Harmless described Pete to a fault. Overeager on occasion and though their previous encounters at her house and then at the Gas ‘n Go had left her feeling on edge, she’d never considered the shy outcast a threat to anyone. As Jacquelyn lay in the dark, muddling through the past week, she put the pieces together one by one. Pete worked for Willie Carmichael at the hardware store. He’d probably seen the results of Willie’s binges as yellowing bruises on Christy Carmichael’s face more than once. And she knew through Finn that Willie didn’t treat his employees much better. Bree had embarrassed and belittled him in public. But Finn—her poor Finn. His only sin had been loving her. Micah had been right all along, somehow she’d become the object of Pete’s twisted obsession. Finn had nearly died because of her—just like Ryan—and she’d have to live the rest of her life with that knowledge casting a shadow on her already tainted soul.
A muted orange glow, like the light of a waning sunset, echoed in the back of Jacquelyn’s mind. She focused on her eyelids, definitely closed, and slowly peeled each one open. Blurred by whatever still made her head feel overinflated and her equilibrium skewed, she blinked once and then again, as a sliver of light slowly came into focus.
Pete stood in the doorway, his head peeking through the crack. In the wan light he was the same old Pete, shy and reserved, starving for attention. He pushed the door wider, a shaft of light framing his body and his movement became less tentative, more of a saunter as he approached her. The closer he came, the less round his features appeared. Sharper, elongated and hard, the lines of his face looked drawn and hollow. His teeth glistened in the shadows, his lips drawn back into a predatory snarl.
His weight as he sat beside her on the bed caused her to roll a little toward him; she was still too weak to move. What had he done to her? Knocked her out? Drugged her? And where were Wes and Micah?
“My lovelies were rough with you when I told them not to be.” He stroked her hair like he would a pet. “I’ve sent them away but they won’t stay gone for long. They’re angry with me because I won’t give them the old lady.”
“Pete,” she tried to say, but the word came out as a strangled cry, wild and thick.
“Shh.” He soothed her, petting her hair before his hand trailed down her shoulder and lingered at her breast. He pulled away as if he’d been burned, and absently returned to stroking her hair. “It’s okay. I’ll protect you. I made us a wonderful home and you’re going to be happy here. You’re mine now. I love you.”
Her stomach heaved and she gagged on the bile rising in her throat. How could she have been so stupid? Some hunter she’d turned out to be. She’d practically handed herself over to him. God, she needed Micah. Where is he?
“When you’re feeling better, we’ll have dinner.” Pete traced his fingers along the lines of her body with less shock and more curiosity. “No one likes to eat when they don’t feel good though, and my angels hit you too hard when they took you. I hope your head doesn’t hurt too badly.”
An inward groan was all she could manage. Flashes of memory started to come back to her. She’d been standing at the top of the steps, staring at Pete. Micah dove for Pete, and something knocked him against the side of the house. Wes had fought hard as well, throwing punches like a man possessed. But Pete was too damned strong, and he’d managed to knock Wes out with a single punch. Despite her own best efforts—not to mention years of combat training—she’d been thrown down the stairs, pushed by something she could neither see nor fight and after that, her world had gone dark.
The dagger no longer warmed the skin at her side, and the holster as well had been removed, no doubt her Glock along with it. A defenseless Waerd without her Bearer. He’d rendered her completely impotent. A pulse where her hairline met her temple felt tight and swollen, growing larger with every beat of her heart. Supernatural wounds were always tougher to heal from. She might have a concussion, and she needed a Bearer’s touch if she even wanted to consider fighting Pete and his new pets.
“P—Pete.” Jacquelyn used every ounce of energy she could muster just to speak.
“Yes?” His expectant tone made her stomach constrict with unyielding knots.
“I’m going to kill you.”
Pete leaned away, his lovesick expression replaced by one of sheer rage. He reached down, wrapped his long fingers around her throat and squeezed, his grip relaxing and contracting before it contracted again, tighter, closing off her airway completely.
Jacquelyn gasped, dragging her arms—still weak at her sides—up to his wrists. She didn’t have the strength to pry him away, and the world spun as her grasp on consciousness slipped, the gray haze of nothing seeping back into her mind.
“Oh!” Pete released her throat and scrambled away from her. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry Jack-lyn. I—I won’t hurt you if you’re cooperative. I know you’re upset right now, but when you come out to eat you’ll see what I’ve done for you. You’ll see that you’re going to be happy here.”
Jacquelyn drew a ragged breath to fill her depleted lungs. With weak fingers she massaged her neck and the fetid stench of the room filled her nostrils, causing her to cough and gag. Old and musty, the air was thick with the cloying heaviness of death.
Without pause, Pete knelt beside her and took her face roughly between his hands. If he squeezed any harder, she’d pop, but he seemed unaware of the preternatural strength threatening to crush her skull. The tips of his left fingers dug into the knot on her forehead and she tried not to cry out. He lowered his face and kissed her, slow at first, but his fervor increased and he moved his mouth hungrily over hers, his lips tasting and his teeth biting. Pulling away, his breath heaved in his chest and his eyes shone with a crazy light.
“Later,” he panted. “We’ll have time for that later. As soon as you feel ready, come down and eat.” His mouth spread in another over-the-top smile. “But don’t try anything sneaky.” He tapped his forefinger to his temple. “My darlings are always watching and would kill you. Whether I love you or not.” He closed the door behind him, leaving her in darkness once again.
Micah punched the accelerator to the floor, pushing the needle on the speedometer well over ninety. Jacquelyn’s car shook like it was going to fall apart at any second, but he refused to let up on the gas. If he didn’t get to her soon, his dream would come true and he’d be too late to save her.
Finding out where Pete lived had been an easy thing once Micah discovered their mystery man’s identity. Mollifying Wes on the other hand, had proved a little tougher. He’d been hell-bent on charging into the action and had nearly gotten himself killed in the process. Micah had to give it to Wes, though, the guy had balls. He’d fought for all he was worth but it hadn’t been enough against invisible foes. Micah was still having a hard time wrapping his mind around what he’d seen despite the fact that he’d known the Furies from his visions of their gruesome kills.
Inhumanly strong, the unseen force had tossed Wes like a ragdoll across Jacquelyn’s porch. Micah hadn’t lasted much longer—three against one weren’t good odds when your opponents were human—and despite his best efforts, he’d landed in an aching heap not far from Wes. The host was who they needed to get their hands on, but the damned Furies protected their master well and neither Micah nor Wes had managed to get their hands on that slimy little piece of shit who’d run off with Jacquelyn. And when Jacquelyn tumbled down the stairs, writhing in pain and screaming before Micah could gain his bearings; Wes had been reduced to a quivering lump of man-flesh. “Just like the fucking exorcist,” he’d muttered, shaking as he gripped his head between his palms.
Micah had done his best to be tactful, calming Wes by draining him of every ounce of emotion he’d stuffed into that cavalier, adventure-seeking mind of his. After he was good and numb, no longer interested in playing the bounty hunter, getting Wes to comply was an easy task. He provided Micah with detailed directions to Pete’s house, agreeing to stay put at Jacquelyn’s house. Wes’s problem wasn’t his bravery
. The guy had that in spades. It was the fact that he wanted to charge into the situation without thinking it through first. That sort of half-cocked preparedness would get someone killed, and Micah needed every ounce of focus at his disposal to protect both Trish and Jacquelyn. Fear ate at his insides like acid, the prospect that they were already dead a torturous thought in the back of his mind. But Micah refused to accept defeat. He’d get them both back. Alive.
The Subaru wasn’t built for speed, but it managed well enough as Micah sped across the loose gravel road, a plume of dust rising behind him like a rooster’s tail. Details escaped him as he tried to remember his dream as though he could find some clue to how this would all play out. Had the road been so long? This one seemed to go on forever. Rounding a corner and then another, the car drifted and he quickly steered into the skid righting the car on the road. A valley stretched out before him, ringed by rolling hills and dotted with an old, rundown white farmhouse, big red barn, and a peppering of old rusting combines.
His mentor was more than likely dead, his partner the prisoner of a mad man with wild, vengeful killers to protect him, and Micah was left to fight, untrained with only a magic dagger and a .357 loaded with silver rounds. I have no clue what I’m doing. No fucking clue whatsoever.
As he neared the house, Micah pulled the car off to the side of the road and parked it in a field behind an outcropping of rocks. He was up against some serious shit and didn’t think it would behoove him to charge up the driveway, sirens blaring. This had become a stealth mission, and he wouldn’t fail Jacquelyn. Because he knew that she would never fail him.
Micah wracked his brain, going over every experience with complete clarity. The Goblin had been easy, a shot to disable and the dagger for the kill. This situation was different, and a hell of a lot more dangerous. He was outnumbered, four to one, and he had no idea what kind of state he’d find Jacquelyn in. She might not be able to help him. But he could heal her. He’d touched her cheek and healed her cut. He’d brought Finn back from the precipice of death. A glimmer of hope shone in the dark recess of his thoughts. Hurt was okay. Dead wasn’t. If she hadn’t opened up to him, trusted him with her knowledge of the supernatural, he’d be in deep shit, but her intentions had been clear: Find the host and kill him.
Jogging the last couple hundred yards, Micah conserved as much energy for the coming fight as he could. The dagger flashed in his fist and the .357 bounced against his ribs as he ran. Kill the host. Banish the Furies. Kill the host. He just needed a clear shot, one second, to immobilize him and then he’d run the dagger through his chest. Could he do it? Take a life? And for that matter, would it even work? He had no idea. As he neared the farmhouse, the familiar sickening need blossomed within him. The perverse lust flavored with a violent edge. This Pete would kill Jacquelyn once he was done with her. He had no doubt. Yes, he could do this. He’d drive the dagger through the bastard’s black heart.
Jacquelyn’s emotions called to him like a beacon through the fog. He felt her despair, her anger and frustration. She tried to hide her fear, and he wondered who she was hiding it from. Edging around the side of the house, he sensed Trish as well. What he felt from her was more than emotion. Somehow, she was trying to communicate with him. Flashes of thought, that’s what Jacquelyn had taught him to look for. He’d done it in town with a few people earlier in the day. He had to focus, concentrate on Trish and maybe he’d catch a glimpse of what she was trying to tell him.
He closed his eyes, let his mind search for Trish and only Trish. He felt her, close by, searching for him as well. Micah. Micah, are you here?
I’m here! He projected the thought as a feeling of elation and protection. I’m going to get you out of there, just hold on. Though he had no idea if she could hear him, he was certain she felt him. He continued toward the back door, careful to crouch well below the kitchen windows bright and glowing with light.
Straight above him, he felt Trish and he realized only a wall separated them. Standing at the kitchen sink, she peered over the glass, peeling potatoes as she searched the darkening twilight. He poked his head just over the pane, his eyes meeting hers. She could’ve been in worse condition, but anger burst like a solar flare when he took stock of the bruises and black eye, complimentary only to her split lip.
No anger. He felt her thoughts rather than heard them. But he knew somehow that she needed him to control his emotions. Furies fed on the dark things people felt, and surely they didn’t need any more fuel to add to their already raging fire. Where’s Jacquelyn? he mouthed silently at the glass. Careful not to give him away, Trish rolled her eyes high and to the left indicating the staircase.
“Can I get to her?”
A sense of relaxation overcame him and Trish’s orders became perfectly clear. Patience.
“I’m going to need a few more potatoes.” Trish said, loud and in a meek voice that was an oxymoron to her nature. “Could you please go down to the cellar and get more?”
Micah felt a flash of pleasure that made him feel like he needed to shower from the inside, out. Pete’s warm, fuzzy feelings were a distortion of what any normal person would feel, impure with a strange, almost vicious edge.
“I can do that,” Pete said from somewhere behind Trish. “This is a welcome home dinner, and it has to be the best dinner. She’ll feel better when she sees you.”
“I’m sure, dear,” Trish said, and Micah sensed the effort she had to put behind controlling her emotions. “Thank you.”
Crouched below the window, Micah waited a few moments until he heard a timid tap at the glass. Trish pointed to the back door and Micah ran to meet her. “Thank God you’re here.” Trish ushered him in and slowly closed the door. “The Furies are with him, they never leave his side, which is good for us. They’re bound now; his humanity is almost completely gone. Jacquelyn is upstairs. She’ll need you. Be quick and be quiet!”
Micah winked in response and brushed his lips in a quick peck to the top of Trish’s head. He’d never been a lucky person, but maybe he’d be lucky enough to get them all out of there in one piece. Trish bustled around the kitchen, banging pots and turning on the faucet while Micah padded across the room to the staircase taking cautious but quick steps to the second-story level.
Stepping away from the banister, Micah slunk along the wall, noting three open doors and one closed. No need to search those rooms, they held no interest for him. Instead, he headed straight for the closed door and laid his palm to the wood. She was just on the other side, he felt her like a flame burning in his soul. With an easy movement, he turned the knob until the latch gave way and pushed the door wide enough to let him to slip inside. He left the door ajar, allowing a tiny sliver of light to permeate the dark.
“Micah?” Jacquelyn whispered. “Did I ever tell you how glad I am you’re a quick study?”
Relief, this time his own, pulsed through every nerve. At least she hadn’t lost any of her smart-ass pluck. He made his way to an old iron-framed bed, careful not to make a sound and lowered himself beside her. “I have a good teacher.” He squinted in the dark as though it would help him to see her better. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m pretty jacked up,” she said. “Good thing I’ve got my own personal insta-healer.”
Micah tried not to laugh, to not feel the relief and elation that wanted to bubble up through his throat. He didn’t want to alert the Furies—so tuned in to emotion—to his presence. “Where does it hurt?”
“I think the real question is, where doesn’t it? My head, for starters. I’ve got a nice goose egg on my forehead and it’s fucking up my bearings. I might have a concussion, and I don’t think I could stand up if I wanted to.”
Micah traced his fingers, light as the flapping of a butterfly’s wings along her hairline until he found the lump. It had to be as big as a tennis ball cut in half if not bigger, and he swallowed the anger that threatened to surface. He closed his eyes, thought only of healing, and a warmth ignited between their touching sk
in. The lump began to shrink, the gash in the skin tightening beneath his fingertips and soon became nothing more than mild swelling on her forehead. His own head began to throb, but he took her pain gladly. “Good as new,” Micah remarked. “How do you feel?”
“Mmm. Better,” Jacquelyn’s voice sounded thick as if with sleep or pleasure. “Not quite as good as new, but almost. I’m just a little dazed. I think those Fury bitches did something to me, but I don’t know what. I feel, heavy. Like my limbs don’t want to move or something.”
Micah took a deep breath as Trish’s words came back to haunt him again. She was the center of his universe, Waerd, Bearer, or not. What he felt for her was more than some stupid mystical bond. Everyone wanted a piece of her, it seemed. The Sentry, Trish, even Finn in some way. Wes had wanted her to give him a life of excitement, and Pete wanted to possess her completely. But Micah just wanted her. Jacquelyn. Not the hunter, or the action she could provide, or the other guy’s girl. He wanted her for who she was and what she meant to him, not for any other reason. Whether she still had feelings for another man or not.
Without another thought, another word, he lowered his face to hers. Her expression, shadowed by the light creeping into the room was curious, her brow furrowed and her bright eyes searching his. Micah touched his lips to hers, soft and gentle, pulling away for a brief moment before kissing her again, this time lingering as he parted his lips.
He didn’t expect her to respond, but she did, her own mouth relaxing against his, slanting and curious as her tongue traced a line along his bottom lip. A lightning bolt of excitement shot through his center, as he allowed the moment to build, tasting her, touching her, his tongue dancing with hers. The euphoria of the intimate moment swirled around him, warm and cold and tingling. So much more than just a kiss, a transference of energy and spirit. This moment was heaven.
A light snapped on and Micah jerked away. Pete stood in the doorway, his jaw slack and eyes bulging. He dropped to his knees and let out a tortured whine, burying his face in his hands. “Jack-lyn,” he said like a sad child. “What are you doing? Why would you do that with him? You belong to me!” The last words burst from his mouth like a curse, and Pete stood, his soul projecting a rage so intense, it nearly sent Micah to the floor. He took a deep breath, expelling the unwanted emotions and stood.
Vengeance Borne Page 29