by Erin Hayes
Andrew’s life hung in the balance. Despite the mostly lonely existence of the past eight hundred years, grief tore at his heart. The will to live was strong, especially now that Tara had unexpectedly broken his reserve and entered his life.
“No!” A shrill scream rent the air.
Tara.
The enemy paused, sword at mid-swing. The hand on Andrew’s hair momentarily relaxed its grip as he turned, assessing the possible danger from behind. Not a smart move. Perhaps Tara had cast a spell that compelled him to face her against his better judgement.
But it gave him a chance. Maybe his last one.
Andrew rose to his knees and plunged his sword into the immortal’s stomach, and then quickly withdrew it. The man groaned and dropped his weapon. Both his hands clutched his bleeding stomach.
There was no time to glance Tara’s way. He didn’t want her to witness the kill, but he had no choice. She knew what he was and what he must do. Andrew raised his sword to shoulder level, mustered all his considerable strength, and then struck.
It was grisly but quick. Sword cut through flesh and veins and sinew until the foe dropped before him—headless and defeated.
Andrew barely noticed. His eyes sought Tara’s. She emerged from a small copse of pines and regarded him with wide eyes.
“Did you help me with a little magic?” he asked, cocking his head at the body at his feet and wondering why anyone would abandon a sure kill.
“I did.”
“Thank you.” He wanted to know where she’d been, but a battleground was no place for that discussion. “You should go home. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re not needed,” he argued.
Her brows rose. “Really? Looks to me like I just saved your life.”
He hoped the dark night concealed the flush that heated his neck. “Just go,” he muttered. “I can’t fight if I’m worried about protecting you.”
“The battle’s almost over. We need to talk.”
His gaze shot to the witches’ bonfire. “What—”
“You won,” she said shortly. “It was close. But the dark side has scattered and retreated. And now I must leave.”
Relief rounded his shoulders. The tension in his shoulders relaxed. “I’ll walk you—”
“I’m not going home.”
“But you just said—”
“I have to leave, Andrew. Tonight. It might be months before I return. If I can visit, I will. I’ll call you soon.”
He recalled her strange behavior that morning. “What is it? A sick relative? Are you in some kind of trouble? If so, I can help you. Together, we’ll—”
“You can’t help me.” Her voice was harsh and firm. “Nobody can. It’s something I have to do for myself.”
He frowned, trying to guess her game. “Like what?”
“I can’t tell you.” Her lips quivered, and she rubbed her arms. “If I could, I would. One day when—”
“Let me get this straight,” he interrupted. “You’re leaving now and will be gone for months, and yet you refuse to explain why.”
“Yes.” She stepped toward him and reached out a hand. “Please try to understand. I promise I’ll return one day.”
Anger warred with disappointment in his gut. Tara didn’t—couldn’t—love him and leave him so casually for so long. “What am I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for your call?”
“I know it’s a lot to ask. If it weren’t important, I wouldn’t go. I love—”
“Stop.” He held up a hand and cut her off, not wanting to hear her proclamation. Not when she was going to pull a disappearing act. “Don’t bother saying something you don’t mean.”
He stepped around her, tucking his broadsword into its sheath by his waist. Andrew welcomed the sound of clanging swords and the static buzzing of magic energy—it would divert his mind from the emptiness in his heart.
Alone again. A hollow shell of a man roaming the earth. One would think after eight human lifetimes he’d be used to it. But, no. It was a feeling that poisoned the soul and made immortality a curse.
Chapter Three
One Year After
Tara tucked a streak of purple hair behind one ear and broke into a grin at the sign.
Alabama State Line 2 miles.
The ocean’s salty breeze tickled her nose, and her hair blew behind her like a fiery halo. The no-helmet law in the Gulf Panhandle allowed her to ride the black Harley with wild abandon. This assignment was like a mini-vacation, even if she was on the job—so to speak. After a year of indentured service, today would mark her one-thousandth collection. With any luck, the curse would be broken by the end of the week. And then she would return to Andrew. Would he hate her after everything that had happened?
Carloads of happy vacationers honked and waved. Ah, summer.
Good times.
Right at the state line, Tara pulled into a dive bar, the Flora-Bama, and parked the bike. Already, a small crowd had formed by the pier. Colored umbrellas and beach towels dotted the shore like flags of happiness.
Time was short, but she didn’t resist the urge to pull off the heavy leather motorcycle boots. Tara rolled her frayed denim jeans up to her knees and left the sticky tar of the parking lot for the achingly bright white sand.
You’re not really at the beach until the sun-warmed sand squishes between your toes.
The crowd grew larger. Louder. The voices more shrill and desperate.
Tara ran and took a twirling jump in the air. You take your moments when you can. She landed with a thud before picking herself up and walking toward the commotion. An overweight man with a bad sunburn lay on the ground with his eyes closed, his silver-white hair blending with the wet sand. She felt sorry for him, truly she did. But she had no choice in this matter. If she didn’t take this assignment, Azrael would hand it off to someone else. He was already peeved that she’d arrived too late at the last three collections. He had his own quota to fill in hopes of pleasing the head honcho and gaining retirement.
A kid in green swim shorts brushed against Tara’s legs as he ran past with confused, frightened eyes. As if he knew why she’d arrived. Which, of course, he didn’t. His mom gave him a reassuring hug, then hastily began gathering up their towels and sun lotion, eager to leave the unpleasant scene and shield her child from the face of death.
A tanned young man wearing a red t-shirt with a white cross violently pumped the unmoving man’s chest, and then he stopped, putting his face against the gray-haired chest to check for signs of life. The tense faces of the bystanders focused on that unmoving chest, willing the still figure to breathe.
The lifeguard shook his head and resumed CPR, his face determined despite fatigue waging its own battle on his will and strength.
Useless.
A loud mewl erupted from the mature lady clutching the dying man’s arm. Her blue-veined hands gripped his left forearm with the tenacity of a sand crab latching on to sustenance.
The mournful wail of an ambulance grew to a crescendo. A couple of EMTs emerged with a stretcher. Its wheels sank into the sand, forcing them to lift and carry the equipment toward their target.
She passed a thirtyish woman who was just young enough to get by wearing a skimpy swimsuit. Her long, blonde hair swirled in the sea breeze, and men watched with lascivious eyes as her hips swayed when she strolled past, impervious to the emotional wreckage playing out nearby. Those men didn’t see what Tara could. An ugly, puke-green aura cloaked the woman from a lifetime of nastiness that clung to her spirit essence. Amazing how her senses with the about-to-be-dead had grown over time. If Tara wanted the particulars, she could draw closer to the woman and pick up on her wicked memories, but there was no time to satisfy her curiosity. Azrael cut no corners on time when it came to collection sites.
Already, the tug to collect twisted her guts, impossible to delay or ignore. She made her way through the crowd and knelt by the man. Here, she was close enoug
h to pick up the details. His name was Floyd Elmore, age sixty-eight, and the woman by his side was his wife of forty-plus years, Lurleen.
“Hey, Floyd,” she whispered near his ear. “It’s your time.”
No. Hell, no. His thoughts transmitted to her mind even though he spoke no words. Those about to cross over sometimes had the ability to communicate telepathically. It was damn disconcerting. The job was always easier when she didn’t have to deal with their thoughts.
Your hair’s almost bright enough to warm the chill in my bones. And that nose piercing and purple streaks in your hair—what are you? What are you doing here?
Even though his lips couldn’t move, hers curled softly, understanding his question. The least she could do was make The Passing as painless as possible.
I’d think you a dark angel from hell except you seem too . . . cheerful.
Lurleen sobbed beside him. He tried to lift a hand to soothe her, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. He switched his gaze back to Tara.
You have violet eyes. Shit. Imagined you’d be skull-and-bones with a black cape and scythe.
“Name’s Tara.” She patted his arm and whispered in his ear again. “Let’s go. It’s time.”
Lurleen looked up at her. “Are you a doctor or something?”
“No.”
Tara placed a hand on his chest for one second before rising to her feet. But that single second was all the time she needed.
A familiar tingle spread from her fingertips and up the base of her palm to her wrist. Another second, and she’d have his spirit.
But this collection didn’t proceed as smoothly as normal. Pain crippled her fingers like a third-degree burn, and she curled them into a tight ball. Just as suddenly, the pain disappeared. Floyd drew several deep breaths. His soul had returned to his body.
Wrong person.
Azrael would not be pleased if this collection went south like the last three. Damn it, nothing about this job was easy.
The tug cramped her belly again. Now what? Tara surveyed the crowd.
The little boy in green shorts broke from his mother and ran toward her, evidently curious to see what was happening.
“Get back here right this minute, Terrence,” his mother called.
Her stomach twisted. It was Terrence she’d been sent for, not Floyd.
She’d never collected one so young. It wasn’t right. The kid looked perfectly healthy, too—all blond, curly hair and dimpled cheeks.
Terrence ran from his mother. His little legs tripped over a metal cooler, and as he tumbled to the ground, his head struck the sharp edge. The sickening thump of the collision vibrated through her body like a base drum.
Oh, hell. That poor kid. That poor mom.
Tara walked over and did what she must, what she was compelled to do. His soul absorbed into her cupped hand, the ping in her gut vibrated, and the Grim Reaper’s nails scraped against her palm. Her eyes stung with tears and she bit her lower lip to stop the trembling.
Not my fault. Not my fault. She repeated the words over and over as she trudged through the sand back to her Harley. At least Terrence hadn’t communicated with her—that would have been unbearable. There was no rejoicing in this thousandth collection.
What would Andrew think if he could see her now? Would he be filled with disgust?
Her cell phone pinged in her pants pocket, and she pulled it out.
Next assignment—Piedmont, Alabama. Highway 42, mile marker 16. Estimated time of death: 4:35 hours.
How fitting. Back to where it all started. With any luck, at this last collection, the curse would be lifted. And then she’d find Andrew. Try to explain.
Tara gunned the Harley’s engine and set her stopwatch. She could do this. By nightfall, she’d have her freedom and her answers.
Andrew roamed the draw by Booze Mountain. Late October was the most gorgeous time of year in the north Alabama mountains. He should be filled with contentment. The peaceful sect of immortals had forged an alliance with the local coven for protection against those bloodthirsty bastards seeking more power. The past year had been quiet, yet Halloween was only days away—the dangerous season when the veil between the living and the dead, the flesh and the spirit, was thinnest. A time to be alert for immortals communicating with restless ancestor spirits who spurred on their urge to fight and kill one another.
Broken fragments of carnelian stones blinked orange by the stream. An image of Tara formed in his mind, her hair lifting in the mountain breeze and flaming in the sun. This time last year, she’d been his. Although she’d only lived with him for two weeks, he’d been totally besotted by the witch.
By the time he’d discovered her deception, it was too late to save his heart. Tara had long ago cast her lot with Lucas, a warlock and fellow immortal who had formed a coven to take dominion over these mountains and beyond. She’d struggled to escape his hold, and to her credit, she took no part in the final battle in which Lucas had been killed.
Which meant they should have been home free.
But no, Tara had claimed she had to leave and take care of unfinished business. No matter how much he asked and tried to reason with her, she refused to explain. Andrew winced, recalling how he’d begged her to stay. But Tara left with no explanation, only wet eyes and a promise to return. Even now, every single day, he wondered where she was and what she was doing.
A squeal of brakes, tires, and crunching metal sounded overhead. Damn. Someone was in big trouble. Andrew raced to the crash in time to see a navy blue compact tumble down the mountain. It rolled over and over, coming to a dead stop as the mangled ton of metal twisted around a live oak. It looked more like a modern abstract sculpture than a car.
Heavy fumes of black smoke spiraled upward from the engine. He didn’t have much hope the driver survived, but just in case, Andrew hurried to the scene. Death by fire was an excruciating way to leave this world. He should know. He’d been severely burned over two hundred years ago. Even though his body had self-rejuvenated in twenty-four hours, he still remembered the pain of scorched skin.
A bloody hand emerged from beneath the undercarriage. The driver was alive. Andrew leapt over a huge rock and flopped onto his belly, extending a hand to the one trapped under the car. He tugged, but only managed to pull the driver a few inches from the wreckage.
Andrew scrambled to his knees, grabbed the crumpled front fender, and pushed against it. The car lifted a couple feet. A young girl with long, brown hair stared at him in wide-eyed shock. Bits of glass stuck to her face and hair, and bloody cuts slashed her torso. He held the car up with one hand and pulled her out from the wreck.
And then he felt it. That electrifying tingle that warned him another immortal was near. Quickly, he scanned the mountain, searching for the outline of another person taking cover by the tree line—another immortal waiting for an opportunity to chop off his head and claim his power.
No one was there, and yet the tingling grew more intense. Frowning, he turned his attention back to the girl. He needed to carry her to safety in case the car went up in flames.
She crawled up on her elbows and regarded him warily. Her face and arms were unmarred. Gone were the bloody gashes.
He’d seen plenty in his years, yet this young lady flummoxed him.
“You’re one of us,” he ground out.
“One of who? Where am I? What happened?”
Ah, this must be her first time. Sure wouldn’t be her last.
“You had a car wreck,” he said gently. “Come on out before your vehicle catches fire.”
All reticence fled, and she couldn’t scamper to him quickly enough. He lifted her in his arms. “What’s your name?” he asked gently.
“Emily.” Her lips trembled, and he felt her whole body shiver. “What happened to me out there? I should be dead.”
She needed to talk with another immortal, preferably a female. “It’s okay. As soon as you can, you need to speak to this woman named Callie. She—”
“Callie Bradford? I know her! What does she…”
Andrew tuned Emily out. Something—some deep awareness—had him shifting his gaze to the top of the mountain.
She was there, staring back at him. Tara—his vexing little witch.
As always, she stood tall and proud, garbed in black leather and holding a helmet by her side. The Harley was parked by the road. Tara came toward him, picking her way through rocks and roots down the steep slope.
He’d imagined this moment for a year, but in his fantasy, he wasn’t holding another female in his arms. Quickly, he deposited the girl on a nearby rock outcropping. “I’ll call for help. Will you be okay here for a minute?”
She nodded. “I’m just really, really tired. And confused.”
“Understandable. You’re going to need several days’ rest to recover, but you’ll be fine. Excuse me a minute, I’ll be back.”
Andrew patted her shoulder and walked toward Tara, meeting her halfway up the mountain.
“You came back,” he said gruffly.
“Only for a short time.”
Nothing had changed, and he fisted the hands by his side. “What’s that supposed to mean? Why did you bother coming at all?”
Tara looked past his shoulder at the girl he’d rescued. “She survived?”
“Yes. Can you call an ambulance? I don’t have my phone with me.”
“Doesn’t appear she needs one, but yeah, I’ll call.”
He waited while she whipped out her cell phone and talked to a dispatcher. Tara placed it back in her pocket and regarded him soberly. “Just my luck she’s an immortal.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
She sighed and shook her head. “I can’t tell you.”
“Damn it, Tara. What’s going on? Did you come to Piedmont to see me or not?”