by Dean, Cate
“I prefer to think of it as supreme confidence.”
Her laughter surrounded them. “Of course you do.” The humor faded, and she eased her hand free. “Whatever you think you have to face, let it go. You paid the price, and more, for your wife’s death—”
He backed away from her. “You do not know—”
“Then tell me.”
Instead of retreating, he caught her arms and lifted until she stood on tiptoe. “I lost her because she trusted, and when I was accused of killing a man, she defended me. I was not there to protect her, Claire.” He let her go, and she stumbled backward, the cool surf curling around her feet. “She insisted on protesting my innocence, when all evidence pointed to my guilt. I was not there, so they took her life instead.”
“God—Marcus, that was not your doing.” Claire wanted to touch him, but the grief that poured off him kept her at a distance. “The guilt for her death is on the heads of the men who—”
“I killed him.” He spun away from her, stared up at the sky. “He discovered what I was, and I killed him for it.”
She understood, more than anyone else could, the desperation, the need that led to murder as necessity. She’d done it herself, when she roamed the earth, alone, before she locked away the demon. Discovery of what she was meant worse than death, and murder was the lesser evil for her.
“Did she know?” Marcus looked at her, his eyes shattered. “Did Karana know—what you are?”
He shook his head. “Jinn were hunted then, hunted and tortured for the wishes we supposedly could grant our captor.” Swallowing, he kept his gaze on her. “I didn’t tell her, in order to keep her safe. I never should have tied her to me, never should have been selfish enough to—”
“Love her? Want a life with someone who looks at you and sees their whole world?” She moved forward, tracking him as he retreated. “I never had that. In all the centuries I wandered, exiled from what I had been, from those who understood what I was, I never found what you had with her. I never loved—never knew how. Until I met Annie. Until I met you.”
“No, Claire—”
“I’m in love with you, Marcus.” She hated the tears that thickened her voice, slipped down her face. “It doesn’t matter that you are only God knows where. The distance doesn’t change how I feel. It simply hurts more.”
Before she could take another breath he had her in his arms. With a choked sob she wrapped herself around him, pressed her face against his throat. Warm skin, that subtle, exotic scent of him, the silk of his wild hair—all of it assaulted her senses. She drew him in, and all the nerves, all the pain of his absence eased.
His deep, sand rough voice caressed her. “I never meant to pull you toward me, not when I had no right to—”
Claire cut off his protest by kissing him. After an endless moment he responded, hauling her off her feet. She fisted both hands in his hair and held on as he deepened the kiss. Heat spiraled through her, along with the need that had hounded her since he left.
With a gasping breath he broke off the kiss, lowered her to the sand and backed away. Water wrapped around her feet, reminded her of home. It also cooled the fire he had ignited in her. Again.
“It took both of us, Marcus. And I don’t regret a moment.”
He stepped to her, laid one hand on her flushed cheek. “And it seems I am destined to love determined women.” Her heart lurched at his words—then leapt when he laid his lips on hers, kissed her with such tenderness it left her aching. He made his way across her cheek, kissed her temple, and pulled her in, resting his chin on the top of her head. “So delicate, but so powerful.”
“Not anymore.”
“You will be, Claire. It is inside you, and will only take the right hand to free. I can feel it, crouching behind the wall that demon built to protect you.”
She jerked against him. “How—I never told you Azazel blocked my power.”
“I guessed as much, when you told me how he put himself between you and Lucifer at the gates of Hell.”
“You see too much, don’t you?” Leaning back, she met the dark eyes. “See too much and keep it inside.”
“It is my nature.”
“No—it is who you are. What you are would use that knowledge for his own gain. But you, Marcus, who you are keeps you from hurting people.”
“Gods.” He laid his forehead against hers. “You make me this . . . better man. By believing in me as you do.” Kissing her forehead, he slid one hand down her left arm, fingers closing over the leather band on her wrist. “Hiding it?”
“Fewer questions.”
He pressed his lips to the skin above her band before he let her go and stepped back, out of reach. “It is time for you to wake, my heart. Time to let me go.”
Her heart constricted. “Marcus.” She started to step toward him. The water curling around her feet turned solid, holding her in place. “What the—”
“Forgive me for bringing you to me, even in a dream. I needed to see you, touch you, one last time.”
“Marcus, don’t do this—”
“All I ask is that you do not try to find me. You deserve so much more than I can offer, Claire.” He retreated, toward the darkness beyond the sand. “Don’t hold me in your heart when I don’t belong there.”
“Marcus!” Claire fought to break free of the water that had turned to clear cement around her feet. He kept walking, head lowered, hair flying around his shoulders. “I won’t let you say goodbye this way—Marcus, please . . .”
Tears lodged her voice in her throat. She stopped her battle with the liquid trap, dropped to her knees—and kept falling, though the sand and into darkness.
*
She woke crying, her legs tangled in the sheets.
Sitting, Claire pushed hair off her face, wiped the tears she couldn’t seem to stop. It was a dream, but it was real. Marcus had been real. And his goodbye had been heartbreaking.
She jerked herself free of the sheets and limped to the bathroom, turned on the faucet and bathed her face, her neck in cold water. Every inch of skin felt feverish, sensitized. But under that fever she felt cold, ice cold, all the way to the bone. Turning away from the image she didn’t want to see, she headed back into the bedroom.
With shaking fingers she stripped off her nightgown, gave the cool air a chance to dry her skin before she pulled on her heavy robe and huddled on the edge of the bed.
The sensible Claire had said goodbye to Marcus when he left, and meant it. The hopeful Claire—the part of herself she didn’t know existed until people like Annie invaded her life—that Claire held on to the conviction he would come back to her, that he would need to come back to her. It was that Claire who sat on the bed, shattered, trembling.
She understood now why people avoided relationships, becoming attached to another person, falling in love. The inevitable break was devastating, the pain like nothing she had ever felt. She wanted to hurt someone, just so she would hurt less.
“God above,” she whispered, pulling herself back from the emotional brink with a jerk that left her breathless. “I won’t let him do this to me.”
Standing, she made her way to the kitchen, pulled down her tin of chamomile tea, filled the electric kettle and plugged it in. The simple, familiar task of making tea helped calm her, smoothed out the raw edge of her pain. And gave her room to think.
She carried her tea to the living room, stretched her right leg out on the sofa. It ached, a vicious throb where Eric broke the bone. She still wondered if it hadn’t healed completely because he was under her cousin Natasha’s influence when he injured her. Not that it mattered, but she had always bounced back pretty quickly, when she still had her power, no matter how deeply she buried the part of herself that was the demon.
But even the pain she felt during that brief, desperate battle was a shadow next to this.
She made a deal with herself—she had until she finished her tea to rant, brood, cry, wail, whatever she needed to feel or express.
Then she was done.
Done with the grieving.
TWO
Humming Monster Mash, Claire reached up to hang another bat in the window display, then stood back to assess.
She loved Halloween—and not for the obvious reasons attached to her name, or her reputation as the local witch. For her, it was all about the kids.
Their laughter as they ran from door to door, the costumes that ranged from an old sheet to designer worthy, the joy and excitement they left in their wake. All of it had her decorating weeks earlier than she needed, just to see the anticipation. And keeping a stash of candy under the counter for those bold enough to ask.
Now, with Halloween tomorrow, she put aside the vision, the dream, and embraced the sheer fun of the holiday. Already, the preparation eased the weight of the fist pressed against her heart. She stood back, assessing what she hoped would be the last touches to her window—
“More decorations? Jeez, Claire, did you leave any for the rest of town?”
She turned to find Annie leaning against the front counter, arms crossed and a wicked smile on her face.
“A few. And look who’s talking about overkill—this is, what, your fifth costume change in as many days?”
Annie twirled, her heavy black cloak belling out around her. Above the silky velvet, her short blonde curls were brighter than sunlight. “I came as myself today. A witch.”
Claire shook her head and skirted the counter, pulling out her costume for the day. When she appeared wearing the veiled witch’s hat and velvet cloak, Annie burst out laughing.
“Great minds think alike.” Leaning in, she poked at one of the plastic spiders caught in the net veil covering Claire’s face. “Nice touch. Skin crawling, but nice.”
“I thought so.” Claire reached under the counter, grabbed the already full bowl of candy—and spotted the extra-large smoothie sitting on the granite, along with a sandwich that could have fed both of them. “Is that just breakfast? Or can I spread it out?”
“Aren’t you the funny girl today?” Annie slid the smoothie forward, smiled over it. “Breakfast.” Then the sandwich. “Midmorning snack. We’ll talk about lunch—I’m thinking the twelve ounce porterhouse from Billie’s Pub—”
Claire nearly choked. “Twelve ounce—”
“With the extra portion of wedge fries.”
“Heaven above, Annie.” She shook her head. “You’ll be rolling me out of here in a week.”
“Ah—but you haven’t heard the rest of my master plan. Tomorrow: salad day, with some fish on the side. Then we bulk the next day. It goes on, trading off heavy with light. And you spend more time with your sensei, building up your strength along with your fighting skills.”
“Okay. A master plan.” Claire rubbed her face. “Do you have charts?”
Annie grinned. “And a graph.”
Laughter burst out of her. It felt good to laugh again. Really laugh. She planned on doing a great deal of it. “Can you open up? I know it’s a few minutes early, but I’m in the mood for people, and some fun.”
“You’re the boss.” With the cloak swirling around her, Annie strode over to the door—and jumped backward when it burst open just after she flipped the deadbolt. “Son of a—hey, are you okay?”
Claire took off her hat and moved to the door, understanding Annie’s question when she saw the woman’s face. She wrapped one arm around the trembling shoulders, led her to the reading table at the back of the shop and lowered her to the one of the chairs. Kneeling in front of the woman, Claire took her hand.
“Just relax, now. Take your time—you’re safe here.”
Dark brown eyes stared at her, nearly black in her shock pale face. Swallowing, she clutched Claire’s hand, her voice so low Claire had to lean in to hear it.
“I don’t know if you remember me—my name is Regina, my daughter and I come into your shop every year, during the Summer Solstice . . .”
“The festival. Yes, I remember.”
Some of the panic eased from her face. “My daughter, Hillary, loves it here so much—I’m recently divorced, and we decided to make a new start. I bought the big Victorian on the hill—”
“The devil house?” Annie shrugged when they both looked up at her. “Sorry—just popped out. We all thought it was haunted when we were kids. The man who lived there—Mr. McCarran—completely creeped me out.”
Claire raised her eyebrows, decided to save the tongue lashing for later. “Are you quite finished?”
“I just thought you might—yeah.” Hunching inside the cloak, she crossed her arms.
Claire almost smiled—until she turned back and met Regina’s eyes. “Children’s tales, Regina, nothing more—”
“I think she may be right.” Her grip on Claire’s hand became a vise, the rings Claire wore digging into her skin. Ignoring the flare of pain—she had felt worse, not so long ago—Claire sandwiched her hand. “Oh, God—what if she’s right?”
“Take a breath, Regina. That’s it.” Claire couldn’t use her power to soothe anymore, so she used her voice, her tone gentle, soothing as she talked Regina down from a panic attack. “Slow breaths, just focus on each one.” The death grip on her hand eased. “Now, tell me what brought you here.”
“I heard,” embarrassment flashed over the fear, “that you can see ghosts, sense them.”
Claire didn’t know how, but what happened up in Huntsville leaked out, and she instantly became the resident ghost expert, along with Simon. To say his church board was not happy would have been a gross understatement. But his congregation already adored him, and to a person, stood in his defense.
“I can. What is—”
“It’s my daughter, Hillary.” Tears slid down Regina’s face. Claire tightened her grip. “I think—oh, God—I think she might be haunted.”
Claire took a deep breath. This wasn’t the first time, since word got out, that someone came to her swearing their house, husband, son, dog was haunted. This was the first time she believed. “Where is Hillary?”
“Out in the car.” Tears slipped down Regina’s face. “I had to drag her out. Whatever is in there—in my house—it wouldn’t let go—”
Claire pulled Regina into her arms when the woman started sobbing, looked up at Annie.
“I’ll lock the front door,” Annie said. “Pull my car around.”
“Thank you. Regina,” she leaned back, gently brushed the woman’s shoulder length black hair off her damp cheek, waited until the dark, drenched eyes met hers. “We are going to help you, any way we can. I want you to go with Annie, and wait for me outside your house. Outside—don’t go in, or even leave the car. Do you understand?”
“You believe me,” Regina whispered.
“Absolutely.”
“Thank God.” She hugged Claire, so tightly her still healing body ached. “Thank you, thank you—”
“We’d better go.” Claire let out a breath when Regina freed her, used the arm of the chair to help her stand. Kneeling for too long left her right leg stiff. The other woman noticed, offered her arm. “Thanks—I’ll be fine once I start moving. Here comes Annie.” Claire led her to the back door. “Remember—wait for me, no matter what you hear or see. I will be right behind you.”
Annie popped out of her car, gesturing to the back seat. A young girl huddled next to the window, pale and drawn, with the same straight black hair as her mother, falling in a dark waterfall to her waist. She looked nothing like the lively girl who danced with Annie in her shop during the solstice. Regina let out a low cry and rushed forward, climbing into the back seat.
Blonde curls blowing around her face in the rising wind, Annie strode to Claire, pulling her jacket closed against it. “You think this is the real deal.”
“Can you look at the girl and not think so?”
“She just cries, Claire. Silent, those tears slipping down her face. It rips me.” She wiped her eyes, impatient. “You heading over to Simon’s?”
“For supplies, yes. I
know—iron and salt don’t hurt me anymore. Old habit. I can’t seem to keep them where I live. He stores a duffle for me at the rectory.” She laid one hand on Annie’s arm. “Take them over, and stay in the car. I’ve already told Regina to stay put once you get there. I want you to do the same—I don’t care what show it puts on. Wait for me.”
“Aye, aye, captain.” With a salute, Annie strode around the car, pausing next to the open door. “But if you think you’re going in alone, start rethinking. It’s time for you to realize you don’t have to wade through this crap alone anymore. See you there.”
Claire watched her drive away, her usual departing squeal exchanged for a more sedate pace. Sighing, she ran one hand through her hair, still surprised when she met the ends just below her shoulders. It was growing, slower than she was used to, and she hadn’t made up her mind about whether or not to let it keep on.
She hadn’t made up her mind about several issues. And she was about to face one of them.
Ducking inside, she traded her cloak for a jacket, grabbed her purse, and locked the back door. If she timed it right, Simon wouldn’t have a chance to ask the question he asked every time he saw her now: who was she? A question she had no idea how to answer.
*
“Simon?” Claire poked her head in the open doorway, let out her breath when she didn’t see him. Relief had her moving quickly; she grabbed the duffle out of the hall closet and headed back to the door.
“Am I missing an adventure?”
The deep voice halted her midstep. Turning, she found Simon Asher standing in the hall, arms crossed, a smile on that sinfully handsome face. “Just another alleged haunting. I wanted to be armed—in case this one played out differently.”
“Did anyone ever tell you lying is not your best talent?”
“Not until now.”
Laughing, he moved to her, looking more like the cop he used to be, with his short, sun-tipped hair, tight black t-shirt and jeans, and less like the priest he was now. “What and where?”