What Doesn't Kill You

by Cate Dean

  WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU

  THE CLAIRE WICHE CHRONICLES BOOK 5

  Cate Dean

  Copyright, 2013

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except for use in any review. This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, locales, and events are either pure invention or used fictitiously, and all incidents come from the author’s imagination alone.

  Cover by Nadica Boskovska

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  Claire Wiche is home, after surviving a curse that nearly killed her. What her friends don't know is the cost of fighting that curse still haunts her, and it is getting harder to hide.

  Until a stranger walks into her shop, with a tarot deck, and an aura of power that draws her in – and brings to the surface the part of her she thought long gone.

  Will her newfound strength finally be her downfall, or will it save her?

  ONE

  Claire Wiche walked down the alley that led from her shop to home, every step slower than the last. She didn’t want to open the door to an empty house. Again. Six months without Zach left her with a constant ache, a need to fill the emptiness.

  Nothing did, though, no matter how she tried to distract herself. But there was one thing that would give her temporary relief. More specifically, someone.

  She pulled her phone out of the pocket of her wool jacket, tapped in a phone number.

  “Good evening, Claire.”

  The sound of his deep, sand rough voice eased the ache.

  “I don’t want to be alone tonight, Marcus.” She flinched at the desperate edge to her voice.

  “Then I will be happy to keep you company.” He paused, and she braced herself for the inevitable question. Marcus surprised her by making it a statement. “We need to talk about what happens beyond tonight.”

  “Marcus—”

  “I am not a convenience, Claire. And I have less patience than you credit me with. I will be there in an hour.”

  He hung up before she could answer him, or argue, or tell him she’d changed her mind. With a sigh, she put her phone away, leaned against the back of the art shop next to her house, her legs shaking from the short walk.

  She hid it well from everyone else, but the spell that nearly killed her caused more damage than she let on. After long, stressful days what strength she had simply deserted her without warning. Now she regretted calling Marcus; there wasn’t time to recover, or a way to hide it from his scrutiny.

  Taking in a deep breath, she pushed off the wall, moved to the house, and used the railing to help her climb the two steps to her back door. She had an hour before he saw her, and she intended to distract him so much with what she was wearing, he wouldn’t notice how worn down she looked.

  He wouldn’t have time to notice.

  *

  Claire waited in the candlelit living room, ready to ambush Marcus the moment he walked in the front door. Only part of her seduction was an act; she missed him when he was gone, desperately, and felt like part of her heart went with him every time he left. Pride kept her from telling him how she felt.

  Instead, she showed him.

  “Claire?” Marcus opened the door. He looked devastating in his usual black, backlit by the porch light. Closing the door, he lifted a large white bag. “I brought dinner, from Billie’s—”

  His voice choked off when she moved out of the shadows. She hoped it was because of the white silk nightgown that barely covered, well, anything, and not that she looked as exhausted as she felt. “Thank you.” She eased the takeaway bag out of his limp fingers, set it on the coffee table. “I am hungry—but not for food.”

  “Claire—gods—” He swallowed as she ran both hands up his chest, over his shoulders, and into his wild black curls. They wrapped around her fingers, thick and silky. She touched the silver hamsa hanging from his ear, then gently removed it, tucking it in the pocket of his black shirt. He let out his breath. “Am I in danger of losing it?”

  “Mmm.” She kissed the sensitive spot just under his ear, smiled when she felt him hum against her lips. “Maybe, if you ask nice.”

  Marcus leaned in, his breath warm on her cheek. “Will this do?”

  She opened her mouth to make an Annie-smart remark; he covered it with his own, kissing her until she couldn’t breathe.

  Strong arms gathered her up, and still kissing her, he carried her to the bedroom. Grief stung her when he moved past Zach’s empty room. As if he knew the direction of her thoughts, Marcus deepened the kiss and kept going until he reached her bedroom, lowering her to the bed. She arched against him as his weight pressed her into the soft mattress, his heat seeping into the cold that hounded her.

  With a low moan, he rolled, taking her with him until she lay on top of him. “You are leading the way tonight, sweet. Tell me what you want.”

  “Just you, Marcus.” She kissed her way down his throat, felt his breath catch. “I want you.”

  His fingers dug into her hips. She slid back up to his mouth, and sank into another kiss, welcomed the oblivion he offered. Anything to keep from thinking. From grieving.

  With desperate need that made her hands shake, she tugged at the hem of his shirt. He obliged, lifting his arms so she could yank the black fabric over his head and off. Pulling her up to her knees, Marcus slid his hands up her thighs, under the barely there silk nightgown, and paused on her bare butt.

  “Gods, woman. Are you trying to kill me?”

  She answered by kissing him until they were both gasping for breath. Marcus kept sliding his hands up, his fingers teasing out wave after wave of heat as he slowly eased the whisper thin gown up her body.

  “Marcus—oh, God—” A gasp cut her off. He finally reached her breasts, his hands taking possession.

  She arched against him, his touch setting her on fire. Marcus pressed his lips to her damp skin. In a move that left her breathless he captured her wrists in both hands, lifted her arms over her head. The tips of his fingers brushed their way back down her arms, tracing the lines of her body until he reached the hem of her gown. His fingers closed over the indecently thin fabric and pulled it off her in one smooth move. With a wicked smile he dropped it, the tiny gown landing on the floor.

  He worked his way up her throat, brushed over her lips—then he left her on the bed, shivering and frantic for his touch. After an endless minute he returned to her and wrapped her in his arms, skin on skin. She let out a ragged sigh, buried her hands in his glorious, wild curls.

  “Claire—” She smothered his voice, kissing him with a desperation she knew he felt. Lowering her to the bed, he shifted until they both lay side by side, facing each other. “Tell me.”

  With a sigh, she kept her gaze on his chest. “Zach—”

  “Not Zach. I want to talk about what you are unsuccessfully attempting to hide from me.” Long fingers cradled her chin, applying pressure until she met his eyes. “Do you think I cannot feel your pain, your growing weakness? You have not been well since we returned from England.”

  Claire pulled out of his grasp and rolled to her back, staring at the ceiling. The tears she couldn’t control anymore stung her eyes, slid back into her hair. Marcus pressed his lips to her temple, so gentle it simply made the tears come faster.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her in, brushing at the tears with his thumb. “When there is love, sweet, worry is part of the package.”

  “God above—what did I do right in my misspent existence?”

  “I wonder the same,
every time you look at me.”

  Claire let out a watery laugh. “Should we make a list?”

  Marcus smiled, for the first time since he stepped in the door. “There you are. I’ve missed that sharp humor.” The smile faded, and he tightened his grip on her. “Tell me what I can do.”

  She knew there was nothing. Her spirit had been shattered by the spell, her strength used up in her fight against it. Touching the scar on his left cheek, she kissed his jaw, leaned into the warmth of his skin, hoping some of it might seep into her. “Just love me, Marcus. Stay with me.”

  He stilled at her words. “Tonight?”

  “And tomorrow.” She lifted her head, met the jade green eyes. “And the day after, and then the day after that. Rinse and repeat, as Annie would say.”

  “I will need more than just your tomorrows, Claire.” When she tried to pull away he simply held on. “Marry me.”

  Everything stilled inside her. Never, in the centuries she had existed, did she expect to hear those words. Now that the only man she wanted to hear them from actually said them, she wasn’t sure she could make a commitment.

  “I don’t—Zach—”

  “Is making his own way.” Marcus tilted her chin until she met his eyes. “Whether or not he comes back to you, this decision is yours, Claire.”

  “Marcus,” she whispered. Closing her eyes for a long moment, she let out a breath, and followed her heart. “Yes.” He looked so startled she wanted to laugh. Instead, she framed his face with her hands, and leaned in to kiss him. “Yes, Marcus of Sinai. I will marry you.”

  She gasped when he yanked her off the bed. It turned into a laugh as he spun her around the small bedroom, both of them stark naked, threatening to knock over every piece of furniture. He finally lowered her to the floor, leaned his forehead against hers.

  “I love you, Claire Wiche.”

  Tears stung her eyes at the raw emotion in his voice. “You are the first, and the last, Jinn. My heart is yours.”

  He answered by kissing her. Heat wrapped around them, laced with the sand that had created him. Claire felt it brush her skin, a caress, an acknowledgement that he trusted her absolutely. She slid her hands over his waist, around to his back, felt him take in a sharp breath when her fingers found the whip scars. Scars put there by his own kind.

  Marcus broke off the kiss, looked at her. Gold striated the jade green depths of his eyes, proof of his power, and his need. “I want to do this soon, sweet. I have waited long enough for you.”

  Claire knew he was right, and absolutely justified. Especially since he almost lost her six months ago. But she needed—

  No. Time to stop hedging; stop making excuses for what she was. Marcus already knew, and he loved her in spite of it. She wouldn’t find a better man.

  “How soon is soon?”

  “Now would suit me,” he kissed her forehead, worked his way down, hitting every sensitive spot. “But I don’t want a surly judge binding us together.”

  “Judge?” She pulled away, to stop him nibbling at her jaw. She couldn’t think when he did that—much less hold any sort of conversation. “You want to go to a judge to get married?”

  “Since our resident priest is out of the country, I figured it was a viable—”

  “You figured wrong.” Claire pushed on his chest and started to pull away. Marcus snaked his arm around her, hauled her back in. “Damn it, Marcus—I am only doing this once, and I will not say my vows in a soulless government office. Just get that idea out of your head, right now.”

  “And what is your suggestion?”

  Not at all was her first thought. She bit back the sarcasm, let her temper even out before she spoke. “I know others, ministers who would be happy to marry us, in a timely manner, in a place of my choosing.”

  “And that would be?”

  “On the beach.” She spread her hands over his chest, and shoved. Marcus’ legs hit the bed and he fell backward, landing on the mattress. “With the sun setting on the water.” Claire climbed on the bed and straddled his hips. She lowered herself, smiling at his low moan. “And our friends as witness.” She nibbled her way up from his throat, enjoying the taste, the feel of him. She could hardly breathe by the time she reached his mouth. He kissed her with such tenderness it only deepened the passion. “Don’t leave me again, Marcus.”

  “You have my word.” He rolled them until she lay on her back. “Now, I am going to play healer, and you are going to cooperate. Fully.”

  Claire let out a sigh. “This was not the evening of seduction I had planned.”

  A smile tugged at his mouth as he leaned over her.

  “Who said I would need all evening?”

  TWO

  With a sigh, Annie Sullivan lowered herself to the kitchen chair, her stomach brushing the edge of the table. She still underestimated the bulk of her swollen, pregnant self, constantly bumping into things, like doorways, and tables, and people.

  She felt clumsy, bloated, useless. To top it off, her stomach never completely settled, and the only thing that worked was lukewarm chamomile tea. Annie never told Claire, knowing her friend would be sympathetic, but gloating.

  Eric set another cup of the disgusting stuff on the table. “I dosed it with plenty of cold rice milk.”

  “Thanks.” She drank a good bit of it, to get the torture over with. “Blech. Why did it have to be chamomile?” Eric rubbed his mouth, and she knew damn well he was trying to hide a smile. “Go ahead and laugh, as long as you don’t tell Claire. Ever. I’d never live it down.”

  She sucked down more. Her sour stomach eased, but it tasted just as bad. The only thing that kept her drinking was the almost instant relief. Eric had done extensive research before he let her drink it, when she discovered accidentally that the chamomile soothed, after a local café mixed up orders and gave her that instead of her usual, and completely ineffective, mint tea.

  With wildly across-the-board opinions, Annie decided to try it, diluted with plenty of rice milk. Her obstetrician, Dr. Karen Meecham, gave the okay when she brought in a sample; there was so little of the herb, Dr. Meecham stated she couldn’t even taste it. But Annie could, and gagged it down at least twice a week.

  Claire would laugh herself hoarse.

  Eric rubbed her back. They discovered it helped take her mind off the taste. So did talking. “Zach still at the beach?”

  “Yeah,” she said. It was his habit after dinner now. Eating as fast as possible, then bolting before Annie could force him to talk. Tonight he skipped dinner—the result of their latest argument, when Annie cornered him in the library, and poked at him until he took off.

  He usually stayed out until after she went to bed. But not tonight. Since she’d chased him off, she decided it was up to her to go to him and apologize. She also decided, after noting the grief and anger their argument brought to the surface, that it was past time for him to confront the demons he kept running away from.

  She pushed blonde curls off her forehead, and let out a sigh. “I’d better get out there. He should be headed back this way by now, since it’s after my bedtime.”

  Smiling, Eric helped her stand. “I’d offer to go, but I get the feeling I’ll only be an awkward bystander.”

  “Coward.”

  “Guilty.” He bent down, kissed her stomach, and spread his hands over the enormous bulk. “Enjoy the beach, sweetheart. Your mom and I can’t wait to spend long summer days with you, building sandcastles, playing in the water.” He rubbed her stomach, slow, soothing, and arousing. Annie pulled away, since now was not the time to jump him. Just looking at him left her hot, and she didn’t need any more stimulation. Jumping him would have to wait until she got Zach sorted. “Don’t stay out too long. It’s damp tonight.”

  “Yes, Dad.” Winking, she waddled to the front door, feeling like a bowling ball with legs, and took a thick, hand crocheted shawl off the coat rack, wrapping it around her. “We’ll be back soon. I hope.”

  She left, enjoying the c
ool, fog-laced air on her flushed cheeks. Who knew pregnancy would turn her into a love machine? She smiled, started the short walk to the beach. Eric certainly wasn’t complaining.

  The tile and stone chess table came into sight, set into a slab of concrete on the lawn that followed the curve of the boardwalk. Annie headed for one of the matching stone chairs, knowing Zach would have to pass by on his way to the house. Claire had trained him too well for him to ignore her. Easing herself to the cold seat, she settled in to wait.

  Zach was not going to be happy to see her.

  THREE

  Kicking at the sand with his foot, Zach Wiche let himself sink deeper into pout mode.

  Annie had been at him, again, to go and talk to Mom. This time he had to physically run away to get her to stop. And didn’t get dinner because of it.

  He just couldn’t face his mom. Not after what he’d said. Not when he didn’t know what he’d say when he saw her again. Annie may have thought so, but six months was not long enough to accept everything he’d learned about himself the night he left.

  How do I live with the fact that I was an angel? That I wanted to be human so badly I threatened and caused harm, and that Mom gave up her very essence so I could do it?

  Talk about selfish.

  He just wasn’t sure who he was mad at—her or himself. Or both.

  With a sigh, he moved up the beach, swinging his tennis shoes in one hand. And halted when he saw Annie, sitting at the stone chess table next to the boardwalk. He let out a bigger sigh, and went to face whatever she had planned for him.

  Annie stood, her stomach leading the way, one hand planted on the arm of the stone seat. She adjusted the long blue shawl she wore, a gift from his mom. He couldn’t get away from her completely, no matter how hard he tried. “Missed you at dinner, punk.”

  Punk—it was her latest nickname for him. He missed being called bud, or sweetheart, or even Zach. She hadn’t used his name since he yelled at her, telling her to back off about Mom.