by Anna Abner
Holden leaned down, recaptured her face, and kissed her like it was his last chance.
Rebecca wilted, losing herself in the taste and feel of his warm lips and unshaven jaw. Tiny bursts of static electricity sparked across her chest and down her spine.
With a moan of pleasure, he snaked an arm around her waist and lifted her so high against his chest her feet left the ground. He deepened the kiss, sweeping his tongue inside her.
Proof of his desire pressed against her through their layers of clothing.
Rebecca came to her senses, reluctantly, and broke the kiss.
“This is a bad idea,” was the first thing that popped out of her mouth, followed by an equally lame, “I don’t get involved with people I work with.”
Her patented, tried-and-true response to any and all flirtatious advances. Of course, the truth was, the only men she knew were men she worked with in some capacity or another. And if a seller’s kind of cute younger brother hit on her, she told him, “Sorry, but I don’t date family members of my clients. It’s not good for business.” Which may or may not be true.
The point was, she didn’t date. Not since David. That had been her first mature, grown-up relationship, and all it had done was complicate her life, eat her up with stress, and, in the end, cause her unending amounts of pain when he abandoned her to marry a pretty bank teller. She wasn’t in a place right now for a relationship.
Holden slowly let her go, sliding her down the entire length of his torso. He stepped back, and the temperature in the room dropped at least twenty degrees.
“It’s for the best.” Good God, she was babbling and couldn’t stop. “I have a lot of respect for you. I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”
Holden stared at her from under his brows, burning a hole through her, as if he didn’t hear anything she said. She wet her lips, getting the feeling he was not in agreement with her on the whole keep-your-distance policy.
“Right. That makes sense.” But his eyes said, “I want you, and I don’t care what you say.”
Rebecca had to put more space between them, or she’d do something stupid. Like kiss him back.
He moved across her room, paused within the frame of their connecting doors, his matching room spreading out behind him.
“Good night.” She nodded once, signaling an end to this conversation. Hell, the whole day. But when she moved to shut the door, Holden blocked her with his body.
“What are you doing?” Becca squeaked.
“The whole reason we’re here is so I can keep an eye on you. In case he finishes the spell.”
She fiddled with the busted doorknob. He’d kicked it down like some juiced-up film detective. And he’d looked damn sexy doing it.
“Keep an eye on, literally?” Like stand over her bed while she slept?
“The doors stay open. If you need me, you call out, and I’ll be right there.”
“You won’t take photographs?” she asked, only partly kidding. “Or do any weird, perverted stuff?”
He gave her a slightly insulted look. “Suspect list. Five minutes.” He turned and disappeared into his room.
* * *
Hers was a very short list. Becca only had one suspect. Charley McGovern. But saying her name aloud would bring down all sorts of magic upon the woman. And Rebecca wasn’t sure yet if Charley deserved it.
The file folder with the bright plaid pattern on the outside lay on the nightstand, calling to Rebecca. There was nothing wrong with gathering information on someone you worked with. She did it all the time. There was no reason to feel guilty. But her stomach clenched as she snatched it off the table and opened the cover.
Jessa had printed six pages and bound them with a paper clip. The top page was a standard information sheet giving Holden’s full name, date of birth, and other basic facts. He’d never been arrested, or it would have been listed here. That was good.
He owned the house on Walnut Street, which she already knew. Then an application for a business license. Nothing new there, either. She found the next three pages, however, very interesting.
The first was printed off the website of the Wade Register, a small, local newspaper in Minnesota. The headline read “Tragedy at Wade Lake.” She scanned the article, her heart in her throat.
Fifteen-year-old Holden Clark and another fifteen-year-old boy fell through the ice of Wade Lake. Holden was recovered twenty minutes later and airlifted to a hospital in Minneapolis. He was revived. The second boy, however, hadn’t been found and was assumed drowned.
Becca swallowed hard, turning the page to another article from the Wade Register: “Police Investigate Death at Wade Lake.”
Fifteen-year-old Max Gaines’s body was recovered from Wade Lake by scuba divers yesterday after 20 hours of searching, but questions remain. Witnesses claim Holden Clark, 15, who survived the same icy waters, allegedly forced Gaines onto a dangerous section of the lake, where he fell through and drowned. Police are following up all leads. Mr. and Mrs. David Gaines have opened a tip line for facts relating to the tragic death of their son, an honor student at Wade High School. An account at First Bank has been created for donations.
The final page was the summary of a professional medical journal on near drownings, cold water, and brain damage. It mentioned that Holden, after overcoming a temporary loss of speech, made a full physical recovery.
Rebecca was so absorbed in the technical language of the medical article she didn’t notice Holden had entered her room until he flopped beside her on the bed, his laptop in one hand.
“How’s it coming?”
She nearly had a heart attack. The file flew into the air and scattered at her feet. She dove for the loose pages, fisting them before Holden could offer to help.
“Doing some homework,” she said too loudly.
Rebecca chanced a look at Holden to see how her charade had come off. Not well.
“You’re lying.” His eyes dropped to the mess of paper in her hands. “What are you hiding?”
She opened her mouth to reaffirm the lie and spin, spin, spin.
But she didn’t.
Sighing, Rebecca handed him the file. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t feel safe until I knew everything.”
Scowling, he took the file and smoothed the pages inside, only glancing at the titles.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, feeling like a disgusting Peeping Tom. “I shouldn’t have gone behind your back.”
He slapped the file closed and tossed it onto the TV stand beside the phone before opening his laptop and clicking onto a notepad program.
So Holden could fake his mood, too. He wasn’t as calm and unruffled as he’d like her to think. For one, his shoulders were tense enough to bounce quarters off of. And his jaw was clenched tight. He wasn’t fine at all.
“Say something. Please.”
He typed a couple of lines into his computer. “So now you know. I killed a kid.”
Rebecca winced. “No. I don’t believe that.”
He may be a bit strange, but he wasn’t a murderer. She was confident of that. A murderer wouldn’t care about the fate of one woman. A murderer wouldn’t love his dog or his grandma the way Holden did.
“That’s what the Gaineses think,” he said. “And a lot of other people, too.”
She perched beside him on the edge of the bed. “You didn’t kill him.”
He shook his head, sighing loudly. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” His eyes met hers. “Let me see your suspect list.”
“Don’t you want—”
“Your suspect list,” he snapped.
Fine. Whatever happened at Wade Lake was off limits. Rebecca could live with that. For now.
“I only have one name. What do you have?”
“Everyone I can think of.” He scrolled up the page. “Read it. Tell me what you think.”
To say Holden’s list was inclusive was a joke. One line actually read “all past clients.” She really should narrow that list down for him. Tomo
rrow she’d go over her digital records.
The list continued. Her dad, her sister, her mom. Her landlord, her neighbors, her employees. Damian Arasmus, and the other two psychics-for-hire.
“You think my dad and sister are suspects?” Rebecca barked a laugh. “That’s a good one.”
His brows drew together. “Why is that funny?”
“They’re about as far from evil sorcerers as you can get.”
“I want to be thorough.”
“Right.” No, that was smart. But her dad and sister? Not likely. “I’ll fill in some of the names for you.” Becca gestured for the laptop, and Holden passed it to her.
Her present landlord was a real estate conglomerate, so she highly doubted anyone there knew her on sight, let alone wanted to destroy her. But she typed in Massey Properties anyway.
She named each of her six former employees, including Jessa and Derek, who still worked at her office. She filled in her family’s names: Her dad, Doug, and her sister, Nelly. Her mother, Nancy Ann LaCrue.
The names of the first two psychics she’d forgotten almost the moment she’d told them to lose her number, but she’d kept their business cards. So she passed the laptop back to Holden and searched her wallet.
More quiet typing. “Is there anyone I’m forgetting?” he asked.
“Not that I can think of. I mean, we could include everyone I’ve ever met, but that seems a little too thorough.” Rebecca found the cards, one homemade and sloppily printed on all-purpose paper and the other on white cardstock with black lettering. Anastasia Jewel and Martin Dell. “Here are the first two psychics.”
She yawned behind her fingers. “I’ll look at my client files tomorrow. For now, can you excuse me? I’m going to order room service—” Or whatever passed for room service in a place like this “—and go to bed early.” She checked her watch. Really early. Like before the sun went down early. But maybe magic did that to a person.
“Fine.” He closed his laptop and left without any further argument or directions or even a scowl over his shoulder. One minute he was there, and the next she stood alone in her orange-hued motel room sort of wishing he’d stay.
* * *
Though he should be concentrating on research, Holden listened to Rebecca moving around next door instead.
Bare feet scuffed against the natty brown carpet and then pattered across linoleum into the bathroom. A door clicked, and water ran.A few minutes later she used the heavy, jangly desk phone to order a chicken sandwich and juice.
A loud zipper sound. Her suitcase.
Holden stared right through his laptop, incapable of reading any more about possession spells.
A whisper of cloth. Footsteps. More rustling. He pictured her removing her adorable pink sundress and stripping down to nothing. His mouth dried out like the inside of an oven. Good Lord. Then she would dress slowly in panties and a camisole. Or oversized boxers and a white tank top. It was too much to hope she’d slip into some kind of red or black lacy lingerie. But he pictured that, too. And his body reacted.
Holden closed the laptop, giving up any pretense of study, and lay flat on his back on the bed.
He wanted to be in there with her, on her bed. He wanted to curl around her and feel her round little behind pressed into him.
But that was never going to happen. For one, if he got in a serious relationship, his Grams would leave. And, though Rebecca had responded to his kiss, briefly leaning in and kissing him back, she didn’t like him.
Groaning, Holden turned his back on her door and curled into a ball.
Rebecca’s shower came on, and she closed the bathroom door, probably locked it. He squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made the mental pictures more vivid. So he stared at the dark television and willed his body under control.
Memories of crashing into Wade Lake in January finally did it. It didn’t matter what kind of coat you wore or how thick your scarf, when water that cold swallowed a boy whole he felt it down to his bones. Every nerve ending, every artery, every synapse in his brain froze like snowflakes, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
So Rebecca knew about his accident. It had never been a secret—it was online for anyone to read—but it had been so long since he’d talked about it with anyone that the guilt resurfaced, fresh as ever.
The shower next door cut off. The bathroom door opened, and Rebecca unzipped her suitcase again.
He couldn’t handle anymore. Holden locked himself in his own bathroom and ran a shower. By the time he emerged, steam pouring through the doorway, he was more relaxed and more capable of being in Rebecca Powell’s vicinity.
No sound came from her room, though he could smell her meal, and he peeked around the doorframe. Only her glorious blonde hair was visible, the rest of her covered by the bed sheets. By the rhythm of her breathing, he guessed she was asleep.
His phone rang, jolting him into the present. He jogged to the bedside table and snatched up his cell.
“Hello?”
“Holden, it’s Cole. I found something worth checking out. There are rumors about a secret organization that worships the devil and his demons. A dark cabal.”
A dark cabal of demon worshippers. It sounded too ridiculous to be true. But if it was, and they were targeting innocent people for demonic possessions…
“I talked to some people,” Cole continued. “A few years ago a necromancer calling himself the Dark Caster tried to open a Chaos Gate. It’s like a gateway between our world and the demon realm. He got spanked by agents of heaven before he could do it, of course. They took away his power to channel spirits. But now, he’s got a whole cabal of followers doing new mischief in his name.”
“What happens if they open a Chaos Gate?” Holden asked.
“My guess is heaven would never leave it open for long, but as long as it was, countless demons could enter our world. And it’s possible the summoning spell on Rebecca Powell is the first part of his plan.”
“Do you know who he is? Or where he is?” Holden asked.
“No, I wish I did. He’s very careful with his identity. But I wanted you to know. I’ll keep looking. You do the same.”
They hung up, and Holden saw he had three missed calls.
Two from Sean at the diner, which he skipped, and one from his waitress. Her name was Katherine, and the only reason Holden knew that was because at some point in their business relationship he’d entered the name Katherine Waitress and her number into his contacts list.
“It’s Kate,” she greeted, her voice way past irritated. “If you had stopped for ten seconds today and talked to Sean, you would’ve figured out his stupid plan, but he cleaned out the register and left town.”
Holden knocked his forehead against the wall. Perfect. What else could go wrong? Fire? Flood? Plague?
“I’m five months pregnant,” she added in a huff. “I don’t need this crap. For crying out loud, take care of your own business.”
He had to go into work tomorrow and open the diner. Either that or close it. But if he closed the diner, even for a few days, he might as well close it forever. He’d lose customers, and he’d lose the faith of the community.
Rebecca screamed.
* * *
The Prince—he liked the name; it sounded badass—was a born necromancer, not made. And deeply proud of it. The Dark Caster told him not too long ago it meant the devil had chosen him from birth.
He’d played with friendly spirits from the time he could see and hear and smile. But he’d never considered black magic until very recently. And once he’d met the Dark Caster, joined the cabal, and performed his first few dark spells, his longtime spirit friends abandoned him. Poof. Just gone. He’d gained a few angry, violent spirits curious about doing evil in the world and willing to transfer him their power, but even they left when he first cast the demonic-possession spell into Rebecca Powell.
A demon was a creature of hell and the devil. It wasn’t supposed to have any physical foothold in the h
uman world. God forbade it. Demons were not only dangerous to bring forth but a necromancer had to be insane to attempt it. Demons turned on their masters. And agents of heaven handled infractions with fire and blood.
But he wanted to impress the Dark Caster. He wanted to be a big shot for once. In reality, he was a gofer. He worked around powerful, successful people, but he wasn’t one of them. The Dark Caster saw potential in him no one else did. The Dark Caster promised him the second top spot in the cabal and all the power he could handle. Soon he’d have a demon on a leash, and then the sky was the limit for him. No, the sky wasn’t enough. Soon he’d have no limits.
The Dark Caster may not be able to cast anymore after he’d attempted to open a doorway between worlds and been spiritually castrated by an agent of heaven, but his drive hadn’t been dampened. The Dark Caster needed necromancers and witches to do the heavy lifting, but he had a vision. He saw an army of demons under his control. And with that much power, any government could be overthrown. Any military overrun. Bank vaults would be their personal ATMs.
All they had to do was open the Chaos Gate.
And it all started with one spell, one demon, and one uppity, blonde Realtor.
The Prince knelt and cast. And cast. And cast, chanting his spell until his voice cracked and his knees screamed. But with only one broken-down spirit named Robert to draw power from, the damned spell that should have taken two weeks, at the most, was going into month three.
He needed better spirits. He’d petitioned the Dark Caster for more, but he’d been denied.
A flare of power burst in the room, knocking him to his hands and knees. Beside Robert, a fat man in overalls flickered into being. A cold smile scrolled across the man’s mean face.
“The Dark Caster sent me to help you,” the fat man said. He slapped his fleshy chest. “Ned.”
The moment the Prince drew on two spirits and cast his spell, he felt the increase in power like a jolt of industrial strength caffeine in his veins. Grinning, he chanted a strength-sapping spell, confident it wouldn’t be long now.
* * *
Becca woke a little dazed in what she supposed was the morning. It took a few minutes to remember she wasn’t in her apartment. She stretched her legs and accidentally kicked something warm, heavy, and dog shaped. Damn it. Buster must have snuck in during the night and climbed onto her bed. She sat up, pulling the blankets with her. Someone grumbled in complaint from the other side of the king-size bed.