An animal part of Paul wanted to scream get out get out get out. It wanted to tear out Sander's throat. But he thought of Kate, reached across the table, and grabbed Sander by the wrist. “Don't go.” The words burned his throat like acid. His over-sensitive nerves felt the thud of Sander's pulse, the wiry whorls of hair on Sander's wrist.
Sander tilted his head like a hawk. “What did you say?"
Paul couldn't force the words through his teeth again. So he cleared his throat and said, as distinctly as he could with his jaw rigid and his tongue lead in his mouth, “Please."
Sander put a finger under Paul's chin and guided his face up towards his. He fixed Paul with a stare that probed down past his skin and prodded at his inner organs. Something came into his eyes. Something wild. “Say it again."
Paul swallowed, working his jaw loose. “Please."
"No. What you said before."
Paul closed his eyes. His free hand shook, the fingers flexing in and out of a fist. His heart rapped and he couldn't catch his breath. Tears pressed against his eyelids. “Don't.” He opened his eyes and let the tears leak out. His lungs spasmed, and he grabbed just enough air. “Don't go. Don't leave me."
The wild light in Sander's eyes flared. “Alright. If you insist, I'll stay.” He sat back down again.
Paul let go of Sander's wrist and focused on the simple act of breathing: in-out, in-out.
"I'm pleased to hear you want my company.” Sander said it with an almost coquettish glee. “As I said, I missed our lunches.” He looked at Paul expectantly.
He had to say something that would demonstrate Sander's power and Paul's weakness. Quickly. He couldn't think of anything but the truth. “I don't understand. I should hate you.” And Paul did hate him. Except for a few heartbeats, a few minutes maybe, during those lunches. Maybe more than a few minutes, at those lunches.
"How did you feel when I left last year?” Sander's eyes scanned his face, slicing the flesh, pulling at the veins beneath, as if he could milk out the answer he wanted.
Again, Paul fell back on the truth. “I didn't bathe, I didn't eat. Not for days."
The wild light flared again. “That's because I am all you have.” His voice was a flat command, making the statement indisputable fact. Then it softened again, faking friendship. “You and me, Paul. Everything else has changed around us. Everything else has left us behind. There's nothing left but the two of us."
Paul lifted a still-shaking hand and tapped his chest. “Not just the two of us.” Just tell me its goddamned name.
"Yes.” Sander's lips thinned, as if he'd tasted something bitter. “A necessary evil, that."
The demon's fury squeezed the air from Paul's lungs.
"It's a poison, Paul. And the ritual is the antidote we both must take, to stay alive.” Sander's voice dropped into a sensual tone. “You do like being alive?” He flicked the ridge of his wine goblet. Shivers of sound lifted from the crystal.
Paul thought of Kate and her untasted life. “Yes,” he whispered, more truth. “I love being alive."
Sander stood up, taking his wine with him, and walked to the sink. He stared out the window, his back to Paul. “But you haven't exactly used your immortality to the fullest, have you? Closeted away in this stupid little town.” He threw Paul a glance over his shoulder. “You're a monk, cut off from the world."
If you only knew, you bastard. He had Sander on the hook now. He could feel the line tugging. He had to play it just right. “I stopped running away from you, didn't I?"
That earned Paul a flicker of a smile before Sander turned back to the window. “I'll admit that, for a while now, the last decade I suppose, I've been finding the joys of immortality running a little thin."
Paul found that hard to believe. He swallowed another burst of inappropriate laughter.
"I woke one morning in Italy, somewhere.” Sander's voice faded into the memory. “It snowed the week before and it was starting to melt. All the hills were scabby with dirty patches of what was left of it. And I wondered how many times I've seen snow fall and melt, fall and melt, fall and melt.” He tossed Paul another glance. “You understand."
It wasn't a question, but Paul nodded nevertheless. He did understand. For decades, when the leaves began to fall he had lapsed into depression, cried for days. If the years were dragging Sander down, he might be vulnerable. He just might let the demon's name slip, if Paul played the game right.
Sander went on, talking to a point outside the window. “I felt alone, Paul. Alone. There was a driver I could call who would take me anywhere in Europe. I had a plane and a pilot that could take me anywhere on the planet. I had a wine cellar with vintages before the Great War, paintings by the great masters. Lots of zeros in my accounts. But I felt alone.” He paused to sip at the wine. “I even considered coming here and letting you kill me."
Paul leaned forward, the demon pressing against his ribs. Laurie had been right. They could both smell the way out.
"It seemed like a win,” Sander said. “I'd taken everything from this life. I could go on to the next life in peace, knowing you would be lost forever, trapped inside ... that thing, day and night. But I came back, and here you were, and I wasn't alone. You'd seen the things I'd seen, lived the times I'd lived.” Sander placed his wine on the sink board. “And I realized, Paul, that you were my gift."
Gift from whom? Paul didn't dare ask it aloud.
He didn't even seem to be talking to Paul anymore. His voice had sunk low. “I had thought that she would be the one I could make mine, completely. And then you almost asked me to stay. And tonight, you did."
He didn't say you are mine, Paul. He didn't have to.
Sander whirled on Paul, knocking over the wine glass on the sink board. Ruby fluid drained down the ridges into the sink, staining the white porcelain. “Ask me again, Paul.” His face was rigid with pleasure. He didn't look entirely human. “Ask me again."
Paul's head began to pound, hammers at his temples. His soul revolted from these demands. The demon shored him up with a burst of fury, just as the image of Kate coalesced behind his tightly closed eyes. He took a ragged breath, forced himself to look at the man who had done worse than kill him. He pushed the words out past clenched teeth. “I want. You. To stay. With me."
"Again.” A greed like sexual hunger burned in Sander's eyes. “Again!"
If was as if Sander was reaching through flesh and ribs, into Paul's chest, and squeezing his heart. His ears rang with pressure. He forced the words out. “Don't leave me.” Part of him meant it. If Sander didn't appear every year to perform the ritual, Paul would be lost. Nothing could frighten him more. He came to his feet. “I want you to stay with me. Please stay with me."
"No,” Sander said.
Panic convulsed Paul. He almost went to his knees. The world seemed to crack, bolts fanning out from the impact of Sander's denial. He felt himself plunge into icy black waters he hadn't even known were waiting to drown him.
Sander smiled, all glittering eyes and teeth. “I won't stay with you. You'll come back with me to Europe, instead. We will be immortal companions. Forever."
* * * *
Kate hit the stairs of her office building running. On the drive over, she'd methodically isolated the emotions and the sensations still rolling through her nerves, folded them neatly, and tucked them away on a back shelf of her mind. She'd been out of range of a cell tower when Ellie had needed her most. She'd failed because of her selfish pursuits. So she packed away her heart and led with her ambition, her determination, and her logic. Only a lingering sense of loss and frustration haunted her, echoing between the peak of her heart and the valleys of her body.
I love you, Kate. I have loved you for the better part of a year.
The remembered words whispered over her skin, raising shivers and sending ripples deep inside. The wall she'd built between then and now was humiliatingly thin. Inside, Ellie needed her to be strong, needed all of her attention.
She dod
ged her way through the front desks, still at a run. She skidded to a stop outside Dowd's office, knocked on the door once, and pushed her way inside.
Dowd looked up from his desk and Kate saw the beacon of panic in his face. Oh, shit.
"Well, it's about time you put in an appearance."
The voice clawed Kate. She stepped away from ADA Louisa Frischler, perched on the chair opposite Dowd's desk. Where was Ellie?
Kate looked from Frischler to Dowd. Dowd refused to meet her eyes.
"My witness has flown the coop, Scott."
Kate forced herself to focus on the sharp-faced ADA. She began silently counting backwards from ten.
"She was monitoring Ellie's rooms, Kate.” Dowd said in a whining tone. “She knew when Ellie checked out. She just showed up here. I didn't call her. Ellie was waiting, just like you told her, and then..."
And then Cruella DA arrived. Kate could imagine the scene: Frischler telling Ellie she had to testify, Dowd looking away with a shrug.
"She ran,” Kate said.
Frischler leaned forward in her chair. “I need that girl back, Scott, and I need her toughened up to testify."
Dowd chimed in. “Please, Kate, we need to cooperate with the District Attorney's office. I've gotten calls on this case. Calls from high up."
Kate saw a nerve jump under Frischler's eye. Aha, so she's getting pressure, too. It's not just her political ambitions at stake here. Kate had seen this before, in the bigger cities. Victims and criminals were maneuvered like chess pieces, neither being seen as human, neither being seen in the context of compassion or mercy or justice. It was all about the win.
"Get her back for me, Scott.” In Frischler's voice all the weight of that pressure focused on Kate and landed in her lap. “This girl is your problem to fix."
Somewhere deep inside Kate, something fundamental cracked. She sank into the nearest chair, winning expressions of surprise from Dowd and Frischler both. Normally by now she would have been in a shouting match, probably toe to toe, with the ADA, with Dowd wringing his hands and pleading for cooperation. But something was different. A day with Paul had changed her. She saw the world with new eyes.
Her parents had taught her that it was sacred to work within the system, to follow the rules, and make things better that way. Their ghosts pressed her to perform as the ADA demanded, because in the scope of the greater good, Ellie should testify. The safety of society demanded that her husband be tried, locked up, executed. He distributed the misery of heroin, methamphetamines, and cocaine. He had raped, tortured, and murdered. The demands of the greater good eclipsed the weakness and fear of one woman. It was Kate's responsibility to find Ellie and make her testify, so that the safety of society was served.
Just like the demands of the greater good had eclipsed Kate's need for the attention and devotion of her parents, her need for the reassuring cycle of holidays, her need for a sense of self.
"She has to testify,” Frischler said, and Kate heard behind her clipped words the phantom voices of her family.
Kate looked up out of the pit of her memories and her conditioned beliefs, looked straight into Louisa Frischler's eyes, and said, “That's a bunch of bullshit."
Frischler's mouth dropped open. Dowd dropped his head into his hands.
"She doesn't have to testify. We had a deal worked out that would have put that guy in jail. But you and your office decided that wasn't good enough. He had to be made an example. Well, that's not my problem, Louisa.” Kate stood up, and so did Frischler, a quivering, bony twig of indignation in a navy blue suit. “I'm not going to waste my time getting you or anyone else elected. I put this thing together so that Ellie was protected and that rat bastard went to jail. You screwed it up. I am not here to clean up your mess."
Feeling as if a yoke of stone had been lifted from her shoulders, Kate turned to leave. But Frischler grabbed her shoulder and yanked her around.
"Look, you glorified babysitter, everything I have rides on this case. That woman testifies, do you understand me?"
"So subpoena her,” Kate said sweetly. “If you can find her."
Kate turned on her heel and walked calmly out of the office. She slid behind the wheel of her comfortable old car. She sat in a soul-nourishing quiet until Louisa Frischler burst through the outer doors and stamped down the stairs. She watched as the other woman threw herself into an Audi and roared away.
Confident that Frischler wasn't going to do anything as stupid as follow her, Kate started her car and headed toward the city. She extracted her cell phone—her traitor cell phone—from her purse, and scrolled quickly through the numbers until she found one for the Good Shepherd Women's Shelter. It rang, and rang, and rang, before a tired-sounding woman answered.
"It's Kate Scott. Is Ellie Harris there?"
They had arranged this meeting place on their first consultation. If ever things go so bad you don't know where to go, she had told Ellie, go to the Good Shepherd.
"She's waiting for you,” the woman at the shelter said. “She's really upset."
"Tell her I'm on my way. Alone."
Kate disconnected, returned the cell to her purse, and pushed her foot down on the accelerator. By the time she pulled into a parking space on the street outside the shelter, the setting sun streaked the sky with red and gold. She glanced at her watch. Too many hours until dawn. She would go inside, calm Ellie. By calling the right numbers, saying the right words, she could open the secret door to the abused women's underground. She would help Ellie escape, but Ellie would be her last. At dawn she would start a new life, with Paul. A new life with many, many favorite flavors.
Walking briskly past a couple of girls hooking on the corner, Kate pushed open the double steel doors under the sign of the Good Shepherd. A thick, humid heat immediately soaked into her, and she smelled too many bodies in too small a space as she walked past the open door of the shelter proper. From the corner of her eye, she took in the figures and forms of the women inside: some hunched in self-protection, some stretched out flat in the sleep of the exhausted, some angular with the attitude of false bravado that kept them from crying.
She pushed open the double doors that led to the administration wing. Chaos greeted her. A receptionist was talking wide-eyed into a telephone. She saw Kate and waved her hand, gesturing her helplessness and fear. One of the directors—Kate knew her, a tall commanding presence called Sister Olivia—was standing beside the door of her own office, peeking through the crack in the door and saying, in a gentle, soothing voice, “She'll be here any moment."
Kate's heart leaped up into her throat. “I'm here now."
Sister Olivia did not turn, but Kate saw the tension in her shoulders ease a little. “She's here, Ellie, do you want to talk to her?"
Kate did not hear the answer through the door, but Sister Olivia stepped aside. Kate looked through the crack, into the Sister's little cubbyhole office. Ellie was slumped on the floor in the farthest corner.
"Ellie? It's Kate. I'm here."
Ellie cradled a handgun, the barrel pointed carelessly in the direction of her own face.
Chapter Eleven
Immortal companion.
Paul came out of his chair, knocking it over, but there was nowhere to run. Who could have guessed at Sander's intention? Did he know about the witches? Did he know about Kate?
How can I say no? Paul's miserable half-life hung on the whim and nod of Sander Wald. The money that paid for the house that sheltered him, that paid for the food he ate, came from Sander. The influence that kept him hidden in plain sight, the succession of false identifications, the arrangements necessary to make the house appear to be properly sold from his old name to his new, all the pretenses and frauds that concealed his unnatural life—it all depended on Sander Wald.
"Think of it, Paul.” Sander said, another command.
Paul obeyed. His brain ran projected images through his mind's eye, images out of focus and jumpy because he was too afraid to look closely at the
possibilities. A never-ending life of days given to Sander Wald. The last small measure of his independence, his selfdom, turned over to his torturer. The moon would rise full tomorrow night. Sander would complete the ritual, and Paul would have no choice but to follow him to Europe. The fragile life Paul had carved out for himself—the ritual of morning coffee, the tending of the garden, Kate—would be gone, forever.
Beneath Paul's heart, the demon screamed. Its abject fear crashed like waves through Paul's blood.
"No more loneliness, Paul.” Sander Wald stood in front of him, very close, almost touching. Paul had not been aware of him moving. “I will always be with you. I am the only one who knows you. I am the only one."
The demon prodded Paul sharply at the exact moment Paul saw one more desperate chance. If Sander truly wanted to be the only one for Paul, he had to reduce the eternal triangle to an eternal pair.
"Anything you want, Paul.” Sander caressed him with the words.
The demon thrummed with excitement, urging Paul on. “Anything?” he murmured, as if he were trying the thought out.
"There is nothing in this world I can't give you. A particular vintage of wine? You can ask for it at breakfast, and have it with dinner. Anything.” Sander snapped his fingers. “It will be."
"The opera in Venice?” Paul asked, keeping his voice soft with hesitant wonder.
"A private showing of Le Nozze di Figaro, especially for you."
Paul's thoughts skittered through luxuries that Sander might consider acceptable. “All my shirts made in London?"
Sander chuckled. “They will send a dozen per week, so you never need wear them twice."
Forcing himself to lean his upper body towards Sander, Paul raised the stakes. “A woman?"
Sander's eyes narrowed. He lifted his hand and traced the line of Paul's jaw. Paul hoped he would misinterpret the trembling as excitement, not the disgust it really was. “Any woman, anywhere, any way, anytime,” Sander whispered, “so long as I can watch. And make ... suggestions."
Sander's musky cologne filled Paul's throat as he took a breath to make his final gambit. “What about a woman ... with you ... in Provence ... under the stars?"
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