by Erin Hayes
“No,” she admitted, her gray eyes softening.
The hell with that. He needed no one’s pity. At least he could walk away with his pride somewhat intact. “I see,” he said stiffly. “Thanks for calling an ambulance.”
He turned abruptly, and her hand clenched his arm. His skin burned at her touch—that hadn’t changed between them, although he wished it had.
“I’m sorry, Andrew. I had planned on seeing you this evening or tomorrow. But first, I have . . . business to take care of.”
“Then by all means, don’t let me hold you up.”
“Wait, please.”
The jagged tear in her voice had him spinning around.
“I can’t explain why I’ve been away. Not yet. Can’t you trust me just a little longer?”
“Trust a little longer? I don’t trust you at all.”
Tara flung her arms around his neck and kissed his lips. A long, hard kiss. She moaned, and he wrapped his arms around her waist. The need between them was there, raw and yearning. Vaguely, he became aware of wailing sirens descending on the road above them.
Andrew broke off the kiss and waved his arms at the EMT workers climbing out of the ambulance. “Over here,” he yelled to draw their attention.
They scrambled down the hillside, and he went to Emily’s side. Poor kid must be so scared and confused. The first rejuvenation from death was always rough. After the excitement of the afternoon faded and the adrenaline left her body, she would sleep for days.
One of the EMTs, a young man, looked at the wrecked car and then back to Emily. “You’re one lucky young lady,” he said, scratching his head. “It’s a damn miracle.”
Andrew hoped Emily would come to view it as such. For too many years, he’d viewed immortality as a curse, a never-ending battle to kill or be killed. Then he’d learned the value of friendship from James McLauren, another immortal. One who had taught him that their world was changing, that they could live a life filled with friendship, peace, and coexistence with others of their kind.
And then Tara had come along, destroying his belief that all witches were evil creatures to be avoided. Since witches had the ability to cast binding spells on immortals, his kind had long distrusted them. But James had wed a witch, and Andrew slowly opened his heart to Tara.
Who had promptly crushed it.
He turned around to seek her out, but Tara was gone. Again.
Unbelievable. For the second time that day, a soul had wiggled out from her grasp. First was the man earlier this morning who had downed a bottle of pills, intent on committing suicide. But in the end, he’d decided not to sink into oblivion. The will to live was strong. And then, secondly, there was an immortal who didn’t die.
Was this all part of the curse Lucas had dealt before he died? Give her an illusion of hope, but never let her attain her goal? She’d spend the last of her days trying to collect that last soul. Azrael was going to be severely annoyed.
Tara pulled her Harley into the Piedmont Funeral Home and entered the building through the back door. Good, nobody around. Must be a slow day for death. Her black boots echoed on the hallway’s linoleum floors. At the door marked Azrael Hollings, she took a deep breath and flung it open.
Azrael spun slowly around in his chair. “You disappoint me.”
“I’m not too happy my damned self.”
She sat in the floral chair across from his desk and defiantly crossed one leg over the other. Long ago, she’d learned not to let him intimidate her—or at least not show it.
He steepled his long, unnaturally pale fingers and leaned his considerable girth forward. “That’s two souls in just one day that escaped you.”
“Not my fault. I’ve had a hell of a day. It started with the suicidal man who changed his mind and called for help at the last minute, then it was reaping the soul of a child, and then you sent me on a fool’s errand with an immortal.”
Pfft. He waved an arm in dismissal. “You could have reaped the man who swallowed the pills. All it would have taken is a little push from you. When a soul is on the brink between two planes, a little nudge can tip them over.”
“I’m not comfortable doing that.”
Azrael removed his sunglasses and narrowed his pink eyes. “Thought you would be in a hurry to work off that curse. That’s why I hired you.”
“You hired me to relieve you of your own collecting burden. Said you needed a rest from it all.”
“Grim Reaper assistants aren’t that hard to find,” he reminded her. “You were one of many I observed last year hanging around the county hospital hoping for a quick collection. So a little gratitude, young lady.”
He spoke the truth. Azrael was smart enough to be named Head Reaper for three states. Competition was fierce.
“I know, I know,” she assured him quickly. “Believe me, I want to collect this last one and be finished with the business.”
“No one understands that more than me.”
Azrael himself was cursed. After a couple of decades working alone, he’d had enough. Quietly, he’d struck deals with her and a few others, all of which was highly frowned upon. To be caught finagling the fine details of a curse made one susceptible to never having it lifted. But it was a risk he was willing to take, and the two of them had struck a deal. He sent her on collections while he enjoyed a much-needed respite.
It worked for them.
“So, you got any assignments for me tonight?” She hungered to be with Andrew—to beg his forgiveness and go back to the way they once were. To be here in Piedmont, to be so close to him—and yet unable to make amends—was torture.
“Possibly.” He lifted a paper off his desk and examined it. “Another car wreck.”
Tara stifled a groan. Wrecks were the most temperamental assignments of all. Low probability of success and lots of violent emotions. “No one-hundred-year-old lady in a nursing home about to drift into sleep and never wake up?” she asked hopefully.
Those were the best.
“Nope. The car accident is predicted to take place between 2:30 and 3:30 a.m. I’ll ring you when it’s final. Don’t disappointment me. If you can’t make it, you won’t get any more assignments from me.”
“Very well.” She stood and regarded him. “I imagine this will be our last meeting.”
He nodded and slipped his sunglasses back on. “Have a good life, Tara. Good luck with your Andrew.”
She liked to think he was covering up from revealing a trace of affection for her, but with Azrael, she could never be sure. Tara took his hand and squeezed it. “Thanks for everything.”
Outside, the afternoon sun dipped low in the horizon, coloring the clouds with lavender and coral hues. She’d take it as a good omen.
In less than thirty minutes, Tara arrived at Andrew’s cabin, located high on Booze Mountain. It was a lonely sort of place, but she liked it. The remoteness of it suited her solitary nature. Here she could commune with earth’s elemental nature and work her eclectic magic. Nothing major or scary or world-changing, but simple fare of healing and celebrating life. After a year of stalking death, it seemed like paradise.
She raised her hand to knock at the door but thought better of it. She’d give him no chance to refuse her entry. Resolutely, she turned the knob and stepped inside. “Andrew, you home?” she called out.
Inside, the scent of pot roast and bread made her mouth water and her stomach growl. She hadn’t even given food a thought today in all the excitement of chasing down the last of her assignments. At the sound of water running from the back bedroom, her gut clenched with a different kind of yearning. One that only Andrew could fill.
Slowly, she made her way down the hall and to his bedroom. The adjoining bathroom door was open, and Tara approached warily. What right did she have to walk in his home after her year-long disappearing act? None. And yet here she was, violating his privacy in the most intimate way.
She stepped into the bathroom doorway.
Over six feet of bronzed s
kin over sleek muscles tantalized her through the frost-textured shower door. Goddess, she craved his touch. For the past few months, she’d worked feverishly, trying to keep her mind occupied, to keep from remembering all she was missing apart from the man she loved.
But every night before sleep overcame her weary body and troubled heart, she imagined lying in Andrew’s arms. Imagined his hot kisses trailing down her face and breasts and finally to her core.
She trembled.
The shower door flew open, and Andrew pinned her with a hard stare. “What the hell? Oh, it’s you.”
Drops of water ran down his sleek skin, and the air charged between them. Her feet propelled her forward, and he didn’t move.
“Andrew,” she whispered. “I’ve missed you so much.”
She laid her head on his chest, felt his madly beating heart pound against her cheek. “Please, love me again.”
For a heartbreaking moment, he didn’t respond. Was all hope lost?
In one sudden movement, Andrew squeezed her against him, and she pressed her hips into his erection. The front of her t-shirt and jeans were wet, and she didn’t care. He stepped back and peeled her clothes off, as impatient as she to join their bodies. Swiftly, he took her hand and guided her to his bed.
“You’re really here,” he said in his deep, gruff tone.
“For as long as you’ll let me stay,” she assured him, mentally adding once the next collection is over.
In answer, his mouth clamped over hers, and their tongues danced. His hands were everywhere—gliding, exploring, possessing. She parted her legs and urged him to enter. This first joining together after a long separation couldn’t wait. It demanded a quick claiming.
“Right now,” she demanded.
Andrew thrust inside her core. This . . . this was what she’d needed for so long. Delicious tension coiled inside until she found her release minutes later. Tara opened her eyes and stared into Andrew’s dark brown ones. His face was strained and intense. He’d waited on her climax before allowing his own.
She rolled over and straddled him, determined that his pleasure meet her own. He moaned beneath her, and their pace quickened until he came. Tara luxuriated in the knowledge that she could affect him so.
They lay beside each other, and she cradled into his strong body. Outside the window, the full moon shone its blessing. She was where she was supposed to be.
The shrill ring of a cell phone sounded from somewhere on the floor. Damn. Tara skirted out of bed and went in search of the blasted thing. That ring tone meant Azrael was calling.
A buzz and a flash of light on the floor near the bathroom and she honed in on it, scooping it up. “Yes,” she answered breathlessly.
“Get out to Country Road 143. Mile marker seven. Now,” he said without preamble. “You’ve got ten minutes or another reaper will lay claim.”
So much for having until 2:00 a.m. She glanced at the time. “I can make it,” she vowed. “On my way.”
The light burst on in the bedroom, and Andrew frowned. “Where are you going?”
“I-I have a job.” Tara pulled her t-shirt over her head, uncaring it was inside out. And forget panties. She picked up the jeans and shimmied into them.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No, I have to go. It’s an emergency. I’ll be back within the hour.”
His harsh features softened. “Emergency? I’ll go with you.”
“No!” She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on her boots. “Where are my keys?” She rushed into hallway, then the den.
Andrew followed. “Tell me what’s going on. Whatever it is, I can help.”
“No. You can’t. It’s something I have to do alone.”
Just this one last assignment. When she finished it, they’d have a lifetime together. If only she could tell him so.
He folded his arms. “Leave me again, and it’s over.”
Tara’s breath caught. If she didn’t go, all was lost. She grabbed her jacket and fished out the keys. “I’ll be back, Andrew. You have every right to be furious, but I’m doing what I must. I love you.”
She didn’t wait to see his reaction. Eight minutes and counting to put this nightmare behind them.
Andrew scowled. Reckless witch. Good riddance. This time, he was done with her flighty nature and her . . .
The Harley roared to life outside his cabin, its headlight shining into the front window pane.
“Oh, hell,” he muttered, running back to the bedroom and pulling on clothes. If he didn’t follow Tara, he’d end up regretting it eventually. And he’d seen the desperate look in her eyes. Something was definitely wrong. If she were in trouble, he’d fix it.
By the time he started his truck and backed out the driveway, only the smallest bit of her headlight was visible as she flew down the road. Way, way too fast and dangerous. These curves at night were murder. Andrew hit the accelerator and closed the distance between them before she could hit the main road and be lost.
At County Road 143, she hung a sharp left, and he followed, letting another car buffer their vehicles. Only twenty yards from another curve, the impatient driver in front of him pulled into the opposite lane to pass Tara. Headlights rounded the bend. Both drivers slammed on brakes, but too late. For the second time that day, he heard the unmistakable crunch of metal as the cars collided.
Tara. His mouth went dry. Was she far enough ahead of the accident to avoid getting hurt? He pulled off the side of the road and ran to the scene.
She’d also pulled over and jumped off her motorcycle, reaching the injured drivers before he did. A heavyset, bearded man in overalls lay in the road, unconscious. His crushed scalp made it clear he hadn’t survived. But Tara knelt by his side anyway and placed a hand on the man’s heart.
A tendril of white smoke blew out of his body and into Tara’s open palm where it was absorbed.
What kind of witchy mischief was this? Was she a vampire who fed on human souls? A necromancer? What did he really know about her after all?
Tara arose and flung her arms in the air, face radiant with happiness. “Andrew! You’re here.” She smiled and walked toward him.
He took a step back, and her smile faltered.
“I saw what you did. You took that man’s soul. Why?”
“I did him no harm.”
She took another step, but he held up his hand.
“All souls are collected for the Grim Reaper,” she explained. “I happened to be the first to arrive on the scene. That’s all.”
He shook his head. “Why? What are you?”
“I’m Tara. The same person you were in love with last year.”
He wanted to believe her. But centuries of distrust stood between them once again. A witch is a witch is a witch, his kind used to say. And that man’s soul had absorbed into hands. It freaked him out more than a little. “Too many lies, and too much time has passed,” he said with a heavy heart.
“I couldn’t tell you the truth then.” She closed the distance between them and took his hands in hers. “Listen to me. Please?”
He nodded.
“When I broke from Lucas’s coven last year, he cursed me. Condemned me to reap a thousand and one souls for the Grim Reaper.”
So that’s what she’d been up to all year. “But Lucas died in the last battle. That didn’t annul his curse?”
“No. But at least I don’t have to worry about serving him now. The worst part of all this was that I couldn’t tell you. Lucas stipulated that if I told anyone before all the souls were collected, I’d drop dead.”
“And now?” Hope beat inside his chest like a wild, trapped bird. Quickly, he tamped down the feeling. Hope, for an immortal such as himself, was a cruel bitch that promised an impossible happiness. Last night she had broken down his reserves and here—hours later—she’d crushed him yet again.
Tara pointed at the dead man. “That was my last soul. The curse is lifted. Please tell me I’m not too late. That you still ha
ve some feelings for me. I never stopped loving you, Andrew. Never.”
Some feelings? Hell yeah, he did. But she could never know that. Best to end it now. He’d buried too many former lovers. Losing Tara, even to old age, would kill what was left of his soul. All his long life, he’d taken care of others. But Tara was different. If he’d thought their separation last year was difficult, imagine the pain in store for him after decades together. The agony of watching her human body grow feeble and frail. How foolish of him to have welcomed her into his bed and his heart just hours ago.
Andrew shook his head. “Forget about me.”
Chapter Four
Forget about him?
As if her mind and heart could erase the memory of Andrew. Tara watched as he drove away, until the white beam of his headlights was swallowed up into the night. She hopped onto her Harley, hit the accelerator, and with a roar, sped into the darkness with no plan or goal. Just ride. On and on, as if she could outrace the turmoil twisting her gut.
She’d been too late after all. For a year, she’d worked nonstop, eager to rid herself of the curse. And it had all been for naught. On and on she rode, the black pavement rising to greet her, the wind whipping her body. She’d keep riding, too, until she was far from Booze Mountain and too tired to keep her eyes open. Then she’d find a motel somewhere and sink into blessed sleep. Whatever it took to get through this hellacious night. The whir of the engine lulled her into a kind of street hypnosis. She could have been driving for hours or only minutes, but the sight of the Piedmont Funeral Home registered through her mental fugue.
Tara slammed on her brakes and glared at the modest, red-brick building. Inside, lamplight glowed from Azrael’s office. She wanted to be long gone from this place. Instead, she’d been drawn to return to where all her hard work had begun. A familiar tugging gnawed at her gut—similar to the draw for reaping a new soul—yet different. She turned off the engine and stomped to the front door. How dare Azrael use magic to pull her back into his web. Wasn’t she free to at least live her own life now? However lonely it would be without Andrew, she had counted on at least having her freedom returned.
