What You Can’t See

by Allison Brennan

“You can’t kill me, Ianax, spawn of Satan,” Anthony said, his mouth working but no sound escaping.

  “I can’t. Humans will.”

  The flames disappeared, leaving him cold, shaking. He saw Skye standing at the edge of a cliff.

  She was going to jump.

  Anthony fought sleep, weary, unusually exhausted. Something—a spell. Those who had summoned Ianax had made his sleep deep. Recognizing it, he shook his head violently, side to side, reciting the Lord’s Prayer in clipped phrases as he rolled from the bed, landing heavily on the floor.

  Every limb was weighted. With a primal growl he pulled himself up. Unseen demons clawed at his skin. Burning. Restraining him.

  “Forgive us our trespasses!” he tried to shout but a demon clawed at his throat.

  His body staggered across the hotel room, stumbled, knocked over a vase. It landed with a thud on the thick carpet.

  “—those who trespass against us.”

  Anthony pulled on his slacks, fumbling with the zipper and collapsing onto the couch. The spell was weakening. The demons tried to hold on to him, pin him to the couch. To slow him down. To stop him from reaching Skye in time.

  “Lead us not into temptation!”

  His voice was stronger. He found his shoes where he’d taken them off. Where was Skye? How would he find her?

  A clear image came to his head and he knew exactly where she lived and how to get there.

  “Thank you, Lord,” he mumbled in recognition of the vision.

  Please, he couldn’t be too late.

  He ran out the door, the bright hall lights blinding him. He hit one wall, then the other, as if drunk. But his sight cleared and he turned north on the street.

  He ran, pulled by an invisible string to Skye’s house. Faster, Anthony. She’s hurting.

  “But deliver us from evil!”

  Amen.

  Chapter Eight

  S KYE WOKE , glanced at the clock. Five A.M. Damn, she didn’t have to get up until six, and here she was, wide awake, her mind crammed full of the crime scene. While driving Anthony from the burned-out mission the night before, she’d called Rod and asked him to get the arson investigator out there. Rod planned on meeting him at the mission to see if they could salvage anything after the fire, but he assured her they had enough evidence and photographs to hold up in court once they arrested a suspect.

  “And,” he’d added, “I can’t say that I’m sorry that painting in the sacristy is destroyed.”

  First Juan, now Rod. Two strong, reasonable, smart men completely snowed by a few odd circumstances. Maybe it was the history of the mission itself, or Anthony’s strange comments, or the brutality of the murders. It was human nature to want to blame some ethereal “evil” when Skye knew damn well a person had killed those priests.

  Five-ten. No going back to sleep now that her mind had kicked into full gear. She padded down the hall to the kitchen and flicked on her coffeepot, which she always prepared the night before.

  The night was still black. She shouldn’t feel this alert, she’d only had two hours of sleep. But her mind was working double time. She stared out the breakfast nook window. She lived in her family home on the coast. It was just her now.

  Intense sadness flooded her senses as it always did when she unexpectedly thought of her father. His death had been so wrong.

  Skye poured herself coffee, adding a teaspoon of sugar. Her dad had been a quiet, calm man. Never raised his voice. Never harmed anyone, human or animal. He cared for all living things, taking his job as a forest ranger seriously. He was in those woods every day, even on his days off. He stayed in the ranger’s cabin more often than at home. Skye had a room there as well, but she also needed to attend school. She’d pretty much raised herself, especially after her mother left.

  “I can teach you,” her father had said, asking her to live at the cabin with him.

  “But I like school. I don’t want to live in the woods with no one around.”

  She’d hurt her father, she knew, but not on purpose. Never on purpose. He’d hurt her, hadn’t he? By loving the land more than his own daughter?

  A tear escaped and Skye watched it hit the table. She never cried. But this was her father, and her emotions were always close to the surface with him. She’d loved him so much…and then he’d died. He’d never have died if she’d agreed to live with him in the mountains like he’d wanted.

  The autopsy report said he’d been alive for two days after the fall. With a broken back, he couldn’t move. He’d died of internal bleeding.

  She hadn’t even worried about her dad until the assistant ranger called. After all, her father often disappeared into the woods. He could take care of himself. Then it took them two days to find him. Dead.

  Skye poured another cup of coffee, angry with her mother for leaving in the first place. Her father had never recovered from Marjorie running away. To find herself, to find God, whatever, she’d left to join this freaky religion in the middle of Oregon. What did Oregon have on Central California? Why did any god want a mother to abandon her only child?

  “Take me with you, Mom,” Skye said out loud, feeling ten again. Torn. Between a father she loved, and a mother she knew.

  Marjorie had said children were a distraction. “You’re your father’s daughter.” As if that were a bad thing.

  Why was she thinking about her mother? It was Anthony’s fault, making her talk about the past. She’d gone to sleep thinking about her empty life, and woken up with these odd emotions she usually kept under tight control.

  Feeling claustrophobic, Skye stepped out on her deck to breathe in fresh, cold air. The biting predawn salt air wrapped around her and she shivered, barely noticing she only wore the tank top she’d slept in and panties. She heard the waves crashing on the rocks below her house. The dark water topped with the glowing foam of breaking waves. They crashed in, rolled out.

  She walked down the wooden stairs and across the rough and rugged cliff, rocks sharp against her bare feet. The sensation didn’t pain her, instead it made her feel alive. Her skin prickled, her hair rippled, in the brisk ocean wind.

  She was alone. Her father had died because no one thought to look for him. Her mother had died because she’d run away to find herself, and ended up being murdered by a man she’d trusted. Her own husband would never have killed her, but she trusted a stranger more.

  The memories of what was lost flooded her and she couldn’t stop them.

  Skye’s body hung with despair. So much death in her life. She had no one. No family. No parents, grandparents, brothers, or sisters. She was sheriff, but what did that mean? Constantly on show. Constantly worrying that someone was going to stab her in the back. Her election was coming up. Her first election. She’d been appointed by the board of supervisors after the Santa Louisa sheriff died of a heart attack. She’d been held up to the media and community as the first female sheriff. They’d passed over well-qualified men to be able to say they’d appointed a woman.

  Who was she to have this job? She didn’t deserve it. She was a chess piece. A pawn. All she’d wanted was to be a cop. To stop predators from luring lonely housewives into cults. To know that when someone was missing, maybe they’d better look, just to be on the safe side. Better to be embarrassed than grieving.

  Rocks shifted beneath her feet and she looked down. She should step back from the cliff. It wasn’t stable here. The sandrock crumbled continually. Her house, which had at one time been one hundred eighty feet from the edge of the cliff, was now, after only thirty years of erosion and storms, one hundred fifty-two feet from the edge.

  What would it be like? To be truly free? Not grieve, not regret, not constantly question her own competence, her job. Herself.

  She’d always been alone, but she’d pretended. First that her mother wanted her, then that her father loved her. She was a lie. No one would miss her if she disappeared. No family, few friends, and those she had—who? She couldn’t remember even one close friend. Th
ere had to be someone…

  “Skye.”

  She shook her head. Her imagination talking to her.

  “Skye, stop.”

  Stop what? she tried to say, but her words sounded funny. Who was calling her, anyway?

  “Skye!” The voice was commanding. Gruff.

  Step forward. Peace is only a foot away. Do it, Skye.

  Her father’s voice, calm, quiet. You let me die. You didn’t even look for me.

  She stared at the space above the sea. He was there, right in front of her. So real she could touch him. Have him hold her like when she was little. Tell her stories, his wonderful stories about princesses who flew like the birds. Love her again.

  “Daddy, I’m sorry.”

  He held out his hand.

  She held out her hand.

  “Skye, come home.”

  “I miss you, Daddy.”

  She stepped forward. The ground disappeared. She was falling, falling—

  Through human eyes, Ianax watched Sheriff Skye McPherson walk along the edge of the cliff, much too close to the edge. A smile across the face of the body he’d fought to possess.

  Die, weak one. Die.

  He sent a bolt of energy across the space and created the image of her father.

  She reached out for him.

  Pain exploded in his head as the soul trapped inside chanted a prayer. His eyes glowed, turned inward, and he saw the human soul inside the physical body he possessed. Ianax sent a sharp snap of energy to silence the plea, and the soul went quiet.

  The human had fought him fiercely, but after he had rid the body of all protective shields, he’d been able to gain a foothold. Just enough to subdue the human conscience and take over. But an unwilling possession was a constant battle, and energy surges to quiet the consciousness drained him. The momentary high of possession would quickly diminish. He needed to find another body, one that wasn’t as emotionally strong, but first he had things to do.

  “I need that journal. Where would she keep it?”

  He searched the memories of the human trapped inside and looked in two places before he found it. He picked up the journal and his human hands burned.

  “Argh!”

  The bastard had protected the journal from those acting on Ianax’s command. The mild irritation at being slowed down was replaced by a spine-chilling shriek of excitement.

  You can’t stop me!

  Using ancient chants from his master, he rid the journal of all protective elements. He picked it up, flipped through the pages, wanting to see what they knew of how to defeat him.

  The pages were blank. The ink itself had been blessed, and with his spell he’d removed it.

  In a rage befitting Satan himself, the book flew across the room, pages shredding in midair.

  “I’ll have your soul in my teeth yet, Raphael Cooper!”

  He left the cottage, feeling around for Skye McPherson’s soul. He would claim her, now.

  But he couldn’t find her.

  Then he saw him, the bastard who’d interrupted his gathering of souls at the mission.

  He wanted nothing more than Anthony Zaccardi’s soul in his black gut. But Satan had other plans for him.

  Impatience was only one of Ianax’s vices.

  Chapter Nine

  S HE BEGAN TO TUMBLE OFF the cliff when someone grabbed her hand.

  “Skye!”

  She screamed, kicked, scrambling, trying to climb up the sheer rocky slope. What had happened? Where was she?

  Had she just walked off the cliff? No. Yes. Was she losing her mind?

  “Help!” she shouted.

  “I’m going to pull you up.”

  The wind picked up. The salty spray from the violent waves crashing below dampened her near-naked body. Her free hand, her feet, tried to grab for purchase, but rocks continued to fall beneath her kicking legs.

  “Give me your other hand!”

  It was Anthony. He clutched her wrist with one hand. His other hand was reaching for hers. He was lying flat on the ground to keep from falling over the edge with her.

  She swung wildly, kept reaching for him. The wind blew at her, pushing her from his seeking hand.

  “No!” she cried.

  “Skye, focus!”

  Focus. What did he think she was doing?

  On the third try his free hand caught hers.

  “I’m going to pull you up.”

  Anthony had looked strong earlier, but he proved it as he pulled her back up the cliff. To safety. She scrambled up, falling into his arms, shaking uncontrollably.

  “What happened?” she cried, burying her face in his chest.

  “What did you see?” Anthony asked.

  “My father…” No. Her father wouldn’t have asked her to walk off a cliff, to kill herself. She shook her head, trying to collect her thoughts, but everything was jumbled. “I don’t know. Why am I out here? Why are you here?”

  “Shhh,” he said, stroking her tangled hair. “Shhhh.” He held her tight against his chest, his warm body absorbing the cold that penetrated her bones.

  She looked up at him; he stared at her. The depth of his dark eyes caught her breath. His black hair fell loose on his shoulders, the brisk wind blowing it to and fro. Anthony Zaccardi had saved her life.

  Twice. First the fire, now the cliff.

  Suddenly, their lips touched. She didn’t know if she kissed him first, or he her, but neither of them were cautious or tentative. He kissed like an experienced man, a man who had a right to kiss her, to touch her, to hold her. It was the taste of last night, when they’d first kissed, plus so much more.

  She opened her mouth, her tongue seeking his, the intimacy of the embrace igniting her nerves.

  Anthony’s arms wrapped tight around her, one hand holding her head to his, the other roaming up the back of her shirt, so hot, so rough, against her bare skin. She groaned into his mouth and he tilted his head in the other direction, the kiss diving deeper, holding her lips captive. Every cell in her body yearned for Anthony, a man she barely knew. She’d lusted before, but not like this need that had her wanting to make love right now.

  Skye had always been in complete control of her sex life. But here, on the edge of the cliff, with this man, she lost control.

  She shivered at the thought, and Anthony pulled her even closer, his hot mouth moving to her ear. “You’re cold.”

  Cold? In his arms? Never.

  She wasn’t thinking, not like a rational woman, not like a cop. The realization that she’d almost died—had walked off the cliff because she’d thought she’d seen her father—hit her. She didn’t want to die, and certainly didn’t want to kill herself. The overwhelming sensation of being alive, whole, and safe wrapped her in such a tight cocoon that coldness was foreign to her. In Anthony’s arms she was at peace for the first time in forever. She needed to feel safe. And loved. Just a little longer.

  The creeping eastern sun highlighted every feature, every crevice, every shadow of Anthony and the coast, which glowed like sea foam in the rare light that came only at the edge of dawn.

  She kissed him hard, pushing him back onto the ground. Touching his hard, lean body wherever she could reach. She fumbled with the buttons on his white shirt, roughly pushing it aside, ran her hands over Anthony’s warm muscled chest. How could a man generate so much internal heat that her fingers burned at the touch? Her mouth found his nipple, hard and broad under her tongue. She moaned, the anticipation of sex making her writhe on top of him.

  “Skye,” he murmured as if in prayer. “My Skye.”

  My Skye.

  She yearned to be somebody’s, to belong to a person as she wanted them to belong to her. Partners. Friends. Lovers.

  His hands went up under her shirt and touched her bare breasts, which had pebbled in the cold. He rubbed her nipples back and forth in each hand, warming her, heating her to the brink of combustion. Her mouth found his again, exotic and forbidden. Anthony satisfied a thirst she hadn’t known
she’d had. Reaching down to his pants, she fumbled with the zipper, feeling his hard, heavy weight. Wanting her as she wanted him.

  “Skye,” he whispered in her ear, reaching for her hand. “Skye, do you want—”

  “Shhh,” she said, interrupting his question. She felt his desire for her. Right there, in her hand. She squeezed.

  He groaned, a deep guttural sound that vibrated within her.

  “Make love to me, Anthony. Right now. I need you to love me. I need you inside of me. Make me feel alive.”

  Anthony swallowed, every cell in his body fully aware of Skye. He wanted her. But he didn’t take women in distress. Though she was leading him, he knew something was wrong. This wasn’t Skye, not fully. She’d gone from one extreme to another. His mind told him not to listen to her words, that she would regret this, but his heart—his soul—demanded that he be with her. In her. Now.

  “Skye, do you—”

  She clasped her lips over his mouth, hard, her tongue exploring. Her hand rubbed his cock, pulling it toward her. He groaned again, tasting her. Wanting her.

  He had the strength to push her away, to demand that she think about what she wanted them to do. To insist she consider the consequences.

  But he didn’t use it. His mind was clouded with lust and desire and something indefinable. This woman had touched his heart earlier. At the mission in the fire. At his hotel with her quiet regrets. Her strength. Her heart. Her boundless compassion.

  “Anthony,” she whispered as her tongue found his ear.

  It took all his self-control not to roll over and take charge of the lovemaking. But he wouldn’t place her delicate body against the rough ground.

  His hands found her beautiful ass and he squeezed, wondering only fleetingly when her panties had disappeared. Skye was all woman, lean and muscular, but soft and rounded where a woman should be. Her firm hips filled his hands as he lifted her up.

  She clasped his cock and touched it to her moist center.

  “Anthony,” she gasped as she slid onto him without hesitation.

  He bit back a cry of pleasure as he filled Skye. Opening his eyes, he stared at her face in the rising sun. Her blond hair was loose and wild, the breeze lifting it from her body. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open, her skin flushed, a sheen of sweat making her shine in the early light. She was a goddess, exquisite and beautiful, and his. He knew then, at their union, that she was as much his as his own mind and soul. How he knew, what it meant, he couldn’t be sure, but there was no mistaking this knowledge.