by Jodi Redford
Banishment. They couldn’t do this to him. To Jemma.
Jumping from her seat, Clarissa stormed around the desk, and Domino calmly waved a hand, efficiently erecting an invisible barrier that bumped Clarissa back several steps. Clarissa retaliated by pointing a finger at the spring mechanism at the base of the leather chair Domino occupied. The seat collapsed, thunking a red-faced and cursing Domino unceremoniously to the floor.
Willa scooted her oversized tortoise-frame eyeglasses farther up the bridge of her nose and coughed timidly. “Ladies, all this excess energy is causing my hard drive to go haywire.”
Apparently the threat of melted electronics was the key way to stop a pair of feuding witches. While Clarissa awarded Willa a sheepish look, Domino cranked the chair back to a reasonable height. The matron swiveled to face Griffin and regarded him coolly. “All things considered, the punishment is more than fair. Familia Tacchi ’Loa is your birth place. Your family is there—you won’t exactly be lonely.”
No, his family was here. With Jemma. He’d left that other realm permanently behind when Clarissa called upon him to be her familiar. There was nothing left for him in Familia Tacchi ’Loa. Not anymore.
“I need him here.” Her chin squaring in stubbornness, Clarissa planted her hands on her hips. “If there’s any chance of Jemma becoming strong enough to stop Nettie, it lies with Griffin and Logan.”
“If. You’re making a lot of suppositions on an untested theory.” Domino steepled her fingers on her chest. “Furthermore, if you’re wrong, you may be playing right into Antoinette’s plans. The longer Jemma is alive, the more opportunity Antoinette has to raise her army.”
The numb disbelief that’d seized Griffin turned into explosive outrage as Domino’s meaning crystallized. “The longer Jemma is alive?” He shifted his focus to Clarissa. Her ashen pallor confirmed his worst suspicions. Rage roared inside him like a wounded beast. “You were planning on killing her?”
Domino grimaced. “That sounds so…unsavory. Of course we have no desire to harm Jemma. But it’s one life versus many. I’m sure Jemma would see the logic in that.”
She would. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t see beyond the hell of living in a world where there was no Jemma. Whether on Earth or Familia Tacchi ’Loa, it didn’t matter. She was his life. His everything. He would kill Domino before allowing her to lay a finger on Jemma.
Clarissa must have detected the murder in his eyes because she cleared her throat loudly. “You admit that you don’t relish the idea of disposing of Jemma. All the more reason to give my plan a chance.” Though she directed the statement to Domino, Clarissa kept her stare glued on him. Maybe she was concerned he’d leap across the desk and rip Domino’s throat open. Not that the possibility didn’t hold some appeal. “As far as your worries about my theory not holding merit? Tell me why else Nettie would try to persuade Jemma to join her unholy crusade if not because she thirsts for the power she senses in her granddaughter? You and I know it isn’t anything to do with some misguided notion of love on Nettie’s part.”
Domino traced a finger over the dimple in her chin, her expression considering. “True enough.”
A smile of pure triumph curved Clarissa’s mouth. “Then allow me some time to put the plan in motion.”
The leather chair’s casters provided a constant soundtrack of clicks while Domino rocked in place. “Fine, I’ll give you until Wednesday.”
Clarissa’s smile cracked. “But that leaves only two days!”
“Yes. Plenty of time.” Domino’s tone brooked no further argument. Her hawk-eyed stare jumped to Griffin. “I’m granting you those two days to fulfill your part in the proceedings, but when—or rather if—Jemma succeeds, you will be dispatched back to Familia Tacchi ’Loa. Do you understand?”
An argumentative retort broke from Clarissa, but Domino ignored her and stood. “That concludes this meeting. Willa, are you coming?”
Typing frantically on her laptop, the younger woman shot Domino a harried look. Seconds later, a jingle that announced the shutdown of the computer’s software floated from the speakers, and Willa slammed the lid shut before trotting out the door after her boss. Clarissa plopped onto the edge of her desk and buried her face in her hands.
Seeing her in such an uncharacteristic state of despair didn’t sit well on him. Where was the tough-as-nails woman who refused to kowtow to anyone? He strode to Clarissa and grabbed her arms. “Damn it, don’t you give up on her!”
Clarissa peered up at him, her red-rimmed eyes bleak. “Two days. I don’t know—”
“It’ll work.” It had to. The alternative was not going to fucking happen.
Chapter Thirteen
Jemma took one look at Griff’s ferocious expression as he stalked into the kitchen with Clarissa and deduced that whatever went down in the library hadn’t been pleasant. “What happened?”
Griff met her at the large marble-topped work island where Gloria was busy dishing up slices of egg and spinach strata. Rather than answer, he smoothed her hair back from her face. “Did Gloria’s potion help?”
“Yep. I’m feeling much better. But I had to deal with a real bad case of the hiccups at first.” Something Logan had teased her about. She’d of course been forced to retaliate by socking him in the arm a few times. After laughing like a demented fool, he’d escaped to God knows where. She hadn’t seen him for the past fifteen minutes—the chickenshit.
She poked a finger in Griff’s chest. “I want to know what happened in your meeting. Did the guild give you any crap about you and me?”
Griff’s gaze traveled over her head to Clarissa. “Yes, but it’s nothing for you to worry about.”
She highly doubted that. Still, it’d probably be better to grill him later, when she could get him alone and he wouldn’t have to worry about censoring himself in front of the others. Accepting one of the plates Gloria thrust at her, she backtracked to the dining nook. Clarissa joined her, settling into the seat across the way. Recalling the small mountain of clothes sitting on her bed upstairs, she sent the coven mistress a grateful smile. “Thank you for whipping up all that stuff for me. I certainly wasn’t expecting a whole wardrobe.”
Clarissa shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep. There’s no better cure for insomnia than conjuring.”
Logan came sauntering into the nook and swiped a piece of bacon from Jemma’s plate. Sidestepping her swatting hand, he leaned his hip against the table and waggled his eyebrows. “Conjuring? Damn, shug, you know I’m more than willin’ to tucker you out whenever you need it.”
Clarissa’s eyes narrowed. “How do you manage to twist perfectly innocent conversation into sleazy sexual innuendo?”
“It’s a gift, darlin’.”
Spreading a napkin in her lap, Clarissa slid Jemma a sympathetic look. “Hopefully he behaved earlier—at least as much as he’s capable of doing.”
“For the most part.” She caught Logan’s feigned expression of wounded affront as he thumped his free hand against his chest and sighed. “Okay, other than making fun of me for the nonstop hiccup, I guess you were bearable. And you scored a few points for not treating me like a nutso when I told you about the floating head.” She dashed pepper onto her strata and popped a forkful of the fluffy egg casserole into her mouth. Halfway through chewing she noticed it’d gotten inordinately quiet in the room. She glanced across the table.
Clarissa was gaping at her. “Floating head?”
“I…uh…” Jeez, talk about awkward. How did she explain having a conversation with a disembodied head without sounding like she’d been sampling a few too many magic ’shrooms?
Clarissa leaned forward, her expression excited. “Did this head by any chance have a number branded on it?”
Jemma’s fork clattered onto her plate. “How did you know that?”
“I received a similar visitation a few years ago. Before the spirit disappeared, it revealed that it was one of Nettie’s captured souls. Apparently the numbers are a method of c
ataloging.”
Horror and disgust ricocheted through Jemma. “Oh my God! That’s…that’s…”
“Disturbing?” Clarissa offered with a nod. “I know.”
Though a part of her knew she’d regret asking, the need to understand the dark weirdness she’d been pulled into outweighed her desire for ignorance. “How exactly does one go about capturing a soul?”
“Do you remember the bottle Nettie tried to get you to drink from last night?”
Recalling the amber vial brimming with such evil, sparkling effervescence, she shuddered. “You called it a soul catcher. If…if I drank from it, I would have ended up like one of those floating heads?” The look in Clarissa’s eyes was all the answer Jemma needed. She gulped, her heart thudding at the realization of how close she’d come to succumbing to the soul catcher’s hypnotic allure. Sweet Jesus, what twisted evil resided within Nettie that she would condemn people to such an existence? Then again, should it surprise her? The woman hung out with zombies, for God’s sake.
“Did the entity speak to you?”
The sound of approaching footsteps momentarily distracted her from Clarissa’s question. She waited until Griff and Ms. Peach both took their seats before answering. “Yes, but most of the conversation didn’t make much sense. There was something about a horned goat and gorgonzola. Wait, that’s not right.” She plopped her chin in her hand, racking her brain for the strange word the spirit had given. “Garambola? Nope, that’s not it either.”
“What in the devil are you talking about?”
She met Griff’s confused gaze and quickly filled him in on her little chitchat with the floating head. His excitement matched Clarissa’s when she recounted the quizzical clues the entity had given. She certainly didn’t understand why anyone would be thrilled over a goat and a word that may or may not have to do with stinky cheese.
Griff ignored his plate of food while he stared at Clarissa. “I wonder if the horned goat could be referring to the statue that was left at Whispering Oaks?”
Clarissa tapped her fork against her bottom lip. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Frustrated at her complete cluelessness, Jemma cleared her throat, managing to snag Griff’s attention. “Okay, I give. What is a whispering oak?”
“It’s the plantation Nettie owned. The historical society took it over several years ago but gave up on the idea of restoring it after the fifth electrical fire.”
“Fifth?”
The corners of Griff’s mouth tugged upward in a mockery of a smile. “You have to give the historical society an A for effort. Unfortunately that’s still no match against a ghost who’s determined to keep them out.”
“Apparently.” Jemma shuttled her gaze between Griff and Clarissa. “You really think the answer to destroying Nettie might be under that statue?” An ember of hope sparked to life, despite knowing it was probably too good to be true.
“There’s only one way to find out.” Clarissa shoved away her untouched plate, her face set with determination. “Who feels up for a road trip?”
Thirty minutes later, Jemma started wondering just how insane she was for agreeing to take an afternoon joyride to a haunted plantation belonging to the deranged ghost voodoo queen who was jonesing for her blood. Judging from the rigid set of Griff’s jaw, he wasn’t too thrilled with the decision either.
His hot glare lifted to the rearview mirror for the hundredth time. “I still say Jemma should have stayed back at the coven house with either me or Logan. We could be sending her right into a trap.”
The backseat creaked as Clarissa shifted restlessly between Ms. Peach and Gloria. “Or maybe that’s precisely what Nettie wanted and expected us to do—separate. There’s more safety in numbers. You know that.”
Griff’s fists clenched around the steering wheel. Obviously his realizing the possibility didn’t necessarily equate with him going along with Clarissa’s plan like a good little boy scout. The fact that Griff was worried only skyrocketed Jemma’s concerns and added to the goose bumps taking over her skin. It didn’t help that the air blowing from the dashboard vent kept blasting her like an arctic front.
Trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, she rubbed her arms. “Uh, neither of you are suggesting that Nettie sent that spirit to me, right?” Though now that she thought about it, what better way to set her up for a fall?
Griff relaxed his grip on the wheel and sent her a reassuring look. “More than likely she didn’t. But it’s still a good idea to be on our toes.”
They turned onto a narrow road that was bordered on either side by massive oaks dripping with stringy moss. The surrounding landscape held a wild, untamed quality, as if the land had decided to revoke any claim to civilization. After bumping along for approximately another half mile, they arrived in front of the dilapidated ruins of a plantation house. Large portions of the roof and exterior frame were charred and blackened, which explained the distinctive scent of smoky charcoal drifting through the vent.
Griff killed the engine and climbed from the SUV. Shaking off the creepy-crawly sensation skittering down her neck, Jemma clicked her seat belt free and shrugged off the restraint. She joined the others outside just as Logan roared up on his motorcycle.
Clarissa rolled her eyes. “There goes any hope of not waking the dead.”
Looking every inch his bad-boy self, Logan stored his helmet and dismounted the bike. “So where’s this infamous statue?”
“Back by the slave cabins.” Clarissa pointed to an area in the distance. “They’re roughly five hundred yards beyond that copse of snake grass.”
“Knew I should have brought my damn hikin’ boots.” Grunting, Logan started toward the overgrown path.
While the others trekked after Logan, Jemma stayed behind with Griff as he grabbed a shovel and the shotgun from the rear hatch of the Pathfinder. Her attention kept returning to the plantation house. Something about it fascinated and repelled her. She could almost feel the hot stares of unseen eyes, hear the seductive echo of a faint whisper in her eardrum. Licking her lips, she took a step forward. A palm clamped around her forearm and she yelped. Jerking her gaze upward, she peered into Griff’s worried eyes.
“Jem, the statue is this way.”
“Um, right. Guess I sort of zoned out for a second there.”
After sending the house an apprehensive look, Griff tugged her toward the path. She tried to ignore the shotgun strapped to his shoulder. Better not to think about the possibility of them needing it.
They walked for what seemed like an eternity, the relentless pounding of the sun and attacks from bloodthirsty mosquitoes adding a special kind of hell to the adventure. By the time they reached the slave cabins, Jemma figured she must resemble a sweaty, welt-covered lobster. Shoving a straggly clump of damp hair off her face, she scanned the lineup of moldering shacks. She shivered, an overwhelming sadness plowing into her at the atrocious inhumanities the slaves must have endured.
Griff rubbed her neck, bringing her back to the present. “The statue isn’t much farther.” He led her a few more yards beyond the cabins, where Logan was hacking his way through the towering stands of bamboo. She hadn’t seen him with the machete earlier—he must have had it strapped to his leg or something. Good thing the weapon hadn’t come undone during the ride over. Talk about that puppy leaving one hell of a nick.
Logan stopped suddenly and let out a triumphant howl. Apparently that was werewolf for “Found it” because everyone scrambled into the center of the vegetation he’d cleared. Griff grabbed her hand and led her into the fray. Sure enough, a weathered stone statue of a goat sat nestled in a hidden cubbyhole surrounded on three sides by a thick curtain of bamboo. As far as goat depictions went, it wasn’t your typical bearded barnyard friend. Yes, the beard was there, but that was pretty much where the similarity ended. The face more resembled a frightening nightmare, with sharp fangs and slitted eyes. And then there were the extremely long and pointy horns that were topped with cobra coils.
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Jemma shuddered. “Oh man, that’s just plain freaky.”
Clarissa took the shovel from Griff. “Could you help Logan move the statue?”
“What do I look like, a goddamn wimp?” After flexing his impressive biceps, Logan squatted behind the goat and grabbed it by the horns. He strained to lift the statue, but it didn’t budge. Making a sound like he was dangerously close to busting a nut—or the vein popping out in his forehead—he attempted the maneuver again. And again. On the third try Logan threw in a handful of colorful swear words for good measure.
“Oh for goddess’s sake.” Sighing, Clarissa jutted her chin at Griff. “Would you put Mr. Universe out of his misery before I’m forced to call the paramedics?”
Looking none too pleased, Logan relinquished one of the horns to Griff. After several more minutes of huffing and puffing and the occasional F bomb, it became clear that the statue was going nowhere.
Clarissa tapped her bottom lip. “Nettie must have secured it with a locking spell to stave off looters.”
Logan swatted a fat mosquito that was feasting on his cheek before baring his teeth. “Might have been nice mentionin’ that sooner.”
Shrugging, Clarissa approached the statue. “We’ll just have to work around it.” Planting the heel of her boot on the shovel for leverage, she sank the blade into the ground, loosening up the dirt. After several minutes spent wrestling with the bamboo’s invasive roots, she allowed Griff to take over the chore. Dropping the shotgun, he worked like a madman and quickly tore up a five-foot-deep-square perimeter around the statue.
Hope withering inside her, Jemma peered down into the massive hole. Unless the answer to defeating Nettie happened to be a bunch of hard-packed clay and wiggling earthworms, the spirit that’d spoken to her had been blowing smoke up her ass. “So much for that.”
“It’s okay. This doesn’t change anything.” Clarissa’s tone rang with a false perkiness that a deaf person would be able to pick up on. “We’ll just go back to plan A.”
Plan A? Oh yeah, having sex with Griff and Logan and maybe—maybe—unlocking the dormant mother lode of magic that might or might not be buried inside her.