“Morgan, are you sick?”
“A headache.”
Darcy was curious as hell about what Morgan had been planning to tell her, but she could see the woman didn't feel well. “Go home, Morgan. Get some rest, we can talk tomorrow.”
Morgan dropped her hands and stood up.
“Do you want me to drive you to your apartment?”
“I'll drive her,” Joe said, moving into the room.
Morgan turned and seemed surprised. “Joe.”
He kept her gaze. “Let me drive you home. We can pick up something to eat …”
She shook her head. “No, I'll be fine. It's just a headache. I can drive myself.” She turned, clutched her purse to her stomach, and hurried out of the office.
“Don't,” Darcy said, reading in her cousin that he was about to go after Morgan.
Joe shot his gaze to her. “She's sick.”
“She's afraid. If you crowd her, it'll scare her more.”
Joe's shoulders went back. “What has she told you?
“Nothing, but you know, when she brushes by me, I just … feel it. It's jumbled and complicated, but she's scared of something.”
He didn't even blink. “Or someone.”
“Joe, don't confuse nostalgia for a high school crush for something real. She's not the same girl.” She didn't want Morgan to hurt Joe or drag him into a dangerous situation that could hurt them both.
His stare crashed into hers. “Darcy, this is the shit that unsettles the men you date. You see too much sometimes. Or you feel it, or whatever it is you do.”
“Thanks, Dr. Phil,” she said. “Go away, I have work to do. You can figure out this attraction to Morgan by yourself.”
He laughed and headed for the door. “I'm out of here. See you in the morning.”
“Night, Joe.”
He looked back. “Be careful. I'll lock the door on my way out.” Then he left.
She heard the lock turn in the front door.
In the silence, the voice-sounds in her head started up. Sighing, Darcy grabbed her iPod to drown out the voices. While the Red House Painters sang, she kicked off her heels and stripped off her jacket. Comfortable, she got to work tackling the invoicing, filing death certificates, and seeing to the endless details of death.
Thirty minutes later, the knife scar on her upper left arm finally got her attention. It occasionally burned or itched. She realized she'd been scratching it while she worked. She looked down: It was red from all the scratching. She opened her desk to grab a bottle of lotion. Squeezing out a pea-size dab, she rubbed it into her scar. As she put the lotion away, she glanced at the computer screen and noticed a new email had arrived.
While her iPod continued to play, she clicked on the icon to open the email. Her heart skipped a beat, then sped up. Another email from herself, just like the one two nights ago. The subject line read: Warning.
She read the message: They've found you! Run! Get out!
An involuntary shiver raced down her back and quivered in her stomach. This was freaking creepy. Feeling like someone was behind her, she ripped out her earbuds and swung around in the swivel chair, but no one was there.
The only people left in the mortuary were her and two dead bodies. She needed to get a grip. Someone was screwing with her. But why? Who? She'd endured a lot of pranks growing up, but none in the last few years.
The phone rang and she grabbed it, glad to handle a normal activity. “MacAlister Funeral Home, how may I help you?”
“Run!”
Shivers danced over the skin on her arms. The voice sounded flat, computer-like. “Who is this?” She stood up and leaned over her desk to look out into the lobby. Nothing threatening lurked in her line of vision.
“Run!”
She slammed the phone down. She didn't know what was going on, but she was getting the hell out of there. Darcy grabbed her purse off the small shelf unit and dropped her iPod in it, then she snatched her jacket off the back of her chair and shoved her feet into her pumps.
Tension pulled tight across her back, neck, and shoulders. Quickly, she fished her keys out of her purse and walked out into the lobby. Her heels sank into the soft, thick taupe carpet as she crossed the lobby. Everything looked normal, she thought, as she caught the scent of the flower arrangement in a large crystal vase on the highly polished accent table. At the door, she unlocked the dead bolt, opened it, and went outside. She closed the door, then jammed her key in and locked it.
The night air smelled like the salty ocean mixed with a coppery odor that made her want to cover her nose and breathe through her mouth. She'd never liked copper, going so far as to avoid pennies when she was a kid. Right now she felt like she had pennies in her mouth; that metallic taste and thick scent.
Like the man from the gravesite.
She shivered, struggling to keep the fear from overwhelming her. Everything else seemed normal. Crickets and frogs chirped and croaked. She took a deep breath to pull herself together.
Copper.
Why did she smell copper? The unease gave way to a real panic clawing at her. She believed the danger was real and close by, though she didn't know why. With her keys in her hand, she turned.
Two large men holding huge knives blocked the walkway to the parking lot.
Darcy froze, her muscles tightening with fear. Her heart rate kicked up. They hadn't been there when she had walked outside. Where'd they come from? She stuck her hand in her purse to grab her cell phone and said, “What … uh … can I help you?” She had the phone in her fingers, fumbling to dial 911.
The one on her right lunged toward her, caught her by the throat, and slammed her back against the wall. Her phone, purse, and coat slid to the ground. Her head rang. The taste of copper filled her mouth. The vivid smell induced an elemental fear so deep it made the scar on her arm throb.
Fight! Her mind screamed.
The second guy moved in.
Their knives flashed silver in the moonlight. The first one said, “Get the keys. We'll take her inside.”
Like hell! She clutched the keys tighter and wedged her fist between her back and the stucco. But the second man yanked her arm out, wrapped his hand around her wrist, and squeezed. The keys fell from her numb fingers. He grabbed them and hurried to the door.
Terror clamped down on her lungs as mind-numbing fear flooded her bloodstream. Fight back! Voices in her head screamed. Darcy linked her hands and brought them up between the arms of the brute holding her throat. The action broke his hold. She tried to run.
He caught her wrist, yanked her back, and threw her face-first into the stucco wall. It scraped her face and she tasted blood from a split lip. He shoved his huge body against hers, trapping her flush against the wall. “Hurry up with the door!”
“She's holding the door closed with witchcraft!” The second man screamed. “Cut her!”
Fear rolled and churned in her stomach. Witchcraft? What the hell were they talking about? The chatter of voices in her head hurt. The man holding her pushed her harder into the wall. “Your powers won't save you, witch.” She felt the cold edge of his knife pressing into the curve of her neck, just above her shoulder.
The scar on her arm burned. Wavy images and words bounced in her head—knives and blood. She shuddered and struggled to get away. “No! Bastards! Get off me!”
The knife sliced a hot trail of fire across her skin. Then the man leaned in and hissed, “Smell that? Your blood's mine.”
Red fear and pain rolled over her mind. Even the voices inside her head fled. They were going to kill her and she didn't know why. She barely knew what they looked like—just big with vacant, mean eyes. Warm blood welled up and ran down her back. The man holding her panted in excitement, and Darcy felt his eagerness for the kill. For her blood.
“Got it,” the key guy said.
She heard the door open. Pain and fear threatened to overwhelm her. She had to block it out and think. Had to find a way to save herself. If she let them get h
er inside, she would die. The man behind her grabbed her arm just as the sound of an engine roared through the night. The noise grew, then she heard a screech of tires. With her body and face pressed into the stucco, she might as well have been blind. There were more sounds—flesh slamming against flesh, something wet and horrifying, metallic clinks as knives hit the ground, and grunts—then the man who had trapped her against the wall was gone. Yanked off of her.
She sucked in a breath, then turned around to see a large silhouette in the headlights of a big truck stick a knife deep into the chest of the man who'd been holding her. He dropped the body on top of the other man lying motionless in the truck's beam of light.
Horrified, she turned to the door. It stood open with her keys hanging in the lock. Get inside and lock the door.
A powerful arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her right off her feet. She lost her grip on the keys and the door, not to mention her sanity. She struggled in his hold, trying to kick him as he stalked over to the opened door of the truck. She took a deep breath to scream, but he slapped a hand over her mouth.
“Damn it, do you want to die?” He stepped up into the truck and tossed her onto the passenger seat.
Darcy bounced, feeling every ache in her body. One shoe slid off and hit the floorboard. She fought a wave of dizziness and struggled to get her breathing under control. The truck smelled like leather and night air. She wiggled to slide her foot back into her shoe and demanded, “Who are you?”
He slammed his door. “I just saved your ass. More rogue hunters will be coming. They don't leave messes and they don't leave witches alive.” He put the truck in reverse and hit the gas.
She had to grab the seat to keep from flying through the windshield. As he shifted from reverse to drive, she saw her chance and lunged for the door handle.
He caught her left arm in a brutal grip.
She looked back and gasped at his cold green eyes and the knife in his left hand.
“Don't make me cut you. I don't want to hurt you, but I will if you fight me.”
Oh, God. “Why are you doing this?”
His gaze traveled down to her bleeding mouth, and his hand tightened on her arm. “I need a witch.”
Holy shit! A witch? What had he meant that more rogue hunters would come? None of this made any sense. “You'll have to kill me now. I'm not going to let you take me anywhere!”
His green eyes flared with a heat that nearly knocked her back in her seat. Pulling her forward, he brought her close enough to his face for her to get a nose full of his cedar scent mixed with sweat. “Do you want me to cut you?”
No! The back of her neck burned where the first one had cut her. The one she'd seen this man kill. Fear choked her. She couldn't answer him.
He nodded and let her go. “First-aid kit in the glove compartment.” Then he set his huge knife on his thigh and drove.
Darcy shivered and reached for the kit while she tried to figure out how to escape.
Axel drove the truck up the quiet road to the safe house. It was nestled against cliffs that rose up over a lake. The property was located at the edge of Los Angeles, deep in a rugged forest that didn't attract much attention. The house was surrounded by rocky cliffs on three sides and faced the lake, providing good protection. No one except the Wing Slayer Hunters knew he owned this house and the surrounding property. He'd kept it furnished and stocked, ready for him to hide his mom and sister if they were ever threatened. He always knew the Rogue Cadre might decide to use them as leverage if they wanted something from Axel. He hadn't foreseen a situation where he'd be hiding a witch, but here he was with a witch that he knew the rogues were looking for. If anyone did find them, he had cameras and sensors that continually monitored the property.
He parked the truck in front of the house and sucked in a breath.
Smelled her blood.
Squeezing his fingers around the steering wheel, he ignored the burn, the need. Her wound had stopped bleeding but the smell of fresh witch blood still lingered. Still tormented him with the promise of cool relief to his burning need. Get this over with.
He heard the soft click as she tried to squeeze the door handle. Getting ready to shove it open and run. He picked up his knife, then moved so fast that he got around the truck in time to catch the passenger door as she shoved it open. He blocked her in. “Don't run from me. Don't.” He barely had himself under control now; if she ran, the predator in him would surface.
She swung her head to look at him, her face pale in the glow of the cab light. “How did you … you were right next to me, then suddenly …”
Fear brightened her eyes and made their tilted shape even more prominent. The line of her jaw bulged with tension. “Witch hunters are fast. Now stop stalling and get out of the truck.”
“Witch hunters?”
His gaze stopped on her smooth, full thigh beneath her black skirt. A flash of lust surprised him. Ignoring it, he backed up and said, “Get out.”
She swung her legs around and slid down to the ground, her eyes darting from side to side.
Christ, the back of her silver shirt was black and gummy with dried blood. Strands of her hair stuck to it. He could see the white edge of the big bandage she'd stuck over the knife cut. She had to be in pain but she hadn't said a word. Fury rocketed through him at the memory of driving up and seeing the two hunters on her.
One sliding his knife across her delicate skin …
He wrenched his mind away from those thoughts. She was there for one reason: to spell the curse off Hannah—then she was gone.
She'll be dead within hours of him releasing her. He told himself that if she cooperated, he'd find a place for her that was safe from the rogues or the demon witch whose curse she was going to undo. He grabbed her arm.
She jerked back, trying to get free.
Axel took a breath and smelled her fear. Keeping a hold on her arm he said, “I'm not going to hurt you if you cooperate.”
Defiance lined her face in contrast to the fear marking her scent. “Like I'd believe you.”
“Keep it up and I'll drug you.” He wouldn't risk drugging her, but as a threat, it worked.
“I'm allergic to drugs!”
He smiled. Now she was catching on. “I know.” Witches were highly evolved creatures with an ability to heal using a combination of their craft and natural remedies provided by the earth. Synthetic drugs screwed that up and made them sick.
She recoiled. “Bastard.”
“So we understand each other.” He tugged on her arm and guided her up a flight of stone steps and over a flagstone path to the front door. The house was an optical illusion. It looked like a one-story house built on the flat stretch of land in front of the jagged cliffs. But that was just the top level of the house. There was an entire lower level hidden by a façade of dirt and rocks.
He unlocked and opened the door, then heard the faint hiss of the infrared sensors crossing the pathway. Pulling out his BlackBerry with one hand while keeping a hold on the witch, he coded the alarm to pause for fifteen seconds. When the faint hiss stopped, he walked her through the doorway. She stood still at his side, looking around. The living room held a heavy rust-colored couch, a leather recliner, a stone fireplace next to a dark wood bookcase built around a plasma TV, and a large rug on the cold tile floor. No sign that the house was wired with enough electronics to give Bill Gates a hard-on, nor was there any indication that there was another entire floor below.
“Come on.” He walked past a hallway that led to three bedrooms and into a large modern kitchen right down to the stainless-steel appliances.
He stopped when he saw his mom sitting at the big trestle table with Hannah in her arms. “Is she all right?”
His mom had her hair up on top of her head and wore a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. Her face was heavy with worry. “She has a fever.”
Hannah lifted her head up; her hair in a soft braid and Minnie Mouse tucked under her arm. Her tired eyes sparked with
curiosity. “Who's that?”
Axel dropped his hold on Darcy and went to his sister. “She won't hurt you.”
Hannah held her arms up to him.
Axel lifted her up and looked into her too-bright eyes. “Not feeling good?”
“Mommy gave me grape stuff to make me feel better.”
He forced himself to stay focused. He had the witch and they were going to save Hannah. He turned to Darcy.
Damn, she looked bad, he hadn't realized how bad until now. Her face was scraped, her lip split and swollen, dried blood everywhere. There were some finger marks on her neck. He didn't want Hannah to see any of this, but there was nothing he could do but get it over with quickly. He'd just show Darcy the death mark on Hannah and get her to work.
Hannah held out her doll to Darcy. “Want to hold my Minnie? She makes me feel better.”
Darcy looked at the doll then shifted her gaze to his mom. “Who are you people? You can't keep me here. I want to leave.”
Axel reached out his hand and pulled the doll back to Hannah. “She doesn't need Minnie. You hold on to her.” Then he looked at Darcy and said meaningfully, “Maybe she needs some medicine.”
Darcy sucked in her lips and glared at him.
He didn't have time to regret not getting to her before the two rogues who hurt her. Instead, he focused on Hannah. “We're going to show her the mark on your forehead. She's going to help you feel better.”
She wrinkled up her little face. “It hurts. Make it go away.”
Anger arced up like a waking beast inside of him. His hand itched to hold his knife and spill blood …
His mom's firm voice cut through the haze of the curse. “Axel, show her the mark. Darcy, I know you want to leave, and you can once you help Hannah.”
Hannah didn't wait. In his arms, she leaned toward Darcy and pushed up her bangs.
Axel watched as Darcy's gaze fixed on Hannah's forehead. Her eyes went wide, her pupils dilated in shock. Fear stamped down hard on her face and she stepped back. She slapped both her hands over her mouth. “Oh, God!” She took another step. “This isn't happening!” And she turned and ran.
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