I let out an impatient sigh and narrowed my glare. “Today I’m not doing your bidding, you’re doing mine. I don’t know what you and that bitch have done to Jane, but let her go and don’t ever come near her again.”
“Who, Simone?”
Simone? Psycho Bitch didn’t look like a Simone. The name wasn’t evil enough. She should be a Lilith… or a Bellatrix at the least.
“Simone has her uses.” Damon’s lips relaxed into a genuine grin. “You’ve got a mouth on you when upset. Some men don’t find that attractive in a woman.”
“You’re not a man, so don’t concern yourself.”
“And such a pretty mouth it is, too. I’d watch it if I were you.” His voice lowered while his stare on my face hardened. “You never know when it’ll get you into trouble.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Let me give you some advice, Kiara.”
“I don’t want any.”
“Right now, you’re acting like a petulant child furious for not getting her way.”
“Hardly.”
“You’re letting your anger rule your emotions, and that makes you stupid.”
My body tensed so tightly in rage, I was half surprised to not feel steam rising from the top of my head. Instinct demanded that I pull my sword and press its length hard against the Warlock’s neck until a thin line of red formed and trickled downward… marring the smooth complexion of his pale skin.
Then my emotions stopped. Froze almost as if the boiling rage bubbling inside of me had struck an iceberg. Calmness soothed my tussled nerves. Magic? No. Willpower. Damon was right. Acknowledging that an evil being was correct in his assessment made the acid inside my stomach churn worse than any mojo the Warlock had ever attempted on me. Despite Damon’s declaration to the contrary, I was not an idiot. Emotions had controlled me during my fight with Tristan, and the situation had almost gone too far. That could not happen again. Cunningness was what I required. Something shrewd. Sneaky. Blindside the bastard before he even knew what hit him.
Killing Damon in public view was out of the question, regardless of how much his death was warranted. Time for Plan B. My objective was two-fold: Free Jane and find out what the coven wanted with me. With the Damon no-show the past week, I was beginning to suspect Tristan had been correct with his assumption. The Thirteen didn’t want to kill the Fáithsine. Which left me with… what the Hell did they even want?
There was one way to find out. Go bold or… yeah, there was no or. I was tired of feeling threatened. Settling back in my seat, I mimicked the carefree in-charge posture Damian had managed to maintain. “What do you want with the Fáithsine?”
The rise of eyebrows was slight before being schooled into a relaxed line, but I caught the surprise from my conversational topic-changer. Damon glanced off to the side before querying, “Why do you ask?”
As tempted as I was to study his distracted focus, my gaze remained steady on the man in front of me. “It appears there’s a hunt on. I’m curious.”
“And what do you know about the prophecy? A personal relationship, perhaps?”
“I didn’t say that.” Mind replayed the words Damon hadn’t said. “You don’t deny you’re looking for this person?”
“Of course not, when you know so much about the subject… what with your incubus grandfather and all?”
“Great-grandfather, and he wasn’t an incubus—only drunk.”
“How long are you sticking with that ridiculous story?”
My eyes widened. “What story? I do not know what you mean.”
“Now who’s bullshitting? All right, I’ll humor you.” A server stepped outside of the café, and Damon held up a hand, snapping his fingers until the man approached our table. “I’ll have a coffee, black. Kiara?”
“I’m good.” I glanced at Jane. “Perhaps Jane would—”
“Jane’s fine.”
“I would like to hear her say she’s fine.”
“You don’t want anything, do you, Jane?” Damon studied the woman at his side with an irritated frown.”
“No.”
“What did you say?” Damon shoved back his chair, and Jane’s body lurched in her own. “Speak up, Jane, so Kiara can hear you.”
“No, I don’t need anything.”
Damon smirked back at me. “Satisfied?”
Hell no… but with the compulsion thing he had going, Jane would say whatever the Warlock wanted her to. I forced a grin to my lips. “I guess just the coffee for you, then.”
The waiter turned and left, and Damon settled back into an imperious pose. “Where were we? Oh, yes, you were offering yourself up as the sacrificial lamb.”
“The sacrificial lamb of what? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play coy with me, Kiara. You want to find out why I find you so interesting, and what I plan to do about it.”
Okay… So I wasn’t at all cunning in this conversation I’d chosen to instigate. Boldness I obviously had down pat, but my methods of sneakily interrogating information out of an evil witch needed some work. Perhaps a lot. Because my runaway mouth was back to getting me into trouble. As usual.
“Like I said, there’s a demon going around killing innocent Irish women, and since my mother’s family is from Ireland, I need to know if I should be concerned.”
“How do you know they’re Irish?”
“Don’t forget. I see dead people.” My brows rose. “Already forgotten my night job? Tisk, tisk. Old age must be setting in early for you. How sad.”
“Cute,” he said dryly. “If you want to play twenty questions… why, if you know nothing about the prophecy and the dead women, do you think I would?”
“Awww… aren’t you sweet for answering my questions.” My lashes fluttered in rapid movement.
For the first time, weariness hinted in the depths of his green eyes. “You’re answering mine.”
“Oh, am I? Oops… My turn then. If you’re so certain I’m the person you seek, why haven’t you taken me? Because right now I can stand up and walk away and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”
Well, with his powers there was, but I wasn’t dwelling on that part. Thought-provoking hyperventilation over evil mojo needed to wait to commence until I was back in the safety of my apartment. With my door shut. Locked. My ratty couch shoved in front of it. Right now, Mouth was brazing it out, pretending Damon was a normal jerk… just one who happened to be in control over a traumatized and abused woman seated next to him.
“When the time’s right, Kiara… trust me. You’ll know when that is.”
“Yeah, that makes absolutely no sense. What if you continue thinking I’m this Fáithsine, but the murderer kills me before you’re ready to do whatever it is you need this person to do?”
“Won’t happen.”
“Why? Because you’re the murderer?”
“Because I say it won’t.”
“The oh-so-powerful Damon Reed thinks he controls everyone and everything, including the future.”
“Sarcasm does not become you. When the time is right, you will do our bidding.”
When the time’s right… I stared at Damon, searching his face. The waiter returned and placed a cup of coffee in a white porcelain mug onto the table. What’s causing the time to not be right? “You’re assuming I’ll cooperate with whatever you want.”
“You’ll agree.”
“The only thing I’ll ever agree to regarding you is sticking my sword into your evil heart and laughing while you go straight to Hell.”
“You don’t have it in you.”
“Think not?”
“Know so.”
Bile rose in my throat at the memory of Nick when I’d plunged my sword into him. Wait a freakin’ second… “A member of your coven is dead.”
Damon’s jaw set. “I don’t know what you think you know, or why this matters, but one of our members made the wrong deal.”
Except judging by Damon’s re
action, this did matter. Now to figure out the how and why. “By my sword.”
Surprise flashed across the previously assured face. Damon hadn’t known it was me who’d taken out the last TRND Energy executive mark? Surely with his relationship with Simone…
“You killed Nicholas Davenport?” he asked.
“And you will be next with or without a referral from Hell.”
“It’s nice to see a little spunk in you Kiara, but still… watch that mouth. You’ll do whatever I say. Do you know why?” He stood up from his chair. “Because you’re a bleeding heart. Perhaps you managed to get Kate out of our grasp, but you don’t have Jane. Want Jane’s freedom? Play nice. Come on, Jane.”
I watched the two of them leave. I felt cold. Ice. That… no word came to mind to fit the description of one Damon Reed. Words that foul had not yet been invented, but if they had… my mouth was most certainly prepared to become extremely unladylike with calling out Damon.
Irritation over the helplessness of watching Jane under the Warlock’s power felt raw. How could I have broken that magical bond he’d placed on her? Visions weren’t of use. Location was too public for physical force. I still had to be leery of Damon’s powers, which I knew to be strong.
“Ugh!” I put my head down in my arms, my mind racking over every possible scenario of what I could have done… should have done. Except I had nothing. Nada. I was useless.
“Are you finished with the coffee, Miss?”
I turned to the waiter. Crap. Damon had left me with the bill. It shouldn’t be much of one, but my definition of much and Checking Account’s definition didn’t always agree.
Forking over some change, praying fifty cents was an adequate tip for a single cup of java, I reanalyzed my discussion with Damon and searched for any clue to what The Thirteen required with the Fáithsine. I hadn’t been either shrewd or sneaky. Blindsiding hadn’t come even close to making an appearance… but my trouble-making mouth had weaseled a small crumb out of one evil bastard’s arrogant mouth. Now to lead the bread trail to the feast because Nicholas Davenport had been a member of The Thirteen. How had he and his deal with the devil played a part with the coven’s plans?
“With that preoccupied stare, I would think you’d forgotten me.”
I looked up to discover Mr. Persistent sitting in Damon’s vacated chair. “Oh, right… today’s day three.”
“Keeping you out of Hell, Praedator, is proving quite the challenge.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“It’s a good thing I’m quite obliging, then.”
I propped my chin up with my hands. “Why do you willingly want to go to Hell?”
“Oh, I don’t. But I suspect if you do your job, I shall not be there for long.”
One hand fell from my chin, and my arm thunked onto the table. “What does that mean? It’s a one-way ticket.”
“Is it now?” He stood and left the table.
Grabbing my purse, I was quick to follow because he was right. Day three. A room in the pits below had been prepared, and it was either him or me who would be enjoying the new accommodations that evening.
Him. I chose him, and I didn’t feel a lick of remorse since he was marked for the destination and I wasn’t. I’d expected Mr. Persistent to locate the nearest empty alley and wait for my flaming sword to pierce his ghostly heart. Except he bypassed the first one we came across. The next tucked out-of-the way-void-of-humans-nook I spotted, he blew past. For a ghost claiming to be oh-so chivalrous in keeping me out of Hell, he sure the heck was doing a great job of not showing it.
“This detour around the city had better lead me to my mother’s pendant,” I said. “You promised it to me, and it’s not going to Hell with you.”
“I promised no such thing,” the ghost shouted over his shoulder. “You’re not ready for the pendant.”
“Stop saying that. I am.”
Mr. Persistent came to a halt in front of an entrance to a cemetery located about eight blocks away from the café. “The boss will keep the pendant safe until you’re ready. It’s too important for you to misuse.”
“Wait—why are you walking into a graveyard? I’m not going in there.”
The ghost kept moving past rows of tombstones, heedless to my protesting words. It was nearing midday, yet the sunlight drifting from the sky seemed rather dim as soon as one of my heel-cladded feet stepped onto sacred ground. Or perhaps my imagination was simply running wild? Thankfully, a Mr. Eggalson didn’t reside in this particular place of the dead. As I’d grown from a child into a teenager, the cantankerous ghost that haunted a cemetery near my parents’ house had gone from screaming about rambunctious kids to butt-pinching whenever I’d entered through the iron gates.
But now… now there was only the spirit of one determined Mr. Persistent in sight as he continued on with a journey I could only pray had an end. My sword-piercing moment was to be on his terms, it seemed. At least this place appeared deserted of the human variety.
I caught up to the ghost on the other side of a long row of marked graves. He stood in front of a plain stone marker aged from weather and crumbling around its edges. The scripted letter on the front of the stone was worn and faded, the engraving hard to decipher. Finally, I made out the name Seamus Barclyfe and the years 1630 and 1655.
“A friend of yours?” I asked.
“No.” Mr. Persistent stared at the tombstone. “I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting him… yet. Perhaps our paths will soon cross.”
“Where is he?”
“His body? You’re standing on top of it. Rather, what’s of it is left.”
“You know I meant his spirit.”
“Hell.” The ghost flashed a grin. “Where I shall shortly relocate. Now, before I go, tell me what you see on his marker.”
“His name… when he was born… when he died.”
“What else?”
“Uh… nothing?”
“Look harder, girl. Notice the details.”
I do… did. My jaw clenched to keep from explaining to the very obstinate ghost that I did, in fact, have a knack for noticing things others often missed. My tongue was in the process of squeezing through clamped teeth in order to make room for words when I spotted what Mr. Persistent was all annoyed about.
The Celtic five-fold symbol. It was the same marking all of the ghosts I hunted bore on their right cheeks. “Is he your boss?”
“Really, Praedator?” Mr. Persistent tisked. “I expected your powers of deduction to be better than this. This is why you’re not ready.”
“All right then, explain to me who this man was. Was he the first one of you?”
“Of us?”
“The marking on your cheek.”
“Seamus Barclyfe is the reason why the boss understands your importance.”
“But he’s not the boss?”
“Never walked this earth as a spirit.”
“But your boss knows him personally?”
“Yes.”
“Explain to me why this particular symbol. It represents the four elements of Earth, does it not?”
“Very good. There’s hope for you yet. Understand what this symbol means and many of your questions will be answered.” The ghost took a step forward and spread his arms wide. “Now it’s time for me to meet Mr. Barclyfe.”
Realizing it was all the information I would get out of this mark, I pulled my sword.
“And Praedator?” Mr. Persistent requested. “Please hurry and get your shit together. I don’t relish the idea of being in Hell for an extended period of time.”
Long after Mr. Persistent was gone, I remained standing at the grave. Who the heck was Seamus Barclyfe added to my ever-growing list of puzzles to figure out.
Chapter 25
Aunt Kate’s text message woke me thirty minutes before my alarm was scheduled to blare the next morning. Snuggling deeper under my covers, I attempted to incorporate the beeps from my phone into the pleasurable dream I was having abo
ut some sexy man with ripped abs—who wasn’t Wilcox—and the very, very pleasant date we were on. Didn’t happen. Stupid beeps. Then I realized my mystery dream man looked an awful lot like Brock Connelly. The same Brock Connelly who was destined for Desiree Hurst if I didn’t want to call a cardboard box located on a street corner my home. Double crap.
Grabbing my cell off the nightstand, I tried focusing on the screen and then did a double-take.
Dinner tonight at 7
Oh, not just no, but hell no. Not going through with this again. I quickly shot back my reply:
Last time you invited me to dinner, you introduced me to Damon Reed
Have faith in your aunt. No evil Warlocks. Only a nice man.
Not interested.
Not like that, young one. He’s translated more of the prophecy.
See you at 7
It must be the man whose phone number Aunt Kate had snuck home to grab the other night. Emotions waged inside me. Hope that finally… something. Pessimism that once again nothing. Before I could dwell too much on which side I wanted to root for, the phone rang.
Sleep. It was not happening. Apparently thinking to check caller ID and discover who thought it a wise idea to call me before seven o’clock in the morning, prior to actually answering the phone, wasn’t happening either.
“Kiara, darling,” my mother’s voice drifted to my ear. “You really ought to call Lacey and let her know she’s forgiven.”
I was pretty certain my nemesis had been referenced in my mother’s greeting, but I was too stuck on the word darling for my brain to process what, exactly, was said. I was a “Kiara, please—Kiara, really?—Seriously, Kiara.” Never was I a “Kiara, darling.”
“Sorry, Mom, but could you please repeat?”
“Lacey is simply beside herself. She feels horrible that she accused you, her best friend, of trying to harm her with a sword. What were you doing with one, anyway?”
“A client of Maude’s is into ceremonial swords, and there were some being sold at a kiosk in the mall I was checking out.”
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