by Cate Dean
She hid a smile behind her hand when they both blushed and all but ran to the back of the shop.
“Stop waiting for permission to enter, Annie. You never need that.”
Head bowed, Annie stepped inside. Claire met her halfway and wrapped both arms around her. With a shaky breath, Annie sagged against her.
“I’m so sorry—God, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“The candle you bought at The Witch’s Way.” Annie flinched, and pulled away, nodding at Claire’s statement. “It was marked.” Annie gasped, clutching Claire’s arms. “And when I confronted Agatha this morning, we discovered that every candle in her shop had been marked as well. I already destroyed them—but that doesn’t change the chilling fact that there is someone in town who knows just how dangerous that mark is.”
Claire eased herself out of Annie’s grip, rubbed her face, suddenly exhausted. Annie caught her around the waist.
“How little sleep did you get last night?”
“None. And stop, Annie, right now. I don’t want you blaming yourself. It should have been a harmless love spell—which I told you not to do. But that mark enhanced your power, twisted it. Did you know Mildred’s latest target is a seventeen-year-old boy?”
Annie blinked.
“The photo she gave me was a man in his sixties—”
“Which was layered on top of the real photo. The one on your altar had the edges burned away.”
Annie cursed under her breath.
“That conniving little—”
“Which is one of the reasons I never deal with her beyond the occasional reading. She has a touch of the power, enough to fool someone not looking for it.” The couple walked out of the back room, the girl clutching a tin of honey dust in her hands, grinning up at her boyfriend. “And here are my young lovers. Don’t go anywhere, Annie—I still want to talk to you.”
Claire rang them up and hustled them out of the shop, trying not to look like she was doing just that. When she turned around Annie retreated.
“Claire—”
“Sit down. We are just going to talk.” She gestured to her reading table, waited for Annie to move, then followed her. Once they sat she reached across the table, took Annie’s hand. “It’s decision time, Annie. Take your power seriously or let it go. For good.”
Her friend stared down at the table.
“I’m afraid of it, Claire. But the way it makes me feel when I use it—I don’t think I can give that up.” She let out her breath and met Claire’s eyes. “I don’t want to give it up.”
“Then we start working. Together. No more late night spells on your own.” She tightened her grip as Annie cringed, then Claire let go and held out both hands. Swallowing, Annie took them. “And no more love spells. Ever. I will give a customer whatever they want to enhance themselves, but I don’t fool with emotions.”
“Okay.” Annie tightened her fingers around Claire’s and leaned forward. “Now it’s my turn. What the hell are you hiding from me?”
Claire tried to jerk away. Annie just held on, the concern in her eyes weighting Claire’s heart.
“I’m sick. And I don’t think I’m shaking this one off.”
“I know you’re sick—you’ve done a great job hiding it from everyone else, but I know you too well. Tell me what’s really going on.”
“Annie—” Claire closed her eyes, wanting to trust. And knowing, if she did, she would lose everything. “I—”
The bell over the door rang, and Claire tugged at her hands. Annie leaned in, whispered to her. “We’re not finished.”
She let go. Claire stood, tucked her hands in the front pockets of her pants so the customers couldn’t see them shaking, and went over to greet them.
*
Eight o’clock finally showed itself. Claire had never been so happy to close the shop. She was just about to flip the lock when someone knocked on the window.
A man stood there, the evening breeze ruffling his dark blonde hair, looking apologetic and hopeful. With a smile, Claire opened the door and waved him in. She clutched the latch as a shock of pain jolted her when he walked past. It faded, left her shaken. Closing the door, she managed a smile as she turned around.
“You caught me just in time,” she said. “I was just about to lock up.”
“Sorry for the last minute sale. But I saw a necklace in here the other day, and I know my sister will love it.”
Anger snapped at her through the pleasant words. Another jolt of pain followed behind it—and she realized the source was him. She covered her reaction, led him over to the jewelry counter, put it between them.
“Let me guess—you’re in town for the festival, and leaving tomorrow?”
“Something like that.” He bent over, pointed. “That’s it. Can you wrap it for me?”
“A lovely choice.” Claire unlocked the case, took out the rope of lapis and silver. “Any particular color?”
“What?”
She looked up, caught him staring at her, that same anger in his eyes. Though she was ready for the pain this time, it still made her stomach clutch.
“Is there a color she favors—for the wrap.” Her voice sounded breathless. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Oh—blue will be okay.”
“Right.” Claire stepped behind the counter. “I will just be a minute with this.”
“Take your time.”
She moved as quickly as she could without being conspicuous, her hands shaking. He kept shifting, his anger at odds with the pleasant manner, and she could not get a clear vision of it. The pain leached at her power, left her feeling oddly defenseless—
Then, like a switch turning on, she saw it.
He was spelled.
The darkness of it surrounded him, pulsing, feeding on his anger. He wasn’t the source—simply the unfortunate messenger.
Claire reached in past her pain, hoping she could stop him with her depleted power. Stop him without hurting him—
His head snapped around—and he rushed her, long legs propelling him over the counter and into her.
They slammed against the wall. Claire let out a sharp cry and punched one fist up. It glanced off his jaw. Pain exploded in her hand. He grabbed her around the waist, lifted her off her feet and tossed her at the front window. If the glass had not been so thick she would have gone straight through it.
Instead it cracked on impact and she slid to the floor, her right shoulder on fire. He stood over her, trapping her against the wall.
“She’s dead because of you.” Rage poured off him, but his voice sounded detached, as if someone were saying the words for him. Heaven help her—it was a control spell. And a powerful one. “Now it’s your turn to die.”
Light flashed off the edge of a knife. Claire smelled the iron in it—and understood why she didn’t see the spell right away. If that blade touched her— He slashed at her arm. She gathered everything she had and flung a barrier up. The knife bounced off it and he let out a furious scream.
Pain ate at her, weakened the barrier. She scrambled to her feet and ran through the shop. He tackled her when she reached the back room. They slid across the wood floor, crashing into the back door.
Claire recovered first. Pushing him off her, she crawled toward the umbrella stand. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she realized she had no choice. Using her left hand she pulled out the bat she kept tucked in among the umbrellas—and swung it up when she felt him behind her.
The bat caught his hand and the knife flew, landing out of his reach. Snarling, he yanked the bat out of her grip.
“This works just fine.”
The bat came at her before she could stop it and cracked against her right thigh. Claire screamed, her bone breaking under the vicious blow. He muffled her scream with one hand, then hauled her up and cradled her against his chest.
“Hush. We’ll finish this somewhere more private. I’m not supposed to kill you.” His eyes cleared for a moment—but not long enough. His grip tig
htened on her, and he lifted her off her feet, opening the back door. “I already know where home is.” He walked quickly, his gaze skating around him every few steps.
She closed her eyes, swallowed a scream as her broken leg shifted. There had to be a way to get through the spell, to the man trapped inside it. She would have to find that way, find the strength to get through, or she was going to die, slowly, and in agonizing pain.
SEVEN
Annie kept glancing at the front door of Billie’s every time it opened, expecting Claire to appear. She knew Claire was keeping the store open later, but she should have been here by now—
A hand touched her shoulder and she spun, losing her balance.
Strong fingers caught her outflung arm, pulled her up. Gold-edged green eyes captured her attention.
“Where is Claire, Annie?”
“How—do I know you?” Anger simmered, along with another emotion that made her want to punch him in the groin. And her memory burst through the haze. “It was you—son of a bitch!”
He grabbed both wrists.
“We can deal with my lack of manners later. Where is Claire?”
“She should be here—we always meet Sunday nights after work for a drink.”
“What time?” He shook her when she didn’t answer right away. “What time were you to meet her?”
“She was going to close at eight—”
“Stay here. If I don’t return with her in fifteen minutes, phone the police. Annie.”
Dread shot through her.
“I will—go!”
She watched him move to the door, dark hair flying around his shoulders. A sudden snap of wind burst over her, left behind the smell of desert and heat. He scared her in a way she didn’t understand. But the thought of Claire in danger scared her more—and she understood now that he had power, power that could save her.
If he got there in time.
*
Claire’s captor used her key to open the door.
She clutched his shoulder with her right hand, waited until he closed the door, until his attention was divided. And elbowed him in the gut.
He grunted, his breath shooting out. Claire took advantage and jerked out of his loosened grip, dropping to the floor. She let out a harsh gasp, rolled away from him, toward the cabinet that held her tools. Her hand closed over the latch just as he recovered.
With a furious shout he grabbed a handful of hair and yanked her across the floor. Pain roared through her leg, across her scalp. One hand clamped over her mouth, smothered her scream.
“The more you fight, bitch, the longer I take.” The vicious edge in his voice stilled her. “I just want to know one thing—why Katelyn?”
His grief blasted her, laid hairline cracks in the wall of power surrounding him.
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer.” His fingers closed around her throat, incredibly strong, and started to squeeze. She clawed at his hand, his arm. He let her go, and she dropped to the floor, gasping for breath. His figure loomed over her in the darkness. “There was no reason for her to die.”
Claire closed her eyes, tears sliding back into her hair. Nausea twisted her stomach, her leg on fire, her shoulder almost as bad.
His ragged breath washed over her. She braced herself for more violence—it radiated from him, so strong he shook with it. Forming a desperate and probably fatal plan, Claire inched her left hand across the floor until she felt the heat from him on her skin.
Swallowing, she gathered the shards of her power and slapped her hand on his leg. He shouted as a shock of heat slammed into him.
Claire rolled when he jerked away. She found the wall, tried to sit, her right arm numb. The pain in her leg made her want to throw up, and sweat slipped down her face with the effort.
Before she could get herself upright he was on her.
Both hands closed around her throat. Claire lashed out, dragged her nails down his cheek. He reared back, his face bloody. His weight shifted off her and she freed herself, crawled across the floor. He came after her. Kicking out at him with her good leg, she crabbed backward. He caught her ankle, yanked her toward him.
“No—”
“You’re going to die—even if it kills me. I want it to kill me.” She clawed the back of his hand. He slapped her so hard her head bounced off the wood floor. “Tell me why it had to be Katelyn and I’ll end you fast.”
“I don’t—” She bit back a cry when he grabbed a handful of hair and jerked her up. “Please—give me a minute. I can’t think.”
He propped her against the wall. Her heart skipped when he pulled a second knife out of his coat pocket. A switchblade. He flipped it open, angling the thin blade until it bit into the skin at the base of her throat. Blood slid down her chest.
“Minute’s up. You killed her with a single thrust.” The knife moved, fast, stopping an inch from her ribcage. “I’ll give you the same gift. If you tell me why.”
The grief in his voice tore at her. Claire took in a shallow breath, all too aware of the blade, and took a chance.
“I did not kill her.”
His hand shook, fury pouring off him. Claire expected the knife to stab in. But something stayed his hand. She might have a chance, if she could reach the part of him that hesitated.
“Liar.” The tip pressed into her. Claire grabbed his wrist, agony robbing her breath. “She said you’d lie, to save yourself. I’m not supposed to kill you—she wants you alive . . .” His hand shook. “I can’t let you live—she wants you alive—”
He let out an anguished scream and gripped the knife with both hands.
The front door burst open.
A tall blur slammed into her attacker. They slid across the floor, struggling for the knife. The new intruder punched her attacker, yanked the blade out of his grip and moved to Claire’s side.
“Hold still.”
“Marcus—” She arched away from his hand, pain blinding her. He leaned over her, careful not to make contact.
“I am going to see to your guest. Don’t go anywhere.”
Claire forced her muscles to unclench—not an easy task, when every one felt like it was on fire. She spread her good hand on the cool wood of the floor, let it seep in. It didn’t ease the fire, but it did give her something to focus on.
She felt Marcus crouch beside her, and knew what was coming. “I have to—”
“Do it. Just—ignore the screaming.”
He moved fast, scooping her up. She managed to stay conscious, a raw cry escaping when he tightened his grip.
“I am sorry, sweet. Nearly there. Nearly there now.” He settled her to the bed and sat beside her. “I can only do this one way, Claire. It is going to hurt you, and I am sorry for that.”
Leaning over, he folded himself around her. Wind snatched at her hair, bringing heat—and bone-cracking agony. She couldn’t take enough breath in to scream, couldn’t open her eyes, couldn’t move. Panic shot through her—then hands reached in to connect, to soothe, to draw out. She tried to protect herself from him, but the pain burrowed too deep, and he touched her, the part she buried behind time and wards, to reach it.
The heat changed, and beyond it she felt his suffering, his sacrifice as he healed her.
She reached for him—and found that she could, the pain no longer debilitating.
“Marcus,” she whispered. Fingers caught her wrist before she could touch him.
“Almost—there.”
“Enough. Marcus—stop.”
Shuddering against her, he let go.
The wind died, taking the heat with it. Marcus rolled off the bed. Gathering herself, Claire crawled to the edge, found him huddled on the rug, shock white and shaking.
“No, Claire.” His sand raw voice halted her mid-reach. “I need—time.”
“I can give you that.” She slid off the bed, flinching when her knees made contact with the rug. Every nerve jumped, over sensitized. “How about some water to g
o with it?”
“Appreciated.”
Using the bed, she pulled herself up, put weight on her right leg with care, numb and tingling at the same time. Halfway down the hall, she remembered who waited in her living room. Pausing, she took in a pain free breath, stepped into his sight.
He surged forward, fighting against the heavy curtain ties Marcus used to lash him to the pillar near her front door. Rage smacked her, along with the spell that still held him.
“Don’t go near him, Claire.”
She turned, found Marcus hanging on to the corner of the hallway wall.
“What are you doing? Stubborn Jinn.” She led him to the sofa—on the opposite side of the room from her uninvited guest—and sat with him, her legs shaking.
“He must be freed.”
With a sigh, Claire looked up at Marcus. Just the thought of yanking that dark spell out of the man exhausted her.
“Water first. Then we’ll figure out how to pull it out of him with as little damage as possible.”
“Does Annie know about you?”
Claire’s heart stilled, then jerked painfully in her chest.
“No—and I’d like to keep it that way.”
Pushing herself up, she waited until her right leg felt stable, then shuffled toward the kitchen. For the second time her front door burst open.
“Claire!” Annie rushed in, sidestepping when she saw the man tied up in the foyer. Eyes wide, she searched the still dark house. When she found Claire, she ran to her. “Are you—God, you look like hell.”
“Thank you, Annie.” She kept moving toward the kitchen—and her leg decided it was done for the day.
“I’ve got you.” Annie caught her around the waist, picked her up, settled her back on the sofa next to Marcus. “Now stay put—both of you. You look like you’ve gone to war, and I’m not sure who won.”
She sailed out of the room.
“Your Annie does know how to take charge.”
Claire tried not to smile, since it hurt. Who was she kidding? Breathing hurt.