-day diet is making my life hell.”

  Logan swept the bar rag into the sink with his palm. “Don’t you mean her life?”

  “No, definitely mine. And I don’t even get the benefit of losing a few inches around my waist.”

  He flicked an appraising look down the length of her tan, plain-Jane suit. “Sugar, the last thing you need to lose is weight. You’re already a dead ringer for that model who’s named after some kind of moss.”

  “Kate Moss? Are you telling me I look like a skinny chick with no ass?” Before he could answer, Willa’s eyes narrowed. “Obviously the rumor about you being a world-class charmer is a smoking pile of crap.”

  Despite her barb, or maybe because of it, his mouth stretched into a grin. “I don’t remember you being this feisty. Damn, maybe I shoulda hit on you when I had the chance.”

  Willa pressed the heel of her hand into the center of her forehead, smoothing her scowl lines. “Yeah, that ship’s long sailed out of the harbor, buster.” She dropped her palm and blinked at him, her mouth softening. “I have no idea where any of this is coming from.”

  “Where what’s coming from?”

  “This.” She made an agitated gesture that seemed to encompass her entire body. “The feistiness. It’s so not my thing.” A dark worry cloud shadowing her expression, she tugged the stool away from the counter and plopped onto its seat. “There’s something very wrong with me.”

  “Why? Because you’re acting like a normal woman?”

  “Yes.” Willa yanked her purse from the other stool and hugged it to her lap. “All I know is that I feel like a damn alien has taken over my head lately. I’m edgy, I can’t sleep, and sometimes I…”

  “You what?” he prompted, leaning his elbows on the bar.

  She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s not important. All of this is probably just an early life crisis.” She pillowed her chin in her palm, her nose scrunching—presumably in response to his questioning look. “My birthday is next Friday. The big three oh no.”

  “Yep, you’re ancient. I can see why you’re wiggin’ out.”

  “Bite me.” She jerked her head up and stared at him. “Did you hear that? I just said bite me.”

  It took every ounce of control he possessed not to bust out laughing at her shocked whisper.

  “I’m not even completely certain why people use that phrase.” The worry lines etched into her brow deepened. “I, uh, don’t actually want you to bite me, either.”

  Struggling to keep his expression deadpan, he nodded. “Glad you cleared that up.” Behind Willa, he noticed a grizzled dude wearing a leather vest and a green-and-white ball cap mosey from the short hall that led from the restrooms. He frowned, trying to figure out where the guy had come from. Sure, it wasn’t like he’d been keeping close intel on everyone in the restaurant, but there was no way anyone could have gone into the johns the past half hour without crossing directly in his line of vision. Course, maybe the guy had holed up in there with a newspaper and a mission. In which case, no force on earth would get him near the men’s room any time soon.

  The guy passed the far end of the bar, and Logan returned his focus to Willa just as she shuddered violently. Her purse tumbled to the floor, but she didn’t seem to register it as a strange look washed over her face. Worried she was about to keel over dead or something, he hiked his boot on the floor rack beneath the bar and prepared to leap over the counter. She snapped to before he even ducked to his knees. Her stare shifted to her purse lying on the ground and the assorted contents that’d spilled as a result of the fall. “How did that happen?”

  He gaped at her. “You don’t remember?”

  Her cheeks still featuring an unhealthy white pallor, she scrambled from the stool and scooped up her belongings, stuffing them methodically into her bag. She stood just as one of the busboys scurried up to the bar with a carryout bag. Tucking her purse strap over her arm, she eyed the packages of food like they were gifts directly bestowed from the gods, rather than scrawny Tommy Finkle.

  “Is that for me?” Fumbling for her wallet, she dug out a twenty and passed it to Logan.

  Folding the bill between his thumb and forefinger, he strode to the register. Willa clutched the carryout bag to her chest and dashed toward the exit. He skidded to a halt. “Hey, I’ve still gotta make your change.”

  “Keep it. I owe you for listening to my lunatic rantings.”

  Bemused, he watched her rush out the door. Shaking his head, he continued to the register and rang in her order, putting the change aside to later stuff in the tip jar. Almost as if he couldn’t stop himself, he glanced in the direction of the ball-cap guy, who was sitting in a booth with Harper Coogan. Given the fact that Harper was a lowlife who saved up his precious time spent away from the bars to use at the racetrack, he couldn’t help wondering if Harper’s new friend might be a bookie.

  Even while Logan pondered that question, the stranger shifted his attention from Harper and looked Logan dead square in the eyes. A strange sensation slithered along the nape of his neck, making the fine hairs there stand on end like iron filings attracted to a magnet. The wolf in him growled low in its throat, intuitively not liking the weird vibe coming off the guy.

  Just as he was contemplating the risk of getting fired if he gave in to the urge to kick creepy dude out of the restaurant, the stranger broke his stare and smiled at Harper.

  The heebie-jeebies holding
Logan hostage slowly evaporated. It wasn’t until the tightness in his chest eased that he realized he’d been holding his breath. His natural animal instinct telling him to stay on high alert, he kept his wary focus trained on Harper’s companion in between stocking the bar for the evening crowd. It wasn’t until the two men left Champions together that he finally figured out precisely what had gotten his wolf’s hackles up. It’d sensed a mutual predator.

  Only that dude hadn’t been a wolf. Or anything else that he could readily determine. The fact that he couldn’t figure out what the guy was—other than dangerous—left him uneasy.

  It wasn’t until Clarissa drove completely past Charmed Moon that she knew why she had no desire to go into work just yet. The entire time she’d been sitting with her father at the nursing home, her mind had been consumed with Seven.

  The notion that the son of a bitch was culling victims from a pool of senior citizens made her nauseous. And furious.

  Somehow, she needed to find a way to stop Seven from contracting those souls. But how exactly did she go about that when she didn’t even know how the creature was able to convince its intended victims to agree to the unthinkable? She knew how Seven had gotten to her. Even knew how it’d gotten to her father. But surely not everyone Seven contracted possessed similar desperate circumstances.

  For that matter, she still didn’t quite understand precisely what had drawn her father into Seven’s path, and vice versa. Considering that her father barely remembered what had happened, it seemed likely she would never get the answer to that question. Which meant she was flying blind, with minimal clues to give her the necessary ammunition against Seven.

  There was only one option left. In order to bring down the bastard, she needed to discover its weaknesses.

  Hitting the button on the GPS, she pulled up the address for Seventy-seven West Seventh Street. This time the coordinates loaded with no problem, and several minutes later, the Miata was bumping down the same dusty back country road she’d traveled the other day. Parking in plain sight of the mansion obviously would be a dumb move, so she found a place to pull off a quarter mile down the street that offered concealment behind a thick hedge of overgrown kudzu. She left the vehicle in its protected cubbyhole and took off across the field, intending to approach from the less visible south end of the property.