by Morgan Brice
Only this time, it was personal.
Little by little, the Most Wanted lists trickled in. Even with a large monitor, the crowded fields of names and aliases made Ben’s eyesight blur. He washed down another bite of protein bar and felt the sugar and caffeine ricochet through his nervous system. One foot tapped continuously, and he caught himself biting his bottom lip, an old habit.
A few more texts made his phone buzz. Ben didn’t have the nerve to read them. He wanted things to work out, wanted Erik to be exactly who he claimed to be. But Ben couldn’t handle connecting with Erik, not until he knew for sure. He might have been able to go undercover for weeks or months at a time and fool criminals and drug lords, but Ben knew Erik would realize right away that something was wrong. Ben didn’t want to lie, and he couldn’t very well tell the truth.
It’s only for a day, he told himself. I should have everything in a few hours. And then I’ll know.
Maybe just the fact that Ben doubted was enough to fracture Erik’s feelings for him. After all, wasn’t trust part of being in a relationship? Then again, Erik had trusted Josh, and Ben had trusted Caleb, and they’d both gotten screwed over. He and Erik hadn’t exactly had a normal getting-to-know-you kind of beginning. Checking into someone’s background before getting serious was just a part of the modern world. Careful. Prudent. But no matter how hard he tried, Ben didn’t believe his own justifications.
If Cooper was telling the truth, then Erik’s got Interpol—or worse—on his tail. What if he’s innocent? Who else is going to try to clear his name? Maybe the mobsters who didn’t get what they wanted in Antwerp smeared him for revenge. He got away from them once. Maybe they really want to get rid of a witness.
Thinking that Erik might have lied to him, used him, hurt like a mofo. Envisioning Erik being the target of a mob conspiracy was even worse. The Russian Mob had deep roots in New York City and New Jersey. If they wanted someone in the U.S. discredited or arrested on false charges, they were masters of disinformation. Hell, they learned from the best. They could frame Erik and make it stick. Or they could pull a Jack Ruby and make sure the witness didn’t talk.
The shifting light in Ben’s office made him notice the time. Shit. There was no way he could go to dinner and spend the night pretending everything was all right. And no way he could confess his need to “trust, but verify” without causing the very problem he hoped so desperately to avoid. Erik would be justifiably angry that Ben doubted him. Ben would argue that he needed to be sure, that he was protecting Erik. They’d fight. Erik would come to his senses and realize Ben was too much of a Jersey cop and throw him out.
They’d be through before they really got going.
Ben pulled out his phone. He saw half a dozen unanswered texts, all from Erik. They were the flirty, fun exchanges they’d been doing all week. But by the last one, Erik seemed to realize something was wrong.
Ben? Is everything okay? Are we still on for dinner?
That was an hour ago. Ben checked the time. He was due at Erik’s in forty minutes.
With a heavy heart, Ben typed the text that was probably going to ruin everything. Trouble at the office. Nothing dangerous, but need to handle it. Have to miss dinner. I’m really sorry.
He sent the text, feeling like he had a lead weight in his gut. Erik would have every right to be angry at being stood up. He’d worry. He’d doubt. And if the intel on Erik turned out okay—and God, Ben really hoped it would be okay—Ben would have to win him back. He just hoped Erik would forgive him.
The reports were coming in, a deluge of information it would take hours to sift through. If this was a real case and Ben was still a real cop, he’d at least have a partner to divide the work with, maybe a team. There was no one he could trust to help him now, which probably meant pulling an all-nighter.
I do have a partner. I’m supposed to be having dinner with him, making love on the couch, sleeping together in his bed. Dammit—please don’t let me get this close and not be able to keep him.
Ben barely registered Jenny coming in to say goodnight. He heard her key turn the lock in the door and dug out a packet of peanuts that were probably past their expiration date. Then he called up the next batch of reports. Ben wasn’t going to let Erik go without a fight. He was going to consider his research to be protecting Erik from a false accusation, prove him innocent instead of looking to verify his guilt. And if Ben could do that, save Erik from being arrested, extradited, imprisoned—or killed, then it would be worth it. Because Ben had never been more sure about how he felt about someone than he was about loving Erik.
Even if it turned out that Erik didn’t love him back.
Thirteen
Erik
The pang Erik felt as he heard the door click behind Ben that morning surprised him. In the years he’d been involved with Josh, Erik had relished having the best of both worlds. When he was home, he had a companion and lover. When he traveled, sometimes for weeks at a time, he had independence and freedom.
Then Josh had cheated, left him, and Erik understood what that old song meant about freedom and nothing left to lose.
He’d learned a lot about himself after Josh left, and plenty about loneliness. So when Ben had wandered into his life, Erik had been up for the challenge, even if Ben didn’t intend to stay around. But Erik hadn’t expected to fall so hard, so fast. What he felt toward Ben seemed completely different than his feelings for Josh. Because Erik couldn’t imagine wanting to be away from Ben for weeks. Just the hours until dinner seemed too long.
Sure, Erik figured some of that was infatuation, the blissful first stage of a new relationship. But he also knew it was more. What he’d felt for Josh—what he thought was love—had been affection, fondness, a comfortable habit. Even in their early days, the attraction had never been this strong, like lightning in his blood. This was what love must feel like, as carried away as it seemed after only a week together. Erik could only hope that Ben felt it, too. That he’d stay.
Erik swallowed a couple of Advil and limped to the bathroom. One glance in the mirror revealed bruises that had bloomed in blue, black, and green across his hip, shoulder, and ribs on one side. From the way his leg throbbed, he’d also twisted his knee funny, too.
Which meant he moved more like seventy-five instead of thirty-five.
He turned on the shower and ran it hot, hoping that would loosen sore muscles. Taking care of his morning erection gave him time to fantasize about what it would be like when he and Ben finally—finally—made love.
He assumed Ben would want to top—a muscular ex-cop with tats was the alpha stereotype romance novels were built on. If so, that was fine with Erik, although he actually preferred to switch things up now and then. Josh had been a top-only, and Erik had resented that, as if Josh were suggesting that Erik was somehow inferior for preferring to bottom. So if Ben was open to experimenting, Erik had plenty of ideas.
He came hard, free to cry out for Ben with his release since no one was home to hear him shout. Erik finished his shower and got dressed, letting the post-orgasm release of endorphins blunt the pain of his injuries better than any pills.
Ben had left a full pot of coffee, and Erik poured his into a large insulated container to take down to the shop with him. He waited for his frozen waffle to toast, and decided he needed to expand his breakfast options, especially with Ben sleeping over.
That thought made Erik smile. He liked waking up in bed with Ben, bumping into him in his sleep, catching his scent during the night. Ben was handsome, but first thing in the morning with bed-rumpled hair, he was also adorable. Just thinking about him like that made Erik’s heart skip a beat.
God, he hoped Ben was on board with having a relationship and not just a fling. Erik had realized he was well past “fling” when he’d dodged out of the way of that speeding van, when he was more afraid of not seeing Ben again than of dying.
I’m in love. I’m actually in love with him.
Erik carried his coffee downst
airs and let himself into the shop. He needed to finish the inventory so he could open for business, and write several new blog posts to get Treasure Trail off the ground. It wouldn’t hurt to check his email and see if there was any news about the TV proposal. Those should have been his priorities. Instead, he pulled out his phone to call Alessia Mason, hoping he could ask her about magic and curses.
He’d looked up the woman Monty and Susan both believed to be a witch, and read everything he could find online. Alessia Mason’s gift shop was a local favorite, and she seemed to have her finger on the pulse of Cape May’s social life, especially the events that catered more to the year-round residents than the tourists. No doubt she and Jaxon Davies ran in the same circles. But he’d only found a few references to being a follower of the “Old Ways,” and nothing at all about a coven.
Then again, there were plenty of reasons not to shout that sort of thing from the rooftops.
Before he could place the call, a knock at the door interrupted. A dark-haired woman stood on the other side of the glass, and Erik recognized Alessia Mason from her pictures.
“May I come in?” she asked when he unlocked the door. Erik stepped aside to let her enter, then locked the door behind her.
“You’re Alessia Mason? I’m Erik Mitchell. We’re not open yet if that’s what you came to see me about.” Erik didn’t usually babble, but Alessia’s appearance seemed like too much of a coincidence.
“I’m Alessia. I know who you are—and who you’ve been. And I came to talk with you because my coven and I are pleased to see a potential ally come to town. We’ve fought to protect Cape May largely on our own.”
Erik was glad he had put away the box of Commodore memorabilia so the table in the back was uncluttered. He led Alessia to the break room and offered coffee. She declined, but he poured a refill for himself. Erik suspected he’d need the jolt to get him through the day.
“I’m not sure I understand,” Erik replied. “What do you mean, ‘protect Cape May’?”
Alessia smiled. She appeared to be in her early forties, with olive skin, black hair, and dark brown eyes. Erik sensed a power beneath her attractiveness which he wasn’t sure whether to attribute to confidence, insider knowledge, or something…more.
“Do you believe in witches, Erik?”
Erik sighed. “I’m not sure. I think there’s a lot I don’t understand about how the world works, and people have different talents that attract all kinds of labels.”
She gave him an appraising glance. “Very diplomatic. You have some talent of your own,” she added, eyes narrowing as she assessed him. “Mostly raw, untrained, but with definite potential.”
Her intense focus made Erik want to squirm. “What does believing in witches have to do with anything? I’m an antiques and art guy.”
There was that enigmatic smile again, an expression that Erik read to mean Alessia knew more than she was telling. “I’m betting that with the kinds of pieces you’ve dealt with, there have been oddities. Things you can’t explain. Experiences that don’t quite make sense.”
“Maybe.” As he’d admitted to Ben the night before, art and museum people were a superstitious lot. They knew the myths and legends, the stories of curses and hauntings, and most learned the hard way to take such warnings seriously.
“I’m the descendant of a long line of Sicilian witches—strega, we’re called in Italian. It’s a powerful bloodline. I married a man from a prominent, long-time Cape May family. That affords some protection—for me and mine as well as for the town,” Alessia said. “Over time, we’ve drawn other individuals here who have psychic and magical abilities. I believe you’ve met Monty. And Jaxon.”
“Jaxon?”
Alessia raised an eyebrow. “His kind of charisma is just shy of being a glamour, an inherent magic that makes those around him besotted with his presence. Interestingly enough, his partner Arjun is immune. Their pairing is a real love match.”
“I haven’t met Jaxon’s husband. I’ve only barely met Jaxon himself,” Erik said, retreating behind his coffee cup as he studied his visitor. Susan and Monty had both vouched for her, and Erik didn’t disbelieve, but that wasn’t quite the same as being fully onboard with the idea that witches and magic were real.
Then again, Erik already knew that ghosts and visions—and the ability to get glimpses of the future and past—were real. So it wasn’t going to take much of a shove to convince him. Ben, on the other hand…
“How does this have anything to do with me, or protecting Cape May? Are you saying that your coven is some kind of supernatural neighborhood watch?”
Alessia full-out laughed at that, as if it was the funniest thing she’d heard in a long time. “You’re not completely wrong,” she said. “Although I can’t say we’ve ever seen ourselves exactly in those terms.”
She grew serious. “The land beneath Cape May is not completely solid. Gravel, silt, and sand make it somewhat porous, and subject to the tides. In magical terms—energy terms—it’s a liminal space.”
Erik recognized that term from the folklore classes he’d taken long ago in graduate school. “A place where the veil between one realm and another is thinner?”
Alessia looked pleased. “Exactly. Usually it’s a dividing line between two things—a shoreline, the mouth of a cave, the edge of a forest.”
“Or it can be invoked, in a ritual space,” Erik said, meeting her gaze.
“Yes. All that. Liminal space is powerful,” Alessia said. “Because the veil is thinner, energy is stronger, but it also fluctuates more. And that power attracts people and creatures with the ability to see it and use it—both good and bad.”
“So your group keeps out the supernatural riff-raff?”
Alessia leaned back and folded her hands on the table. “You make it sound very judgy. But essentially, yes. We keep watch to deter anyone or anything from misusing the natural energies, causing harm.”
“Begging your pardon, but whoever was on duty during the Commodore Wilson years dropped the ball.”
Alessia nodded. “The man who built the Commodore was already under a curse—or perhaps, a crossroads deal—when he arrived. The hotel was the reason we originally organized, although it was such a nexus of dark energy that we’ve always been playing defense, even twenty years after it’s gone.”
“Can’t you cleanse it?”
She gave him a look. “Don’t you think we’ve tried? Over the years we’ve invited practitioners from every tradition we could think of to try to break the curse or banish the evil. Priests, ministers, witches, shamans, root workers, mystics—they’ve all taken a shot at it. Nothing worked. A lot of the people who tried came to a bad end.”
“I’ve seen postings online from paranormal investigators and urban explorers. What happened to them?” Erik had scoured the internet and found plenty of blogs and photographs documenting the exploits of groups who had braved the old hotel during the times it was abandoned.
Alessia wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Some were lucky. Some weren’t. There were also vandals, and a few raves thrown, or so I’ve heard. They didn’t end well. The Commodore was always a dangerous building. Bloodthirsty.”
“Wasn’t there a reality show that tried to dare people to live there for a while, outlast each other?” He’d seen articles about the ill-fated show but wasn’t sure how to separate the hype from the facts.
“Twelve residents, over six weeks, and the last one to leave won a million dollars,” Alessia replied. “Back in 2005. One overdosed, one had to be hospitalized for severe anxiety. Another got hurt pretty bad falling down the steps, and one attempted suicide. They stopped the show at that point, but tragedy befell everyone involved even so—including the producer and director.”
“How did the curse outlive the building?”
Alessia leaned closer. “When the preservationists found out that there was too much damage to the Commodore to be able to save it, a group of us tried to place a containment spell on the buildi
ng so whatever evil was in its bones didn’t go elsewhere. In hindsight, I’d say we were not completely successful,” she added, with a self-deprecating note in her voice. “Even the demolition went sour. Freak injuries and a fire no one could explain. But the ghosts never left, and the dark essence remained. So, we try to limit the damage.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Erik still cradled his mug.
“Because you have abilities that can help us protect this town. And because Robert was one of us.”
“A witch?”
“A man with psychic abilities, much like yours. You’ll find that Trinkets can be a magnet for items that have energies of their own. Whenever Robert found pieces that were dark, cursed, or haunted, he made sure they were handled.”
Well, that explains the spooky closet full of weird stuff. I guess he didn’t finish dealing with the last batch.
“I don’t think there’s anything very special about what I can do, but I’m all for helping to keep the place safe, since I’m living here,” Erik replied. “But right now, I’m hoping you can help me. The ghosts of Vincente Cafaro, Hank Chason, and Kendry Ambrose are back—and they’re riled up. Apparently, so is someone else—because I’ve had an attempted break-in, been shot at, and nearly run over. So…you help keep me alive, and I’ll be around to help run off the undesirables.”
Alessia watched him in silence, with the kind of intensity that made him feel like she could see down to his bones. “Your store already has very strong protective wardings.”
“It does?” Maybe that explained why Erik felt immediately at home the first time he’d stepped inside. And perhaps it had something to do with foiling the attacks.