Hateful Desire

by Marianne Willis

  A duffel full of clothes would have helped with this little getaway, but panic had made her focus on one thing, leaving town ASAP. She changed into the clean outfit, and wended into the bedroom, finger-combing her hair as she slipped into a pair of flats. Chilled air touched her right toe.

  “You must be kidding?” The bottom of her shoe flapped open, resembling a dog’s tongue. A megastore was a few blocks down. She could buy some cheap flip-flops, perhaps also check if they sold a guidebook, How to Outrun a Killer Werewolf.

  Money was an issue since she hadn’t worked in weeks, and she couldn’t afford to overspend on the credit card. She withdrew the packet of potato chips, seized her purse, and traipsed down the hall. “Here’s to another hearty breakfast.”

  A young man sat behind the reception, wearing a bright, pink shirt, which read Size Matters.

  “Good morning,” he greeted in a singsong voice. “Going somewhere special today?”

  Special? Given Chayton wasn’t nearby, yes, she considered anywhere special. “No, not really.” Amber waved goodbye, and tugged the door open.

  “Oh, too bad,” he called out. “You should have seen the hot stuff who sauntered in here moments ago.”

  Dread made her heart jump in her throat. She spun around. “What hot stuff?”

  “Very sexy, and buff.” He nodded with a certain sparkle in his eyes, perhaps recalling the man’s appearance. “He asked for directions. Apparently, he’s meeting a group of friends for a buck’s party at the restaurant down the road. So, if you’re interested in grabbing a bite, he’s not far.”

  “That’s all he asked? Directions?”

  Pink-shirt cocked a brow. “Yeah.”

  She rushed to the desk, flattening her palms on the counter. “What did he look like?”

  The young man licked his lips. “Blonde hair, surfer bod, green eyes. The type of guy that made me wish I was born a woman.” He cleared his throat, oblivious to her sigh of relief.

  “I could tell a mile away he wasn’t my type,” he added, brushing a hand through his slicked-back hair. “But you’re here alone, so I thought to give you a heads-up, in case you were after some fun.”

  Fun? She suffered memory loss with that word. Running and hiding was not fun. She’d give anything to do what Pink-shirt suggested, meet a guy, hang out, flirt, and have a good time. “Thanks. I’ll think about it,” she murmured, and strode outside.

  The sun warmed her skin, and she shaded her view from its piercing rays. Several cars drove down Highland Avenue, children riding bikes along the sidewalk joked amongst themselves, and a lone beagle urinated on a public trashcan. The fresh air did her good, and was much better than the faint smell of cigarettes in the motel.

  The Mercedes sat in the parking lot. Relief made her breathe easy. If anything happened to the cherished car, she would be toast. She hopped in, started the engine, and drove. The megastore had just opened when she pulled into a parking space.

  A large group of customers hurried in, and she leaned against the driver’s door, waiting for the crowd to clear. The less attention she drew, the less embarrassed she’d be. She stalked into the store, pleased no one stared at her broken shoe. Or if they did, they did not make it obvious.

  A teenage employee tagging baby formula eyed her up and down, his mouth quirked when he spotted her shoe. So much for not drawing attention. As if he had the right to pass judgment with so many piercings, his face resembled a tambourine.

  “Amber.”

  Panic pounced on her like a wild animal and she swung around.

  An old lady with a shopping basket paused, eyes widened.

  “Did you call me?”

  The lady shook her head. “No.”

  Amber mumbled an apology, and bypassed the woman. She’d become insane, how else to explain the voice in her head? At last she found the shoe aisle.

  “Amber, answer me, dammit.”

  She skidded to a stop, tearing her shoe further. Her throat was clogged, but she managed a soft, “Hello?”

  “About damn time!”

  What the hell was this? “Ch-Chayton? Is that you?”

  “Yeah. It’s me.”

  “Wh-where are you?” The aisle was empty. How could she hear him? A pair of stilettos hung on the rack, and she grasped them, ready to club him if he advanced.

  “Funny, I planned to ask the same question.”

  The tension in her shoulders relaxed somewhat. “So, you’re not here right now?”

  “Where is here?”

  “Nice try,” she said, placing the heels on the shelf. “I’m being serious, how are we talking?”

  “Trust me, you’d know if I were near. We’re speaking telepathically.”

  “That’s impossible. How can you be...Oh no!”

  “What? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  Why the concern? “No, I think I figured out what’s going on.”

  “Do you, now? Enlighten me.”

  “The spell I placed, I messed up.” Ha, what an understatement. Would she ever progress with her witchcraft? “I obviously made a mistake with the incantation, now we can communicate through a weird, mental link. That must be the reason.”

  “No, you don’t understand.”

  “You know what.” She half laughed. “I don’t care to understand. Stop talking to me, period. I know you crave revenge, but guess what, buddy, we don’t always get what we want.”

  Silence. Ha! Simple as that. She grinned, and marched further down the aisle to the variety of shoes, some coloured, some with sequins and fabric flowers. A pair of plain black flip-flops didn’t look expensive. She tried them for size, and smirked at the cheap price.

  The same old lady walked into the aisle and rolled her eyes when spotting her.

  “Uh…Amber?”

  Amber groaned. “I assumed you’d left me alone.”

  “Yeah, I had a feeling you did. Surprise.”

  Fury flared within her arms, and she had to clench her hands. “What kind of sick freak are you? You love this, tormenting me?”

  Clutching her little knitted bag against her chest, the lady blinked.

  “What are you looking at?” Amber narrowed her eyes. “Never seen a person talk to themselves before?”

  The woman yelped, and scurried out the aisle, no doubt to call security.

  “What happened?”

  “I made myself look like a psycho, thanks to you.”

  “Are you speaking out loud? This still works if you direct your thoughts at me.”

  She puffed out a long breath. “That’s just it. I don't want to. Leave me alone.”

  “Sorry, no can do. You and I must talk, and I’d rather do this in person.”

  She spotted an open register, and made her way over. “Good luck finding me.”

  “Don’t worry. I will.”

  Swallowing hard, she placed the shoes on the counter. Her Ma or one of the Elite must perform a protection spell because this couldn’t continue. The teller scanned the shoes, and placed them in a bag. After paying, she plodded into the parking lot, changed into the flip-flops, and was able to walk with her head held high. A pay phone was in front of the building, and she hunted for coins in her purse. Inserting a quarter, she punched in the home phone number.

  “Johnson residence, Taylor speaking.”

  A gnawing pang exploded in her chest. Why didn’t she answer in a panic, hopeful to be hearing her daughter on the other end? “Hello, Ma.”

  “Amber?”

  She cringed. “Yes. It’s me.”

  “Well,” her mother shouted. “Where are you?” Did she worry, was that the reason she yelled? “How’s my baby?”

  “Ma, I’m fine.”

  “I’m talking about my car. You know this little runaway act is so childish. Come home, now.”

  Okay, so she wasn’t worried...but annoyed. “The car is fine, but I cannot come home. I’m not sure how safe—”

  “Amber Christine Johnson, I know all about the situation, and
you are safe to come home.”

  She knew? How much did she know? And more to the point, who told her? Of course…Lucas. “Is there a way to protect me from the werewolf? Do you know where he is?”

  “Yes, we’ve been keeping tabs on him, and he’s out of town. And I do know of a way to protect you, but this potion won’t work unless you are here.”

  “All right. I’ll come home.” If she left now, she’d arrive in Asheville by two p.m. She’d have to charge her credit card for the gas to head there, but it would be worth a decent meal, her own bed, and guaranteed security from Chayton.

  “Good, the sooner the better.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you later.” She hung the phone, and raced to the car. Maybe this potion her Ma spoke of might stop the mental conversations, too. She needed this all to end.

  At the motel, Pink-shirt was no longer at his desk. She ambled along the hall to the rented room, but slowed near her door. Someone rummaged inside. Her Ma had said Chayton was out of town…did that mean he’d found her? The hollow wood door swung open, and she jumped back, fists in front and raised.

  “Sorry…is this your room?” the cleaner asked while hauling the trolley out into the hallway. “I’m done now.”

  Amber exhaled, unaware she held her breath. She surveyed for any forgotten items. With nothing to collect, she made her way down the hall. Pink-shirt sat with his feet up, flipping through a magazine as if he’d been there the entire time. “Here you go.” She slid the swipe pass across the counter.

  “Signing out, are we?” He straightened in his seat.

  “Yes.”

  He handed the machine to swipe her credit card. She signed the receipt, grabbed her purse, and jogged into the parking lot.

  The long drive home was a boring journey with few toilet breaks and junk food stops. Several times, she checked the rearview mirror in hopes she wasn’t followed. The Asheville road sign made her grin. An arcade of trees, old brick buildings, and distant mountaintops swamped her with comfort. Home.

  Somehow the fresh breeze caressing her nape sated her Chayton dilemma. That only left her mother to deal with. Taylor Johnson’s attacks took mental preparation. And attacks were a guarantee.

  Ahead was the sign for the chocolate lounge. Raspberry truffles would lighten her mother’s mood, and Amber still had the thirty-dollar voucher. She made a sharp right onto South Lexington Avenue, travelled the sloped street and found a parking spot. With the keys tucked in her pocket, she headed up the pavement toward the shop with its French script header and black grille design windows.

  “Crap, my purse is under the car seat.” She might as well place her order before walking back. Two teenage boys almost ran into her as they exited the building, and she shuffled behind the door to let them pass. A woman followed them out. Great, was she the hired doorman now?

  She paused from releasing the handle as another man stepped out. His height was the first thing she recognized, his dark hair, the second.

  Many men were tall and dark-haired, but the reassurance proved pointless when black eyes discovered her. His mouth parted in stunned muteness. Sunlit dust particles floated between them as they stared.

  Chayton. She broke into a sprint. The car was out of the question because he’d catch her if she dashed in the opposite direction. The sound of engines and tires along gravel made her hesitate at the curb of Biltmore Avenue. No time to wait for the pedestrian signal.

  “Amber. Don’t!”

  She darted across the road. A horn blared. A car skidded to a stop. Dust and cobblestone blew through her hair. Once on the opposite side, she removed her flip-flops, and found it much easier barefoot. Chayton yelled a second time. Another glance back revealed he had crossed the road.

  She scampered down the narrow street of Sycamore, and hissed at the sudden stab lancing up her foot. With the pumping adrenaline in her system, she ignored the pain, and passed Asheville Public Works, heading for Charlotte Street. The two-story house appeared ahead. Panting, sweating, she rushed toward it, bolted up the driveway, and flung the door open.

  “What on earth?” her mother shouted when she burst into the foyer.

  Amber ignored her, threw the flip-flops, and slammed the door. The main lock—click. The double lock—click, click. She retreated, gaze on the wood.

  Her heart pounded in her ears, and her mother might have been speaking, but she wasn’t sure. She couldn’t focus on the background noise, only stare at the door.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  She yelped. He’d followed her home. She hoped she’d lost him.

  “Amber!” The stern voice bombarded her racing mind.

  “Huh?”

  “Take a deep breath,” her ma instructed.

  She listened. Inhaled, and exhaled.

  “Now, tell me who you’re running from.” Green eyes tapered with the serious glare she wore so well. Taylor Johnson was strong and stern to the bone, not a woman to cross. To top it off, she was an amazing witch, and well respected.

  “He’s h-here. He’s here for me. The w-wolf.” Did she stutter? She never stuttered.

  Her mother snickered. A ginger strand of hair loosened from the fancy up-do, and she tucked the lock behind her ear, straightened, and sauntered to the door.

  “Mamma, don’t!”

  Her mother unsecured each lock and swung the door back!

  “What are you doing?” Amber shouted. Of course! Taylor required seeing him before hexing him. Guilt pierced within her. Damn Chayton, he should have stayed away. She hated placing him under any more spells, but he left her no choice.

  Chayton stood, arms by his sides, one brow cocked when his gaze shifted from her to her mother. “Thank you, Mrs. Johnson.”

  “How many times must I tell you, call me Taylor? I’m sorry you had the door slammed in your face.”

  His shoulders raised in a shrug. “Happens.”

  Back up a minute. “You two know each other?”

  “Yes.” Her mother smiled, shutting the door. “Chayton has come by every day for the last week, searching for you. He explained what happened, and asked us to contact him once we found you.”

  Come again? The man who fancied her dead had regular visits with her mother…and Taylor what, helped him? Did she want her dead? No. She might not show love the same way other mother’s did, but the woman didn’t hate her.

  “Okay,” Amber rushed out. “Okay,” she repeated, because for crying out loud she was lost for words. Ha, she was just lost. “Ma, I don’t know what he’s told you, but he is out for revenge…on me.”

  “Oh, Amber.” Taylor placed a hand to her head, as though she had a migraine. “Please stop. You’re embarrassing yourself in front of Chayton.”

  “What!” she snapped. “Do you think I care about embarrassing myself? He wants to kill me!” Had she crossed into some twilight zone? Or maybe the world had gone downright mad.

  “You must be thirsty after all that running,” her mother told him. “Let me get you some lemonade.” She twisted with her pursed Botox-looking lips, and strolled out of the foyer. Not that her mother used Botox, but she sure had performed some cosmetic witchcraft over the years.

  “Thank you, Mrs…I mean, Taylor,” he called out.

  This cannot be happening. Here she was, alone with her killer, while her mother fetched lemonade for him! Why not give him a knife, or loaded gun, too. “Get out,” Amber gritted, teeth clenched. Her fear had waned somewhere between call me Taylor, and You must be thirsty—in its place frustration and anger pulsed into a blistering peak.

  “You’re an idiot for running off the way you did.” He shook his head. “Do you think pedestrian crossings are for show? You could have been hit.”

  She scoffed, folding her arms over her chest. “And you would’ve hated that, right? Unable to harm me yourself. Let me assure you, I’d rather be hit by a train than watch you have your vengeance.”

  “You are so dense sometimes. I don’t know whether to laugh or pity you.”

/>   “Shut up. Just shut up and get off my property.”

  “Not until I show you this.” He clutched the hem of his black shirt, and lifted past a set of concrete abs covered in flawless coffee skin. She gulped. Show her what, a striptease? Did it stroke his ego to hear how fit he was? How robust his sexy body…stop! Don’t think of him that way.

  He tugged off his shirt, and with slow precision rotated. Goodness, his back also defined perfection, toned, with wide shoulders and prominent muscles. She bit the inside of her cheek, and forced herself not to drool over the enemy.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Open those pretty blues, Amber. What do you see?”

  She studied him. Beautiful skin…check. Solid physique…check. Freckles…freckles? Oh okay, he had freckles. Three across his neck.

  Ha, like hers.

  Three in the centre of his back—she sucked in air, but captured nothing.

  Three across his lower back.

  No!

  They shared the same marks. “What a horrible coincidence.”

  “This is no coincidence, and you know it.” He faced her, and slipped into his shirt.

  It felt as if an army of ants crawled over her skin, and she rubbed her arms. “We have the same freckles.” She shrugged. “It’s a coincidence.” No way did this mean…This must be a mistake. He couldn’t be. He just couldn’t be her—

  “I’m your mate,” he drawled the words she didn’t want to hear. “We share the exact marks.”

  “No. We’re not mates, not bonded. I can’t belong to you…I won’t belong to you.” She understood the bonds between all species. For vampires they tasted their mate’s blood. The blood of a moitié gave a vampire strength beyond belief. Witches were similar to humans; you meet a guy, you fall in love, and you marry, hoping to never face divorce. But for werewolves, they relied on marks; some were born with birthmarks, and some developed a pattern such as freckles. Their marks had a match, a significant other who held the exact marks in the precise pattern and place.

  “You can’t deny the truth.”