****
The fever had broken by the time a bitch of a nicotine fit pulled her from the nightmare Aerin had fought since before she could remember. She fell back to the fluffy white bed with a wild flailing of limbs.
Sleep paralysis. It was just a sensation. Nothing more.
She did not levitate in her sleep.
Problem was, she’d never been too good at self-delusions or denial. Never believed in Santa, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, or religion. Magic wasn’t even in her sphere of consideration.
Until now.
But the proof, however personally anecdotal, was beginning to mount, whether she wished it to be real or not. So she’d better get on board this crazy train before it left the station without her.
Maybe now was the time to reflect on the fact that she levitated in her sleep. Clutching the sheets beneath her against an insane fear that she’d just go drifting away like an astronaut in zero gravity, she swung her bare feet over the side of the bed and reveled in the feel of the hardwood floor beneath her and the weight of her body resting on her bones.
She was steady on her feet. Stable. She felt… better. Her head still pounded, but her nose was no longer stuffy and running, nor did her throat hurt. The body aches were gone and so were the chills, sweats, and nausea.
She felt healthy. And bitchy. Mostly bitchy.
Time for a much-deserved morning smoke. And coffee.
Surveying the black and white room, she found her luggage tucked between an overstuffed arabesque chair and a glass table. On the table perched a pitcher and a glass of water, aspirin, a decongestant, tea that had gone cold, a few bottles of essential oils, and that son-of-a-bitch brew with card leaned against it that commanded: Drink this first.
Not bloody likely. But still…
If Aerin had to hazard a guess, each one of the sisters had left her own offering on the table. A curious emotion rose from the middle of her chest and clogged in her throat where she coughed it out before it overwhelmed her. She looked around with an almost spastic sense of disquiet. Someone had taken off her shoes and jacket and tucked her into the bed, covered her with blankets, retrieved her luggage. They’d left her medicine for her comfort.
What the fuck was someone like her supposed to do with that?
Her red purse beckoned like the sultry lips of a high-priced courtesan, and Aerin’s mouth watered at the idea of a pack of habit tucked into its regimented place. This bedroom even had a balcony. Imagine the luck.
Tiptoeing to her bag, she reached in and rifled through her wallet, keys, papers, makeup, and other sundries, but came up empty of the one thing her body screamed for.
“Oh no they didn’t!” she bitched through gritted teeth, suddenly remembering Tierra fishing her cigarettes out of her purse before she passed out.
Aerin showered, changed, and angrily staked her hair into a bun with a pen in record time. Though her body screamed at her to tear down the stairs and rip into the thieves, she’d learned early on that destruction was all the more devastating when perpetrated by an elegant, well-dressed hand.
Silk off-white palazzo pants and a pearl blouse gave her the look of casual royalty. Slicking a tube of her darkest lipstick onto her full mouth, she blotted and regarded herself in the bathroom mirror. “Someone’s about to reap the whirlwind.” She informed her reflection, and realized it was good practice, because everyone she was about to confront had a face exactly like hers.
Chapter Eight
An inhuman squeal blasted through the elegant silence of the house as Aerin stalked from her bedroom in search of reprisal. She descended the plush green carpets of the grand twisting staircase, interrupting a commotion that conjured the chaos of the Bay of Pigs. Speaking of pigs, a tiny pink body scurried past the landing, his comically small cloven hooves slipping and sliding beneath his chubby body in panicked haste.
“I’m going to yank your ugly, little leather wings off with my bare hands, you disease-ridden varmint!” Moira’s unmistakable voice hollered.
To Aerin’s dismay, Doctor Lecter sped around the eaves of the cavernous ceilings of the ground floor, and disappeared up the stairs with a hiss just as Moira rounded the door frame sporting the business end of a broom like a billy club.
Without missing a beat, she turned on Aerin. “You keep that flying rat away from Cheeto, you hear?”
Aerin snorted. “I don’t think that Docor Lecter likes Cheetos.”
“You sure are slower than cream rising in a vat of buttermilk, even for a Yankee,” Moira sneered. “I found that critter of yours sucking on the side of my poor pig’s neck.”
“Oh, keep your bog waders on, your pig is fine,” Aerin snarked. “He probably didn’t even feel Doctor Lecter, his saliva has a numbing agent and he barely eats enough blood to matter.”
Moira’s eyes narrowed and darkened from an aquamarine to a tropical blue. “Well if he comes near Cheeto again, the only thing he’ll be eatin’ is a face-full of my cast-iron skillet.”
The real mystery was, how in the hell Doctor Lecter got from New York to Seattle in the first place. He’d been in her purse a while ago, but he certainly wasn’t when she was going through security at the airport. Either way, Aerin felt oddly protective of her little confidant.
“You lay a finger on Doctor Lecter and I’ll make bacon out of your little hillbilly pet, and eat it in front of you.”
“Try it and I’ll—” Another squeal and the smell of something burning broke Moira’s threat off mid-breath. “Well, shit,” she cussed, jamming a finger at Aerin. “This ain’t over.”
Aerin tried to summon the strength to care, but all her ire was still directed in the direction of whomever had filched her cigarettes. She’d deal with the Moira/weird pet situation later. After smoking.
Searching the main floor, she became more and more aggravated at every empty room. Each brocaded hallway and bohemian surface bedecked with candles, statues, and new-age litter had stoked a tempest of irritation inside her that she was more than ready to unleash.
“What makes you think you can take my shit?” Aerin demanded, finally finding Tierra bustling about the covered porch out back that apparently doubled as a greenhouse. “Hand them over, you thieving psychotic hippie.”
Tierra glanced up from where she was tenderly watering something in a terrarium with a spray bottle. “You’re awake.” Her smile hid the condescending compassion rolling off of her in infuriating waves. “You look like you’re feeling better.”
“You tell me where my cigarettes are right now, or I’ll rip that smug expression off your face and shove it up your—”
“They’re right here.” Claire sidled up and handed them to her along with a lighter. “Cool your engine.”
Aerin snatched them with all the relish of a starving refugee and hunkered over by on open window.
“You’re welcome, by the way.” Claire’s amber eyes made a full rotation of sarcasm in their sockets before touching Tierra’s with a vaguely amused wink.
Aerin would thank her after her first drag. She did have priorities, after all.
Fully expecting Tierra to make a stink about her lighting up inside, Aerin was shocked that the woman didn’t even look at her as she flicked the roll with the expertise of a long-time addict, and touched the flame to the edge of her cigarette and breathed in.
A flare warned her the second before a flash nearly singed off her eyebrows, and the remains of the entire cigarette drifted to the wooden slats of the floor like tiny, dirty snowflakes.
“The hell?” Aerin mumbled, shoving another butt into her mouth and lighting it, producing the exact same effect.
From under brows drawn down with puzzled consternation, she noticed Claire hiding a smile behind her hand. Tierra’s back was to Aerin, but her shoulders shook with silent mirth.
“What did you do?” Aerin demanded. “Did you fucking curse my cigarettes?”
“No,” Tierra snorted. “We did not curse your cigarettes. And do you hav
e to have such a dirty mouth?”
“It was more like a hex,” Claire admitted, then dissolved into giggles with Tierra.
Irritation cooled into a chilly rage as Aerin stood, dumbfounded, as her sisters shared a laugh. They thought this was so damned funny, did they, messing with her shit?
As she let go a litany of foul language that only a girl who’d been raised in an orphanage in the Bronx could summon, lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating the gabled skyline of Victorian houses. An old tree scraped against the side of the house as a wind picked up, sounding like it asked to be let in. The temperature inside the balmy porch dropped a good ten degrees, and instantly the two women sobered.
“We are only trying to help you.” Tierra’s earnest jade eyes somehow pissed her off even more. “We want you to be well.”
“You want to help me?” Aerin seethed, tossing the hexed pack into a planter that looked handmade. “Then do me a favor and stay the fuck out of my purse. No. No. Better yet, stay the fuck out of my life.” She stalked to the door and grabbed what looked like car keys from a hook that bade her ‘Blessed Be.’ Enjoying the angry clomp of her expensive pumps on the flagstone pathway, she pushed the electric button and a tiny flash of headlights in the driveway told her which car she was stealing.
Of course, it was a damned hybrid, green, clean, and energy efficient. Tierra’s car. Ha!
Ignoring the sound of her name and the jangle of Tierra’s feet following her, she slid behind the driver’s seat, threw her purse across to the passenger side, started the car, and pealed out of the driveway.
Maybe, after she bought cigarettes, she’d trade the sucker in for a Hummer. Take that, carbon footprint!
Aerin realized the impossibility of doing such a thing, and the likelihood that Tierra was already reporting her car stolen, but still, it felt good to plot something devious.
After securing a pack and a lighter at a gas station on the edge of town, she knew she’d have to go somewhere else to smoke. She should just do it in the car, stink up the sweet-smelling interior. It would serve her meddling sister right. But, regardless of how much the idea tempted her, Aerin couldn’t bring herself to do it. She’d have to pull over.
Finding herself in a green hollow of ancient forest, she took a fork in the rural road on a hunch and drove up the tree-canopied path until it dead-ended at a meadow.
Daylight faded fast, alerting Aerin that she must have slept through the afternoon. A large, waxing moon rose above the thick green trees surrounding the meadow, guarding the clouds as they drifted past in lazy herds. Tall grasses whipped back and forth in whatever spring gusts had been conjured, and it threatened the security of her bun as she stepped from the car.
Half of her nicotine fits died at the very feel of the pack and lighter in her hand and she took the time to relish the feel of the sleek tube fitting between her lips. She cupped the lighter with her hand to save the flame from the wind now dying to a breeze.
Another high-pitched scream pierced the wind, interrupting the solace of the moment. This one a thousand times more inhuman than that of the pig. Not just inhuman, in fact.
But unnatural.
The hard-won cigarette dropped from Aerin’s lips as her jaw fell open in astounded disbelief.
Her favorite poem from school whispered through her thoughts as the figure astride an impossibly large, black horse broke from the tree line and galloped across the meadow.
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas…
Man and beast moved together with astonishing grace, each with a mane as black as midnight tossed about in the whipping currents of salt-sea air.
The Highwayman came riding—riding—riding…
There was something timeless and visceral about a man on a horse, racing through space as though the speed could put distance between him and his demons.
But they were always waiting for you, no matter how far or fast you went.
“You can’t outrun them,” Aerin whispered. But it was beautiful to watch him try.
Her whisper could never have carried through the distance to the horse and rider, but regardless, they changed direction, cantering toward her at a breakneck speed.
As they neared, the details of the man sharpened, and Aerin found herself fighting for breath.
If not for the twentieth century invention of the car hood that caught her butt as she plopped against it, Aerin would have thought she’d wandered back through time. The figure had the body of a warlord and the wardrobe of an English gentleman. A loose, white shirt hung open halfway down his torso, catching the wind and blousing out behind wide shoulders with each of the stallion’s impossible strides. The slopes and valleys of stark, lean muscle molded the thin fabric with every hypnotic galloping rhythm. As Aerin’s notice lowered to where dark trousers sculpted to incomprehensively long, powerful legs and stretched over hips thrusting in time against the saddle, all moisture vacated her mouth and simultaneously headed for the region of her panties.
The temptation to hide behind the car for protection as they bore down on her was strong. But backing down was against her nature, so she stood her ground, pushing off the car hood and crossing her arms in front of her as though that would somehow protect her.
Mere feet from her the beast reared and stomped, as eyes bluer than the most tropical ocean drank her in from features now carved into her mind’s eye. The broad forehead. The stark bones and defined masculinity of Julian Roarke.
They stared at each other in silent disbelief for what could have been hours, but felt like only seconds. The horse danced impatiently, and Julian did little to cull the behavior, though Aerin had the idea that he could have done so very easily.
“You’re alive,” he breathed, his voice as rich and smooth as she remembered, caressing the currents of air with a vibration she’d never quite experienced before. “I didn’t allow myself to truly believe it until now.”
“No thanks to you.” Aerin tried to summon all the chill she could into her voice, regardless of what seeing him again did to her self-control. Hours ago, he’d been a blindingly handsome man she’d tried to pick up at the airport. She’d learned too much between then and now, about both of them. It seemed they were on separate sides of a strange and implausible destiny.
And that fact just shit all over any chance at a relationship.
“You should run, Aerin de Moray,” he warned, the wind catching the ebony locks that teased his broad shoulders and lifted them away from his sharp jaw. “This is too dangerous.”
There was no need to clarify his meaning. It was painfully apparent he alluded to the current of pure, passionate awareness flowing between them through the space separating their skin. The way their gazes clashed, blue and silver, like the lightning and sky. Unrepentant. Deadly. Mesmerizing.
“You first,” she volleyed. “I don’t run away.” Not when it would give him the opportunity to chase her.
Nudging his stallion forward, he crowded her against the car and reached a leather-gloved hand down to her. “Then run with me,” he dared, his eyes full of challenge.
Aerin had never been impulsive, but a reckless wind drove her to reach for him and slide her manicured hand against his. Once his long fingers closed around hers, she was his prisoner, and he pulled her astride his stallion in a shocking, lithe movement that left her gasping for air and grasping for a grip.
Chapter Nine
Too many sensations assaulted Aerin at once. His lean hips pressing into her ass, the swells of his chest against her back as he gathered the reins, and silken rasp of his breath against her ear as his velvet voice resonated through her entire body. “I’ve got you,” he said, and kicked his horse back into a gallop, rendering speech impossible.
They rode at breakneck speed, the ground whizzing by in a green blur. Aerin had never been on a horse before and the sheer height made her more than a little dizzy, but the st
rength of Julian’s arms locked her in place, and the surety of his movements coaxed her into making her own hips follow the stride of the steed beneath her. She didn’t take time to think, to consider the consequences of her actions here. Instead, she let the thrill of the moment take her away, the stir of the wind caress her skin, and the warmth of his strong body against hers heat her blood.
When they broke upon a vista of shorter grasses and wildflowers overlooking the water, the last of the day was a weak ribbon of blue against the west. Stars already twinkled in the east, dimmed by the moon’s reflection off the black and silver ripples of water lapping against the cliffs below.
Julian slid from the saddle, and turned to encircle her waist with his hands before lifting her down and they stood like that, facing each other, breath mingling, before he turned away and stalked to the edge of the cliff. The turbulent wind had died to a lightly ruffling breeze, and Aerin watched the way the moon threaded strands of silver through his onyx hair as she approached his broad form.
“I take it you know who I am by now.” He didn’t look at her when he spoke, but kept his eyes trained on the moon, his emotions as tumultuous and confusing as the winds had been not long ago.
Aerin reluctantly stepped next to him, not afraid of his proximity, but terrified of the drop to the rocks below.
“Yeah,” she confirmed. “You’re the Third Horseman.”
He nodded. “Pestilence to some, Famine to others. Death to all of whom I come into contact with.”
“I thought Death was the Fourth Horseman.”
A sad smile lifted the corner of his mouth, causing an intriguing dimple to appear, incongruous in the rigid plane of his cheek. “The distinction is minute,” he explained, as though weary of the clarification. “Dying is something that takes one from this state of being to the next. Death—the man who is called death—he is responsible for everything that happens after.”
“Oh,” she said lamely. She still hadn’t grasped the whole being one of the sister-witches who were going to bring about the Apocalypsething, so it was still somewhat hard to wrap her head around having these kinds of conversations, let alone know how to respond.
Which Witch is Which? (The Witches of Port Townsend) Page 22
