by Kristin Cast
Warm liquid pooled in Hunter’s palm and trickled down the side of her hand. She unclenched her fingers and stared down at the blood sprouting from the crescent-shaped wounds her fingernails had carved into her flesh.
Hunter let go of Jax’s hand and clutched her pendant. She needed to refocus, reground herself. She would never erase Mercy’s memory. She should never even think such a thing. Wielding the power, being a conduit, it was all getting to her. It had to be.
“I’m closing the spell,” Hunter blurted as she clenched her hand and hid her bleeding fist behind her back. She felt four sets of eyes press against her as she closed her own and searched for the right words. The spell no longer flowed from her. Hunter was clogged up. A big, fatty, hairy clog. She’d name it Kirk.
“At this time and at this place we thank Mother Moon and Father Tyr for cleansing our friend and sister and purifying her heart and mind and soul. We know you will remain near, as will we.” Energy pricked Hunter’s fingertips and she followed her urge, her intuition, and plunged her bleeding hand into the water. The icy cold liquid shocked her and sent her eyelids fluttering open. “This rite is ended,” she continued as she watched her blood eat away the blinking image of her sister before sinking down, down, down. Hunter wet her lips and shouted the final closing line she’d heard her mother use time and time again. “Merry meet and merry part and merry meet again!”
Scarlet ribbons snaked around the glowing moonstones, turning each a petal pink. Emily sucked in a breath as the rocks lifted from the cauldron’s bottom, reeled into Hunter’s palm by the power of her blood.
Thirteen
It was hot inside the Goodeville precinct. Too hot. The kind of hot that made every inch sweat and stick and itch. Frank Dearborn twisted the faucet knobs and let cool water splash against his swollen knuckles. How could anyone live like this? Inside all hours of the day, fake breeze blowing down from dusty vents in the ceiling. People had come so far only to imprison themselves.
He leaned over the sink and peered into the small rectangular mirror that hung from the pristine bathroom wall. “Dearborn.” He ran his tongue along his teeth and smiled. “Sheriff Dearborn.”
It was more than convincing. It was a fact.
Pain jabbed his left eye. He clapped his hand over the spikes of heat that blurred his vision and lurched forward. His forehead crashed into the mirror. “Mother—” He stifled a roar and pushed himself away from the reflective glass. Shards rained onto the porcelain as he ran his fingers over the tender knot forming in the center of his forehead. It’d been like this since last night, since the olive tree. Sudden shocks of increasingly devastating pain. It would be over soon. No matter where he was, he could never escape his fate.
Eye still covered, he leaned toward his splintered reflection. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth and forced his hand away from his eye. He affixed his gaze to the faucet. He didn’t want to look.
“Damn mirrors.” He flinched as he gently patted his swollen eyelid.
He shouldn’t blame the mirrors. It wasn’t their fault they reflected the truth. He should blame that woman. The one who’d made him love her. The one who’d turned him into a monster.
He swept his gaze back up to his reflection. If he couldn’t find a cure this time, he would be like this forever. Threads of milky white swirled across his dark iris. Air hissed between his clenched teeth as he rubbed at his eye, clearing away the gunk. As quickly as the clouds of white vanished, they were back again.
He sighed. There was no use fighting it. He hadn’t escaped the curse. Maybe he never would.
He unhooked his aviators from the collar of his uniform and pushed them up the bridge of his nose. Seeing through the shadows was better than revealing a problem. A difference. People weren’t good with different.
His stomach roiled and saliva flooded his mouth. He was going to be sick. Not from the sight of his disgusting visage. No, this was something else. Something familiar yet out of reach. His stomach seized and a wave of vomit rolled up his throat. Chunks slipped off his tongue and squelched against the empty sink. He stared at the towel dispenser, turned on the faucet, and washed the mess away. He didn’t want to look at it, either.
The bathroom door creaked open and he stepped in front of the broken mirror and the freshly cleaned sink. Deputy Carter rushed in, his hands already unbuckling his belt. “Oh, Sheriff.” He stiffened. “Sorry, I, uh, I didn’t know anyone was in here.” He let out an awkward chuckle, took off his hat, and ran his hand through his flattened hair. “Too much coffee and not enough bathroom visits.” Another bleat of laughter as he shuffled to the nearest urinal.
Dearborn’s lip curled as the deputy turned his back and sighed with relief when his stream hit the porcelain. At their base, they were all animals. Caged animals. The sheriff threw open the door and charged into the bullpen.
Across the open room of desks, a woman waved at him like her arms were on fire. She was the only woman in the building without a uniform, her hair tied back tight and a row of weapons around her hips.
His teeth ground together as she waddled toward him, so eager for connection, for love. But love was weakness, downfall, the beginning of everything evil or bad. He wanted no part of it.
Her name tag glinted in the harsh overhead lighting. Trish. That’s right. If he dug down deep enough, he could uncover the sun-bleached memory of her. But the memories were fading, and fast.
A dimple made a nest in her cheek as she smiled. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you. I was worried.” Stickers, sparkling hearts and fat bears framed the capital letters on her name tag. Dearborn squinted and blinked through the haziness blurring his left eye. Maybe they were beavers. All those hairy woodland creatures looked the same. “You haven’t returned any of my calls and I haven’t seen you since last night before…” She clenched and unclenched the notepad and glittery pen between her soft hands. “Well, you know.” A forced grin cracked her bleak, smooth features.
All he could do was wipe the sweat from his brow and nod. He couldn’t quite remember how he should respond. The Trish memories were fading away.
“It was awful.” She parted the uncomfortable silence and waded closer to him. Warmth rolled off her like she was freshly baked bread. “Old Earl Thompson finally stumbled onto something real and it killed him.” She shook her head. Her red curls bounced, tossing a spicy sweetness into the air.
Pie? Was that it?
His heart clamored and the tips of his fingers tingled. His body remembered something his mind no longer knew.
“I threw out the Ruckus Report.” She leaned in. Her breath fogged the gold star pinned to his chest. “Didn’t think it was right to keep it since he’s no longer with us. Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to do to begin with.”
Another shake of her head. Another swirl of sugar and spice.
He brushed the tip of his nose against her curls. “Cinnamon,” he murmured as a crumb of memory rolled into focus. “You bake when you’re upset.”
Dearborn’s memories faded in and out and would soon leave his mind altogether. But some memories stayed with the body. Things like driving, shooting, not to turn his head too quickly to the left. In a lifetime long before Dearborn, he’d been a brilliant painter. But that had ended in blood and tears and more stains on his immortal soul.
Trish pressed her notepad against her chest and took a wobbly step back. “Frank, I—” She fanned herself with her free hand and fluffed the round tips of her chin-length curls. “Well, I’m not quite sure what to say.” Her cheeks flamed strawberry red as she cast a glance around the bullpen.
He followed her attention, eyes narrowed and fists clenched while he took in all the darting glances and quick returns to computer monitors, stacks of paperwork, and phone calls. There had been something between Sheriff Dearborn and this Trish woman, but that was a different person, a different life. Frank Dearborn had never learned the truth about love and happiness and the pain they both brough
t. Now he wouldn’t allow this body or these fleeting memories to betray him again.
Trish held out the notepad and tapped at the list of names and phone numbers she’d written under two column headings: ASAP and After Lunch. “I know you’d rather not fiddle with that computer program to read your call-back list, but they’re in there, too, if you’re so inclined.”
Although she couldn’t see through his mirrored sunglasses, he kept his eyes narrowed as he snatched the notepad from her hand. He wouldn’t pine after Trish. Whatever Dearborn had had with her was over, dead.
Trish fiddled with the cap of her glittery pen. “Need another cup of coffee, Sheriff? I have a sneaking suspicion you’re hiding some pretty dark circles under those glasses.”
A dry tickle tightened the back of his throat and his stomach seized again. Only one thing could ease his pain and quiet this restless body. He had to get away from this woman, all of these people, the hot, circulated air, and the overhead lights.
Trish rested her warm hand against his bicep. “Frank, are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine,” he croaked. He’d done nothing but lie since he’d arrived. This body knew it, and it wanted him gone.
Wet coughs tore from his lungs, a thousand molten nails searing the inside of his ribs. Frank Dearborn isn’t here! he shouted at the battle lines carved inside his chest, his gut. He’s never coming back!
Trish steadied him as another barking explosion ripped through him. More hands were on him, different voices shouting concerns, solutions, all guiding him toward his office door. He planted his feet and sucked in a haggard breath. “I’m fine,” he repeated and jerked his arms away from the horde. “Just need—” His chest quaked as he swallowed back another coughing fit. “Just need some air.” He rubbed his sweaty palms against his shirt and searched for an escape. He spotted the nearest illuminated EXIT sign, fisted his hands, and blinked past the water swirling across his good eye.
“I’ll go get you that coffee, Sheriff.” Trish’s shoes clicked as she turned and clapped her hands at the crowd. “Back to work, everyone. Back to work.”
He didn’t look back as he marched to the precinct’s rear exit. Their concern would do him no good. Bodies like this yearned to be reattached to their soul or given back to the earth. Bodies like Frank Dearborn’s made his curse that much more unbearable. This body couldn’t be fixed. It had to be fed.
Ancient words from lifetimes ago swept through his thoughts.
How delicious life would be
If only it could make you see
The hunger for what it truly is,
A way to set you free.
Now carry on with your cursed life,
And cut their eyes out, these orbs are so rife
With magic, but only one pair of these
Has what it takes to end your strife.
The memory squeezed the tattered remnants of his broken heart. Tears welled as the door slammed shut behind him. He sagged against the side of the department’s dumpster. Every ounce of him ached. He wasn’t a killer. And yet …
Cones of light bobbed against the garbage bin. He sniffled and squinted through his lenses at the headlights as they crept through the alley, closer and closer. Brakes squeaked as the car stopped short of the dumpster. The lights turned off and the car door groaned open.
He blinked the spots of light from his sight as dress shoes clicked against the pavement. “Didn’t you quit smoking years ago, Frank?”
Sheriff Dearborn’s stomach growled. “Stay back.”
The man’s cheeks lifted with a grin. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. Especially not Trish.” He winked his right eye. His perfect right eye. A sparkling drop of charcoal black swimming in an endless pearl white sea.
Get away! The words wouldn’t leave the sheriff’s lips. They clung to the hunger tightening his throat and drenching his mouth.
The man motioned to Dearborn’s mirrored shades. “Wish I could get away with wearing sunglasses. Emily’s always saying that crying makes your eyes puffy.” His chuckle was dry and forced. “But you know how Em gets.”
“Tears make them moist,” he whispered. Heavy and juicy and— He wiped away the saliva at the corners of his lips.
The man stepped on a soggy clump of paper. It flattened under the toe of his shiny leather shoe. “In a small town, this job is always hard. I always know who I’m preparing. If I wasn’t friends with them, I was with some of their kin. Men in our positions have to stay strong. They depend on us for that.”
The sheriff pushed away from the dumpster and crept closer to the man with the flawless eye. “Can I be honest with you? Truly honest?”
“Of course, Frank.” The man’s feathery lashes waved at Dearborn with each blink.
“I’m the weakest man you know.” He lunged forward, caught the man by the neck, and slammed him into the pavement. Stumpy, manicured fingers clawed at the sides of Frank Dearborn’s face. The wild pawing caught Frank’s sunglasses and hurled them onto the concrete. Dearborn’s insides thrummed. He could see more clearly now. He could watch the fight melt from those perfect eyes like the last bits of snow from the grass.
This could be it. The pair of eyes that would free him from his curse.
Blood marred the perfect white with cherry red dots and zigzags. The man’s hands fell to his sides and his legs twitched in his body’s last attempts to run. Finally, his jaw slackened and his pupils widened and he stilled.
Dearborn released the man’s throat and slid off him. He sat on the pavement next to the body and traced the dead man’s flaccid eyelids. He leaned in and pressed his lips against the sweat streaked forehead. “Σας τιμώ.”
I honor you.
Dearborn plunged his fingers into the eye sockets and scooped out the gems. His stomach trembled as the first warm and gooey orb touched his tongue. He stared up at the dark sky and punctured the first eyeball with his sharp canine.
Please be those I’ve been seeking. Please be them. Please be them. He prayed over and over as wet paste filled his mouth and washed down his throat. He dropped the second viscous ball into his mouth and quickly chewed the slippery mass.
Nothing happened.
He rubbed his cloudy eye and blinked down at the eyeless corpse.
He had done this for nothing. Frank’s stomach settled as he swallowed the last bits. He’d taken a man from his family and his community for an unfulfilled dream. But he’d had to take the chance. It was the only way he could stay in this body and the only way his curse would one day come to an end.
He looked down at his wet and bloody hands and up at the back door to the sheriff’s department. He wiped his hands on his pants, plucked his sunglasses from the ground, and hooked his arms under the dead man’s, whose fancy shoes bounced along the pavement as Dearborn dragged him back to his car and shoved him into the driver’s seat. Frank dragged his aviators along his sleeve before he slid them on over his clouded eye. He walked to the back exit, wiped his mouth, and threw open the door.
“I need help out here!”
Deputies wasted no time springing into action. He heard them scramble to their feet and rush toward the exit. He charged back to the car and he kneeled next to the open driver’s side door with his head in his hands. He would sell this performance. He would dig deep and uncover each scrap of a memory. He squinted and studied the dead man’s bloodied features.
Dominic Parrott.
He would use them to rebuild Frank Dearborn’s friendship with Dominic. Friendship, love, created a well of excuses he could use to drown each procedural question. After all, this wasn’t the first time he’d nearly been caught.
Fourteen
“Babe, you already look lots more like yourself!” Kirk’s hand slid from the hollow of the small of Mercy’s back to gently cup her butt.
She sidestepped and caught his hand in hers and squelched a sigh, reminding herself to have another talk with him about how he needed to read the room better. Mercy could feel t
he frowns Emily and Hunter were skewering Kirk with—not that, this time, she blamed them. It’d only been an hour ago that Hunter’s spell had washed the debilitating grief from her and everyone—except Kirk—was still subdued and still in awe of Hunter’s magic. “Yeah, I am feeling a lot more like me. Thanks to you guys.” Mercy’s smile included Jax, Emily, and Hunter—along with Kirk. “But don’t you and Jax have to get home? Didn’t you tell me you have a chemistry test you have to study for?”
At that moment the huge pendulum clock that had been in the Goode family for generations chimed ten times.
“Oh, crap!” Jax sprang up from the couch. “Mom made me promise to be home by ten. Kirk, we gotta go.”
“You can be a little late,” scoffed Kirk.
Hunter narrowed her eyes and Emily manically cracked her gum. Before they could declare war on Kirk, Mercy said, “Hey, I’m super tired. This has all been a lot. I really do need to sleep.”
“Of course. Sorry.” Kirk put his arm around her as she led him out the front doors and onto the porch. “You know I like spending every second with you.”
“Stalker much?” Emily murmured from behind them.
“Huh?” Kirk asked cluelessly.
Mercy turned Kirk so that he was on the second step facing her while she stood on the porch, which made her almost at his eye level. “Em was just calling you a big talker. But she doesn’t know you as well as I do.” Mercy rested her arms across his shoulders and kissed him softly. “Thanks for coming tonight. See ya tomorrow.” Before he could pull her in for a more intimate kiss, Mercy squeezed his shoulders and then walked quickly to Jax, giving him a hug. “You’re a good friend. Thanks for being here, Jax.”
