Cara nodded, and then put two things together. “Wait a second. Did someone call you and ask for you to join the job site because it’s haunted? Did Morningside hire you?”
He shook his head. “No one hired us. Egan House has been on our radar. A member of the Salem family has been watching it for years, and my brothers and I just happened to take over recently. When the construction was about to start, it was too good an opportunity to pass up. So I applied.”
“You’re just there to get intel! You don’t even need the job.”
“Uh, actually the pay is a very nice side benefit,” he said. “Demon-hunting is not the most stable business. And I’d like to point out that I am working.”
“Sure, but you’re mostly poking around the house looking for…what?”
“Let’s just say I’m looking for supernatural problems.”
“You are not getting away with that level of vagueness,” Cara told him. “You said this house is a known issue. What do you know about it that I don’t?”
Mal used the fact that the food was ready to avoid answering. He offered her a plate of rice, broccoli, and some fantastic-smelling orange chicken. “This looks really good,” she said. It also looked ten times more nutritious than what she’d been eating on the job site the whole week.
“It’s all out of packages. I’m no chef.”
Cara ate, but didn’t let it distract her. “Egan House. Tell me.”
Mal poked at his chicken. “You studied the history yourself. Rich guy builds a mansion, and it’s very fancy and pretty weird, especially when it comes to design and decoration.”
“It’s called architectural,” she said.
“It’s called occult. And not in the sense of it was in fashion to use Egyptian designs or whatever. That house was built on that hill for a very specific reason. That location is uniquely suited to be a portal to other realities. That’s why Egan moved out from New York City and bought it. The house is just a shell. He wanted access to that spot on the hill.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“I am not. Things have happened there, bad things.” Mal started ticking things off on his fingers. “The fire that destroyed the house killed Mrs. Egan, you know that? And Egan himself was basically a raving madman for the rest of his life, which ended in an asylum in the ’50s. The sons both died in the war, which probably didn’t help Egan’s state of mind. According to the research my family has done, the most likely scenario is that Egan built the house to hide the fact that he was also building a way to activate the hellhole—”
“The what now?”
“We call portals hellholes. It doesn’t matter where they open up to—it’s not always a hell, but it’s usually a place ordinary people shouldn’t be poking into.”
“Ok, there’s a hellhole…” Cara said, not bothering to hide her resurgent skepticism.
“Yeah. Egan was obsessed with magic. He and his wife were both known to associate with some very sketchy folks in the US and all over Europe. He somehow learned about this location, which is locally famous as a spooky ass place. Settlers wouldn’t go there, and there are even a couple of hints in the early place-names that some of the local tribes designated it as forbidden land, guarding against anyone climbing the hill or staying there at night.”
“Until they got shoved out west, huh? So no one was guarding later on.”
“Bingo. The native knowledge about the hellhole became folklore and then eventually just local spook stories. Egan bought the property because no one was in a position to stop him. And he spent the next two years prepping the site to serve as a working portal to other dimensions.”
“Why?”
“Who knows? He wasn’t exactly sane enough to answer questions afterward.”
“But Egan never actually opened his portal because the fire destroyed the house?”
Mal nodded, but looked uncertain. “Our working theory is that they were in the act of opening it and something went wrong. Spells like that are super complicated, and if you mess something up, dying is the best thing that can happen to you. The fire was likely a side effect of a mistake in spell casting, and it got out of control because the Egans were unable to do anything about it while they were wrapped up in magic. The wife died from the smoke, Egan got away from the physical fire but was already zapped by the magic, and the house burned merrily until dawn.”
“So it was over before it began.”
“It’s not over,” Mal said seriously. “The portal itself is still there. And someone—your client or someone who’s influencing them—is taking the first steps to reactivate it. We think that fancy floor you’re working on is the key. As soon as I saw it in person, I felt how powerful it was, even unfinished.”
Cara’s back stiffened. “You’re saying that what I’m doing is evil?”
“Not directly. You don’t have an evil bone in your body. But good intentions can be bent. And your pretty floor is a very large summoning circle. All those symbols aren’t just there for show. They have occult significance. You’re laying out a spell in wooden pieces, whether you know it or not.”
“You’re saying it will be my fault?”
“No!” Mal reached across the counter and grabbed her hand. “No one’s blaming you. But whatever is happening in that house, you’re involved, Cara. And I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“Why do you care if I get hurt or not?” Cara asked, even as she became exquisitely conscious of the touch of his hand over hers. She could feel the strength in him just by the way his fingers curled over hers.
Mal didn’t reply, but he looked at her in a way that sent Cara’s heart rate spiking. His eyes locked with hers, and she was getting lost in the deep brown gaze that exuded sensuality, but also something even deeper and more threatening to Cara’s carefully guarded peace of mind. Like, maybe, impossibly, he did care about her a little. And what was she supposed to do with that info?
Mal’s gaze dropped a bit, letting Cara breathe with relief, until she realized he was looking at her mouth.
He’s going to kiss me. A lightning bolt through her brain would not have been more shocking than the understanding that scorching-hot Mal Salem would absolutely kiss Cara in about three seconds if she made the tiniest sign that she wanted him too. Which was why she had to fight the overwhelming instinct to lick her lips, or spread her fingers to stroke the palm of his hand, or close her eyes and let her body take over.
What would it feel like to kiss him? To touch him? Cara’s temperature soared. This is the worst idea ever.
She swallowed hard and pulled her hand from his, leaning back. “I gotta check on the cat. And then go to bed. Like alone. And right away. And I’ll get a hotel tomorrow because this is…not something I should have…I don’t need this. And you don’t need this. This isn’t even a thing. Ok.” Shut up, Cara, she yelled at herself. She was babbling like an idiot, and Mal hadn’t said anything, and she was probably hallucinating that he wanted to kiss her just like she hallucinated seeing smoke and flames the other night.
Cara got up and looked for the kitten. A meow led her gaze to the beat-up couch in the living room.
Pumpkin was curled up in a tiny ball, nestled right next to Behemoth’s dark bulk. The black cat’s tail was curled protectively around the orange kitten.
Mal was standing behind the island, looking perfectly in control of himself. No hint of lust in his eyes at all. Just a smile for the cats. “See? Everything’s going to be fine, Cara. Let Pumpkin settle in. You should go up to bed. You’ve had a long day.”
Did she ever. Cara fled upstairs and when she closed her door, she locked it. Whether it was to keep Mal out or her in, she didn’t know.
Cara couldn’t be sure what was real anymore, and if Mal was interested in her even a little bit, it meant the world she knew was totally flipped on its axis.
Chapter 11
She is not your type.
She is not your type.
She is not your type.
Mal chanted the words at himself until Cara was gone from the first floor, and he heard the sound of a door close upstairs.
Wow, he’d been about to do something really stupid.
And he was starting to think he was wrong about what his type was.
Mal took a breath. He was happy to have solved the immediate problem of Cara sleeping right over a hellhole. But having her in the house definitely brought up a new problem, namely that Cara was very close by, and Mal could barely think straight around her. It put him on edge.
When he was on edge, his favorite way to unwind was sex. Fun, fast, furious sex with no strings attached. And that meant not with anyone actually living in his house, no matter how briefly.
He could go upstairs, take a quick shower, get dressed, and head out to a bar. He’d find someone up for fun within the hour. Some nice, hot blonde who he didn’t have to pretend to be friends with first. A woman who wanted a wild night and then would push him out the door before she got up for brunch with her gang.
He could do that. But he didn’t want to.
Mal stood there for a long minute, trying to decide what he did want.
Then he glanced at the two sleeping cats and remembered he had other duties.
He went to the spell supply closet and selected a few items. Then he walked outside to where he’d put the garbage bag and the shovel before.
It didn’t take long to decide where to bury the remains of the cats who hadn’t survived. There was a particular spot in the vast backyard that was sheltered by a few pine trees, and away from the main yard…assuming they ever got around to making it a proper yard.
Mal checked the cardinal directions and then dug a grave, careful to move clockwise as he did. The hole was much deeper than the pitiful size of the remains, but Mal wanted these cats to be firmly tucked into sacred ground.
Sanctifying the grave was an easy enough process. A sprinkle of sage and mint. A scattering of holy water from a little blue glass bottle. Then a dash of catnip, because cats.
He opened the garbage bag and gently transferred the remains of the kittens to the grave. Five tiny bodies, all taken before they even got a chance to experience life as cats.
“Santa Muerte,” he began, instinctively using Spanish, “give these unnamed cats a safe and speedy passage to the afterlife. Keep them from any harm. They died close to a hellhole, and their souls need watching. Gertrude, patron saint of cats, I pray for you to intercede to help these kittens be reborn as cats again. They didn’t get a fair shot this time. Francis, you too if you have a minute. I’ll watch over the living if you can mind the dead. Amen.”
Mal shoveled dirt over the grave and mounded it up. He placed five small stones in a circle around the top, using them as points to trace a simple pentagram in the soil.
He stood up, feeling unaccountably drained. This sort of ritual barely counted as magic, but Mal found it a challenge all the same.
He remained there in silence for a minute, then walked back to the house, returning the shovel to its spot in the garage before walking into the kitchen. He planned to wash his hands about three times, and then pour a serious shot of whiskey.
He was washing his hands when he heard Behemoth’s voice in his head.
The little one is sick.
Mal hurried out of the bathroom, his hands still wet.
Pumpkin was on the couch, but he was no longer sleeping peacefully. He wheezed in and out, and his little sides were puffing as he tried to get air that wasn’t coming in.
He needs help. And soon, or he too will die.
“I’m on it.”
He didn’t like to exploit a personal relationship, especially with an ex, but Pumpkin’s condition looked like a code red.
Mal grabbed his phone and found the right number. At the beep, he said, “Amber, I got an emergency. I’m driving over to the clinic right now with a sick kitten and you need to be there. He’s not breathing right. Oh, this is Mal. Later.”
He scooped the cat up and deposited it in the nearest container, which happened to be a saucepan hanging from the rack in the kitchen.
The car started—a minor miracle for which he thanked St. Gertrude, who was obviously paying attention—and Mal drove three miles to the vet clinic in the tiny downtown, talking to Pumpkin the whole time.
A blonde woman stood in the doorway. She waved when Mal pulled up and parked in the handicapped spot. Mal grabbed the saucepan and got out.
“Did you cook for me? That was the emergency?” Amber asked.
Mal showed her the contents of the pan. Amber took it from him and strode into the clinic. He followed, hoping that whatever was happening to Pumpkin was a solvable problem.
“Take a seat. I’ll be a few minutes.” Amber took the kitten into the back.
Mal waited, tapping his foot against the rail of the chair. He considered texting Cara and then remembered he didn’t have her number. Damn. Then again, what could he say that wouldn’t make her panic?
He waited. He made a reminder to get Cara’s number ASAP. He waited more.
After what seemed like an hour but was probably only twenty minutes, Amber emerged, sans cat.
“The little guy was totally dehydrated and had an obstruction that was impeding his respiration. Probably ate too much after nearly starving. Food chunks can go down the wrong way. I had to sedate him to get the obstruction out, and I want to keep him till tomorrow for observation.”
“Will he recover?”
“With proper care, yes. I’ll do a more thorough examination tomorrow to make sure that there are no chronic conditions, but my guess is that he’s simply a severely malnourished stray. You found him?”
“Yeah. Well, I helped and he’s staying at my place for a few days. His name is Pumpkin.”
“Cute. I’ll note it in the file. Pumpkin Salem.”
“Uh, it would be Pumpkin Michaels, actually.”
Amber raised an eyebrow but didn’t get into it. “How are your other kitties? Piewicket and the other one. Monster?”
“Behemoth. The cats are fine.”
“Good to hear. Haven’t heard from you in a while,” Amber noted.
“I’ve been busy. Working. Construction. How are you doing?”
“Great.”
Mal paused, then asked, “Seeing someone?”
“Yes, actually. It’s, uh, it’s going really well.” Amber smiled and blushed slightly, the universal sign of a satisfied-with-life woman.
Mal was happy for her, and said so. She’d never blushed like that around him. Of course, neither of them were exactly looking for long-term bliss at the time. Mal preferred to stay away from long-term commitments. Or short-term commitments. Or any commitments.
No commitments meant no problems, and you didn’t have to worry about endings.
“Thanks,” Amber said. “I hope you’re doing well too.” She shifted back into professional mode. “Come back anytime after noon, and you can pick Pumpkin up and I’ll give you, or whoever, a full report.”
“You’re a lifesaver. Literally.”
She grinned. “I know. I’ll see you out and lock up behind you.”
She let him out and waved from behind the glass.
Mal walked to his car, but just as he got a grip on the door handle, he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye.
He looked up and around without seeming to. He didn’t see anything. No, wait. There was a figure standing a few doors away, watching him.
The guy, dressed in dark jeans and a hoodie, tipped his head once, indicating the passageway between two buildings that led to the alley behind. Then he walked down it, getting lost in the shadows.
Mal sighed. Spooky Dude was really going to do this B-movie bullshit? He considered just getting in the car and leaving, but then thought of Amber, alone in the clinic because he’d asked her to be there. Nope. He couldn’t leave while there was the slightest potential for her to get hurt. He slowly loosened his muscles and rolled hi
s shoulders, then followed Spooky Dude.
There were no doors and nowhere to hide along the passage, and Mal was smart enough to come out into the alley fast and crouched down. Sure enough, he felt the air just above him woosh as Spooky Dude took a swing where he thought Mal’s head would be.
Mal nearly ran into the opposite wall of the alley before he stopped and swung around to face the other guy. The alley was much wider than the passage, with a lane for vehicles and dumpsters and trash cans behind each building. Plenty of space for a fight.
Spooky Dude whirled around, pointing directly at Mal’s head. “Malachy East.”
Not my name, but super interesting you used it. “What do you want?”
“I want you to stay away from Cara Michaels.”
“She tell you to say that?” Mal asked, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet.
“Doesn’t mat—”
That was as much as the guy got to say, because Mal jumped forward, grabbing the edge of the otherworlds as he went. He folded the ripple between realities around himself, giving him more time than the other guy had. He slid into the world next door just long enough to let him move ten feet in an instant. As far as the other guy knew, Mal simply flashed from where he’d been to within grabbing distance.
The flesh Mal grabbed was ice cold. He closed his hand around the guy’s neck to make breathing difficult. But this guy wasn’t breathing in the first place.
Vampire.
And me without a stake, Mal thought.
Why would he have a stake? He was in his hometown, on an emergency vet run.
The vampire was startled by Mal’s unexpected speed, but he recovered fast. He reached up, and with inhuman strength began to pull Mal’s arm off his neck.
Don’t look, don’t look.
Looking into a vampire’s eyes, or even letting it talk to you, was an invitation to bitestown. It meant slipping under the vampire’s power, and then it would leisurely drain you of all your blood and let you die.
Mal closed his eyes. When outgunned, you have to do something unexpected to stay in the fight.
Reach For Me Page 9
