Rest For The Wicked - The Claire Wiche Chronicles Book 1

by Cate Dean

  Claire sat on the bed before her legs decided to fail her. How could she convince them there was no choice? And how to do it without revealing her real fear—the need to know why Natasha performed a ritual sacrifice. Eric had the answer, buried under his grief and pain, but she refused to cause him more when she could simply find out for—

  “—listening to me? Claire.” She looked up at Annie—and clutched the side of the bed when the room took a slow, sickening turn. Strong hands caught her, lowered her to the bed. “Hand me that blanket, Marcus, then go get some water. Stop fighting me, honey. It’s time to let someone else take care of you for a change.”

  Claire nodded, immediately regretting it.

  “Annie,” she whispered. Her friend leaned over. “Can that be tea instead of water? I’m—cold.”

  One hand covered her forehead.

  “God, you’re like ice. Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “You were busy scolding me.”

  “Funny to the bitter end.” She tucked the thick, soft crocheted blanket around Claire. “Stay put—I’ll have your new best friend start the hot water.”

  “Annie.” She paused in the doorway. “Marcus—”

  “Is a necessary evil for the moment. I get it. I won’t kill him in his sleep—not until we get this sorted out.”

  “Appreciate that.”

  Annie moved back to the bed, bent over and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Claire swallowed, tears stinging her eyes.

  “Please get some rest. I can’t lose you, Claire.” The tears she fought thickened Annie’s voice. “I’ll be back in a few.”

  “Thank you.”

  She watched Annie leave, then waited an agonizing minute before she sat, shedding the blanket. It took another minute for her head to stop spinning. She stood, using the wall to help her over to the closet, and almost went headfirst into her dresser when she reached for the closest pair of shoes. She managed to slip into them without further incident, and used the triumph to propel her to the other end of the closet for her coat.

  “Planning a trip, sweet?”

  Jaw clenched, she turned around. Marcus stood in the doorway, a mug in his left hand. She could smell the sweetness of her herbal and fruit blend across the room.

  “I have to stop her, Marcus.”

  “Agreed.” He set the mug on her bedside table, strode across the bedroom. Claire backed away, moving toward the back door that led to the alley, and the freedom of her car. Marcus got there first—and once he took her arm, she knew she was going nowhere. “We make a plan that does not end in your violent death, then you go stop her.”

  “Why does everyone keep assuming I’ll die? I can take her—”

  “Of course you can.” Marcus guided her to the bed, then sat her down and handed her the mug. “Drink. Annie’s orders,” he said when she hesitated.

  She sipped the tea. The honey-sweetened liquid hit her tongue, its warmth seeping through her.

  “How is your hand?”

  Marcus had bandaged his right hand at some point. Now it rested against his leg, long fingers curled over his palm. He managed to block his pain from her, but she knew how much it must be hurting him.

  “It will heal. Drink your tea.”

  She obeyed, every taste spreading the heat. It felt so good to be warm again—she’d all but forgotten how good—

  Marcus caught the mug when it slipped out of her hand.

  “You—drugged me.”

  “She drugged you. With something she called Vicodin.” Gently, Marcus lowered her to the bed, tucked the blanket around her. “To keep you from doing just what you were doing when I came in. Going after this cousin half-cocked.”

  She had no ready lie. And lying had always been one of her lesser talents. Closing her eyes, she gave in to the call of sleep, the blessed warmth.

  “Marcus.”

  “Right here, Claire.”

  “Tell Annie—we’re having words.”

  She heard the smile in his voice.

  “I will warn her. Rest now, Claire.”

  His low voice followed her into the darkness.

  NINE

  Claire slapped the bag on the shop counter, needing to take her temper out on something.

  Annie snuck out during the night, leaving Claire with a sleeping draught hangover and a serious case of mad. Now another day was almost gone, and she was still here. Natasha was still free.

  She gathered everything she thought she might need. Talking never worked with her cousin.

  Pounding on the door whirled her around. Marcus stepped to the window and simply waited. Cursing, she stomped over to the door and flipped open the deadbolt.

  “Lock it behind you.”

  She headed to the back room, relieved that someone had removed the knife Eric left behind. Her power was already shaky. She dug out her personal bottles—the potions she created for herself and kept replenished, hoping she would never have to use them. That old habit gave her a ready supply now.

  Marcus waited for her by the front counter.

  “You are leaving.”

  “I told you I would.” She stashed the bottles in a padded picnic case, zipped it up, and tucked it in her bag. “I should have done this years ago. She’s always been off, but she never killed anyone.” The temper leached out, left behind what she had been avoiding: her own guilt. “Heaven above, Marcus—she killed someone this time.”

  “Claire.” He moved around the counter. “You are not to blame for this.”

  “I can tell myself that from now until, oh, forever. It won’t make me feel any better. I’m going, so save your breath.”

  “If she is powerful enough to control a man with Eric’s moral strength, you are no match for her in your present condition.”

  Claire braced her hands on the counter and looked up at him.

  “Which would be—what?”

  “A woman who nearly lost her life to a dark spell.”

  She let out a sigh, started packing again.

  “I have other means, especially when it comes to Natasha. I’ve dealt with her enough to know her weak spots. I can’t wait, Marcus—I will not have another life on my soul.”

  Marcus laid one hand over hers.

  “This life is not yours to claim. Please take a moment, Claire, think on this. There has been no retaliation—”

  “Yet.” She extricated her hand, shoved the last batch of crystals in her bag, and grabbed the double handle. “I’m not going to take the chance that she—”

  The phone rang, startling her. She let go of the bag and picked it up off the base, using her open hours greeting, since technically it was open hours.

  “Thank you for calling The Wiche’s Broom, how can I help you?”

  “Hello, cousin.” A chill swept through her. She gripped the phone, her hand shaking. “You should be here. It seems Eric has failed me. So I found another plaything—just to pass the time until you get here. I’ll let her say hello.”

  An agonizing scream pierced her. Claire sagged against the wall, her heart pounding.

  “No,” she whispered. “Please, God—no—”

  “Claire—” Marcus caught her elbow when she started to buckle.

  “Come to me, cousin, and she will live. Disappoint me, and—you know how my temper gets the best of me.”

  “Please, let her go, Natasha.”

  “You have until morning. Say goodbye to my cousin, sweet girl.”

  Another scream pierced her. It cut off abruptly, leaving Claire holding a dead phone.

  Marcus grabbed her shoulders.

  “You are white—what did she say to you?”

  “I have to go.” She grabbed the bag off the counter, startled by the weight. Hiking it over her shoulder, she headed for the back door. Marcus beat her there. “Get out of my way.”

  “Tell me what she said and I—”

  Claire stepped back and did what she promised herself not to do to another person again.

  She used her
power to harm.

  Flicking her hand, she threw Marcus across the shop. He crashed into the short wall next to the front door and collapsed, bloody, unconscious. Claire leaned against the door, lightheaded. After a few not quite steady breaths, she pushed herself up, buried her guilt for later, opened the back door and headed for her car.

  *

  Annie spotted Eric walking on Beach Street, head down, not paying attention to the people who jumped out of his path.

  She caught up to him, matching his pace until he finally looked at her.

  “Hey, handsome—going my way?” He gave her a smile. A little one, but it was a start. “I’m off to meet Claire, coax her into having dinner. Want to—” He flinched at the mention of Claire’s name, all the color draining out of his face. Annie herded him to the side wall of the art gallery. “Hey, it’s okay, Eric. She doesn’t blame you for what happened.”

  “I can’t stop blaming myself.” Wind whipped off the ocean behind them, tossing sweat matted, sun streaked hair against his forehead. Annie reached out to brush it back. He lurched backward, hitting up against the wall. She just kept moving until she made contact. Eric closed his eyes when she touched him, swallowed convulsively. “Don’t.”

  “Come with me, Eric. There’s nothing worse than the anticipation of rejection. And trust me, you won’t be getting any of that from her.” She took his hand. “Come on.”

  He followed her around the corner, heading toward Claire’s store.

  “You don’t take no for an answer very often, do you?”

  She smiled over at him.

  “Nope.”

  Her reward was his laugh. Rusty, quiet, but a laugh. She planned to get more out of him before the end of the night. He didn’t remember much about her, so she was going to help him make new memories. Happier memories.

  Light filtered out of the front window of The Wiche’s Broom. Claire probably had a customer she couldn’t get rid of—always too polite to just shove them out the door at closing time. I’ll give her a hand with that—

  The door was locked.

  “What the—” Claire never locked the door when she was expecting Annie. Never. Annie peered through the window, her heart pounding—and saw nothing. No Claire, no customer, no one at all. “Oh, God—” She fumbled the spare key out of her purse, started to push it into the lock.

  “Let me.” She jumped when Eric touched her shoulder. In her panic she’d forgotten about him. “Stay behind me until we know what’s going on. Okay?”

  She thrust the key at him. “Just get in there.”

  He obeyed, unlocked the door. The small bell rang when he opened it—then the door hit up against an obstacle.

  “Claire—” Annie whirled around the door, halted when she saw the sprawled figure—and recognized the black clothing, the dark, curling hair. “What the hell?”

  They both knelt. Eric eased Marcus on to his back. Blood stained his face, matted his hair. The fingers of his bandaged right hand were twisted, like they’d been slammed hard against a wall. Looking up, Annie saw where he hit. The plaster was cracked, blood dripping down the pale yellow wall.

  “He’s alive,” Eric said. “Is there water here, a blanket?”

  Annie slung her purse off her shoulder and stood, ran shaking fingers through her hair.

  “Water—yeah, in the back. A blanket—what are you, a doctor?”

  “Something like that. See if you can find a first aid kit—check under the counter.”

  She went hunting for what he needed, refusing to believe what her mind screamed at her.

  Claire wouldn’t—she doesn’t have that kind of power—she couldn’t—

  The night in her apartment taunted her, and Claire, overpowering the fire elemental— Annie shut the thought down before it could go any further.

  A decorative moon and stars throw served as a blanket. Eric took it, along with the heavy first aid kit and one of the water bottles she pulled out of the back room fridge, then he studied her. “How are you with blood?”

  She swallowed. “Not great. What do you need?”

  He smiled, the first life she’d seen back in his blue eyes.

  “For you to play nurse.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good girl.” He flipped open the first aid box and whistled. “Looks like Claire is prepared for anything. Open that water, wet down some sterile pads for me. Here.” He handed her several of the wrapped pads and a pair of latex gloves. “Keep these on until I tell you. Got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  She watched him snap a pair on with the ease of long practice, tried to follow his method. They slipped on easily, the powdered inside soft against her hand. For about ten seconds. Then her hands started to sweat. She ignored it, ripped open the gauze pads, handing them over as fast as she could get them wet.

  Eric cleaned the blood off Marcus’ face. It looked like a bad nosebleed, and his nose was crooked—probably from impact with the wall. Once Eric packed his nostrils with dry gauze, the bleeding stopped.

  “See if there are any splints in there,” he said. He gently lifted Marcus’ broken hand, cut away the torn, bloody bandage. “God in heaven—how did he do this?”

  The skin of his palm was shiny, tight—like a newly healed burn. A bad burn.

  His hand had been scorched black yesterday.

  “I don’t know—I don’t think I should—” Annie looked up at Eric—and blurted it out. “He burned it breaking the spell.”

  Eric swallowed, then dropped his gaze back to Marcus’ hand. Cradling the broken fingers, he took the index finger and methodically snapped it into place. Marcus bolted awake.

  “Slow now, old man.” Eric lowered him back to the floor. “You had a nasty run-in with the wall.”

  “You are—”

  “A vet,” Eric said. Annie blinked at him, then smiled. “I know anatomy well enough to diagnose a not badly broken nose and some damaged fingers.”

  Marcus cursed, whispering in some fluid language Annie had never heard before—then he grabbed Eric’s wrist.

  “Claire,” he whispered.

  “Not here.”

  “Gods help her.” He looked at Annie. “She went to Natasha.”

  TEN

  Claire eased herself out of the car, stiff from hours of driving. Her newly healed leg ached, her body feeling battered from the violence of the last day.

  She had already pulled all the tools she thought she would need at her last stop, shored up her power as much as possible with the resources at hand. Though she was not at her best, she could still match Natasha blow for blow.

  Her hope was to free the woman Natasha held, then do everything short of actually killing Natasha to subdue her, once and for good. This confrontation had been a long time in coming, and Claire had to admit that she was the one who put it off.

  She had been wrong to do so, and now an innocent suffered because of it.

  Taking in a deep breath, she used the spotlights that blazed from the roof of the warehouse to check the address on her phone one last time. It had been sent by Natasha, an hour into Claire’s twice-the-speed-limit dash up to the outskirts of San Francisco. The number over the rusted door was the same.

  Claire avoided looking at the water she could hear lapping at the shore just yards away. Annie always kidded her about living so near the beach, when she hated the water. Claire never told her it wasn’t the water she hated, just the memories connected to it.

  Tucking the phone in the pocket of her loose cotton pants, cursing the chill of the wind, she reached for the door knob.

  “Welcome, cousin.”

  The silky voice stilled her.

  Claire wanted to spin, throw a spell, any spell. Instead she turned, slowly, hands in sight. Natasha leaned against the side of Claire’s hatchback, tall, sleek, stunningly beautiful in a long, clinging green dress. Claire shoved down her fear for the woman her cousin held. If Natasha got even a whiff of that fear, she would take it out on her captive. Claire
knew her cousin’s M.O. all too well—or thought she did. Murder had never been part of her playbook. Until now.

  “Where is she, Natasha?”

  “What, no hello? Your manners have deteriorated in that provincial village you insist on calling home. I would be insulted, if I did not already expect it from you.”

  Claire frowned. Natasha wasn’t normally so formal. Something about her pretty speech was off—and that put Claire on alert.

  “Let her go, and we can get to it.”

  “It.” Natasha smiled, pushed off the car. “A small word for years of—what shall we call it? A difference of opinion? Violently opposite views of magic? What would you call it, cousin?”

  “Mutual dislike. Where is she?”

  Natasha flicked her right hand. Heat swept past Claire—and she jerked away as it scorched her skin under the sleeve of her jacket. Natasha’s power felt—different. Stronger. Claire didn’t have time to worry about it as the door behind her flew open.

  She ran inside, searching the dim interior. Bare ceiling bulbs flickered over half-rotted wood boxes, two rows of steel columns—and a hunched figure in a dirt streaked white dress tied to the one closest to the door. Claire let out a breath when she saw the woman move.

  Crouching in front of her, Claire spoke in a quiet voice. “I’m here to help you.”

  The woman’s head snapped up. Claire knew she would be panicked, so she stayed out of touching range. Blood ran down the freckled face. Claire’s heart skipped at the resemblance. Except for the blonde hair, the woman—no, girl—looked enough like Claire to be her sister. And she couldn’t have been older than twenty.

  “Who—please get me out of here! Before that crazy woman comes—oh God—” She recoiled, staring at the tattoo on Claire’s wrist. “You’re the reason I’m here. She said you had—don’t touch me—”

  “Please, it will be all right. I am going to free—”

  “I said don’t touch me!”

  Panic skated across the girl’s voice. Claire stood, hands at her sides. “I understand why you’re afraid. I can only imagine what she told you about me. But I promise you, I will see that you are safe.”