by Scarlet Day
She fed enough coins into the parking meter to last several hours and then headed across the parking lot. There was a restaurant she had spotted while driving around the Historic District right across the street. A bright-red tour trolley, designed in the shape of a railroad train, stopped at the corner. It was loaded with passengers and some climbed off while others climbed on, their enjoyment of the tour evident in the excitement on their faces and the happy sound of their voices.
This city hadn’t been Claire’s intended destination. She hadn’t even planned on getting off the main highway. But the brochures she had picked up at the visitor center when she had crossed the Florida state line, combined with the unsettling dream, had tempted her to stop here.
Her original goal had been to drive to the farthest point she could reach by car—Key West. She had wanted to be as far away from Denver as she could get, while also finding warm weather to ease the lingering ache in her bones. She was tired of the cold, tired of aching all the time. She was just plain tired.
But above all, she had needed to get away from Mark. She had entertained the thought of going to the police to tell them the things she had learned about her husband and about the abuse she had endured at his hands. But as she discovered more about him, she realized the police would be unable to protect her. Mark had managed to get close to people with far more security than the Denver Police Department could ever offer her.
Claire shuddered and pushed the disturbing thoughts aside, determined not to dwell on things she couldn’t change. She crossed the street and entered the restaurant, the smells from the kitchen wrapping her in tempting aromas and causing her stomach to growl. A brochure rack caught her eye and she grabbed a few of the colorful tourist guides before approaching the hostess stand. The hostess led her upstairs and to a seat on an inviting balcony overlooking the fort, a beautiful blue bay, and the expansive ocean beyond. Claire basked in the warmth of the day, amazed that she could sit outside in March and be so comfortable. There had been snow on the ground when she’d left Denver.
Her waiter brought chips and salsa to her table and she ordered a margarita, no longer worried what Mark would say about the unbecoming effects of alcohol on a woman. For a man who killed people for a living and beat his wife on a regular basis, he had a lot of nerve belittling her for the few times she had asked for a drink. Besides, the only times she had ever asked for something alcoholic to drink had been when she needed something to dull the pain from Mark’s beatings. But he had wanted her to feel every painful bruise.
She pushed her sleeves up and reached for a chip, wincing as pain pierced her left arm just below her elbow. That bone still hadn’t healed well since the last time Mark had broken it. He had refused to allow her to get medical treatment for it, knowing the emergency room doctors would get suspicious if she showed up on too many occasions, claiming to have fallen down the stairs or run into a door. He had provided her with basic first aid and wrapped it up. Then he had told her he would re-break it if she ever talked back to him again. She massaged the painful spot and hoped the warm air would help to ease the ache.
The margarita arrived and she sipped it in small amounts, enjoying the salty taste and the slight tingling the alcohol provided. It helped to soothe her frayed nerves. She had spent the last three years on edge and in pain. She was twenty-seven years old, but she felt fifty.
The waiter took her order and she sat back in her chair. The stunning view before her was unlike anything she’d ever seen. Sailboats sat moored in the bay and some skimmed across the blue water. Their sails unfurled and rippled in the ocean breeze. The ocean seemed to meld into the blue sky and flocks of seagulls swooped low over the water.
Claire pulled a sketchpad and pencil out from her tote and drew the expansive scene before her. She had always loved to draw. Mark had destroyed most of her drawings out of spite, claiming she cared more about her art than she did about him. He had been right.
The fort below drew her attention to it. People roamed over the grassy areas surrounding it and walked along its turreted stone walls. Claire had no idea how old the fort was, but she knew it must be older than anything she’d ever seen before. She flipped the page on her sketchpad and focused in on the fort, sketching its outline with bold, sure strokes. Something about it fascinated her. Maybe it was the scars of bygone battles still evident on its aged walls. Maybe it was the idea that this bastion of protection and defense had weathered untold numbers of storms, both natural and manmade. It was a survivor.
The waiter arrived with her lunch and she put her sketchpad aside. Steam billowed up from the cheese-covered enchiladas, and the enticing aroma made her stomach growl. She dug in to the plate of cheesy comfort and sighed. Mark had almost never let her eat food like this. He had wanted to make sure she stayed nice and slim. She took another bite and smiled. Maybe she would eat this kind of food every day and gain twenty pounds, just for the sheer enjoyment of being able to do whatever she wanted to.
As she ate, she flipped through the tourist guides she had grabbed downstairs. There seemed to be a lot to do in this town. There were boat tours, an alligator farm, and a lighthouse that could be explored. There was even a park where the fabled Fountain of Youth was said to be located. She would definitely have to visit that attraction before she left St. Augustine. One brochure offered a dark and mysterious tour and it caught her attention. She didn’t know why she was drawn to the darker side of life. It had gotten her into enough trouble with Mark. But Claire found herself reading the brochure and checking the times the tour was available. She put the brochure down, her mind made up.
Claire had no doubts about how things were going to turn out for her in the end. Mark would find her. It was one of the few things she was certain of. After all, it was what he was paid to do. He was a hunter and he would hunt her down. And then he would kill her.
But if she was going to die, she wasn’t going to spend her last days locked in a nondescript Denver hotel room with a couple of police officers. Before Mark found her, she was going to live a little for a change. And she would start tonight.
Chapter Three
Christian took another sip of beer and scowled at the tourists gathering in the dark pub. This would be the third stop of the night on the ghost tour these people had signed up for. They came seeking excitement and mystery. Maybe they would see something spooky they could tell their coworkers about when they got back from their vacations. St. Augustine had a reputation as being one of the most haunted places on the planet and the local pub owners had figured out a way to make a profit on it.
If these people only knew. They were promised plenty of beer, ghost stories, and maybe even an eerie encounter as they shuttled from bar to bar in the old section of the city. And for the vast majority of unsuspecting people who ventured through town, they would depart with nothing more than a hangover from too much beer and a sunburn from too much time on the beach.
Every now and then, though, someone would attract the attention of the more sinister inhabitants of the Historic District. The legendary ghosts were real enough, though most of them were more mischievous than threatening. It was the other creatures, the ones that used the city’s haunted reputation as their own cover, that Christian watched for. They didn’t come out often, but when they did it was never good.
As if on cue, a chill settled across the back of Christian’s neck. He gripped the glass in his hand and turned with deliberate slowness, already knowing who he would find. “Atticus.”
The tall, white-haired man grinned at him. “Christian. Still trying to protect the tourists?”
Christian cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at the fallen angel. “Still trying to steal their souls?”
“Tsk, tsk, Christian. I am merely informed of their impending and inevitable demise. Their deaths are never my doing.” Atticus’s steel-gray eyes scanned the room.
“Maybe not, but you’ve always been quick to stake your claim as soon as they’re dead.”
Atticus shrugged. “Can I help it if my master craves human souls? It’s not my fault when the other side doesn’t get to them first. Besides, I’m very good at what I do.”
“Although you do have your failures, don’t you?” Christian knew Atticus hated it when Christian brought up that old and bitter loss, which was why he always brought it up.
Atticus scowled. “Must you remind me?” He turned a speculative stare on Christian. “Are you ever going to tell me how you and Stefan avoided death that night? And every day since?”
Christian shook his head. “We didn’t avoid it. But no, I have no intention of sharing our secret of longevity.”
Atticus huffed and turned his attention back to the crowd. Christian had never liked the dark reapers, and Atticus was one of the best he’d encountered. He had nothing against him on a personal level, since Atticus had always been cordial enough. But it gave Christian more than a small sense of satisfaction knowing Atticus had been denied two souls the night he and his brother had died. From what Christian had heard, Atticus’s master had not been pleased.
“I hear the prodigal brother has returned.” Atticus cast a glance at Christian, one eyebrow raised in inquiry.
Christian nodded. There was no reason to lie about Stefan’s arrival. “He has. It’s been a long time in coming.”
Atticus turned his full gaze on Christian. Atticus’s brow furrowed. “I hope he stays, for your sake.”
Puzzlement washed over Christian as Atticus turned his attention back to the crowd. Christian had never heard well-wishes cross the dark reaper’s lips. Was Atticus growing soft? Christian scoffed at the ludicrous thought and scanned the crowd, following Atticus’s searching gaze. “So, who is to be your next victim?”
Atticus chuckled. “I’m not sure. I can sense the human will be here tonight, but I don’t think they have arrived yet.”
Christian pitied the soul of Atticus’s target if a light reaper didn’t show up in time to thwart his plans. Christian had long given up trying to prevent the work of the reapers, except to delay a dark reaper long enough for a light reaper to arrive. The dark reapers never took the souls of children, but anyone of age was fair game.
“Will the death be tonight?”
Atticus grew thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t think so. I sense it is still some time off. Maybe a couple of weeks.” The flicker of a smile played across his lips. “But it is inevitable. That much I do know.”
Christian leaned back against the bar and sipped his beer. He wished it could make him drunk, so that he could forget about Atticus and what he was doing here, even if it was just for a little while. Hell, Christian wished he could forget about what he, himself, was sometimes. But the beer would do nothing for him. He simply liked the taste. Strong alcohol was the one substance that could provide him with even the slightest nerve-calming effects.
The pub continued to fill up as tour participants straggled in from the last haunted site they had visited. Atticus had been right. Christian had, indeed, made it somewhat of a mission to follow these groups of tourists through the dark streets as they made their way to the various old pubs within the Historic District. Most of the time he encountered nothing out of the ordinary, but there had been more than a few times when he’d prevented an unsuspecting tourist from becoming prey for the malevolent beings, both human and non-human, that roamed these streets at night. He and his brother weren’t the only immortal creatures in town, and some of them were not quite as compassionate.
There were also others, like Atticus, who played for even higher stakes than just taking a random life. But Christian had learned there were some things he could not, and should not, control. Even though he knew how to prevent death, or at least how to prevent someone from remaining dead, he also knew the cost was higher than most would want to bear.
Christian wished Stefan had come with him tonight. His younger brother had lived in a world of bitterness and hopeless, wandering for so many years. Christian had found his solace in helping others, in providing protection for those who had no sense of the dangers lurking around them. It was what had kept him from sinking to the depths that his brother had plunged to. Oh, Christian had faced his own demons after he and his brother were killed and resurrected, but he had vowed not to allow them to consume him. Loneliness had been his primary foe and one he still battled, though he felt he had made great strides over the years in minimizing its effects. He feared his brother still hadn’t conquered his demons, but Christian was glad that Stefan had at least returned home after all these years. Maybe, with time, the rift between them could be healed.
Atticus stood taller and peered toward the front door. “Ah, here she is, now.”
Christian turned and followed Atticus’s gaze. In the doorway stood a woman with long brown hair, young and beautiful and in the prime of her life. But even from this distance, Christian’s keen eyesight caught a look of pain and sadness in her eyes. He also saw something else there, though. It was a look that spoke of rebellion and determination. She fought to hide a limp as she walked toward the mingling tour group, but Christian could tell it wasn’t easy for her. He also noticed the way she protected her left arm as she moved around the crowded space. She held it close to her body, trying not to bump it against anything or anyone. Christian had seen enough suffering and cruelty over his many years to know that this woman had been hurt by someone, both her body and her heart. But he saw signs in her eyes that told him this woman was a fighter. He sensed she had fought her own demons and survived.
The tour guide greeted her and she smiled. Even though her pain was still evident in her eyes, her smile seemed to light up the room. Christian glanced sideways at Atticus. The hungry look in the reaper’s gaze triggered Christian’s possessiveness, something that had never happened with other humans he had watched Atticus target over the years. Every protective instinct Christian possessed fired up at once. He didn’t understand his overwhelming feelings, but in that moment, Christian vowed he would find a way to prevent the dark reaper from taking this woman’s soul.
Chapter Four
Claire sipped her beer as she listened to the tour guide regale the group with a story of yet another gruesome death. This was the third stop of the night, and this latest tale hit a little too close to home for Claire’s comfort. According to the tour guide, a jealous husband had killed his wife in a fit of rage. Legend held that the murdered woman’s spirit refused to leave this building, the place where she and her husband once lived and which had been turned into a bar years ago.
Claire didn’t know if she believed the accounts of strange noises during the night, a mist-shrouded figure appearing to the bar’s owners and employees, or items seeming to move on their own. But she did feel something. It was as though some odd, cold sensation crawled over her skin. She glanced around, the feeling of being watched making the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
The sensation intensified when her gaze swept across two men standing at the back of the room, leaning against the bar. Their stares were focused on her. Claire’s pulse quickened. Her breaths came in rapid gasps. She turned her head away and tried to look at something else, anything else. She concentrated on the old black and white photos hanging on the wall behind her, depicting images of St. Augustine’s past. At any other time, she would have been riveted by the old buildings, the distinctly Spanish architecture, and the stories they held. But tonight, with two hard stares focused in her direction making her skin prick, her gaze wandered back to the two men.
The taller man had short-cropped white hair and gray eyes that seemed to look straight through her. He was strikingly handsome with an almost surreal quality about him, but she didn’t like the way he looked at her. His stare made her want to run. She locked her knees and forced her legs to remain still. She had seen that look in Mark’s eyes far too often. This man was a predator.
The other man also focused on her with a hard intensity, but oddly enough, Claire didn’t feel threatened by his
stare. He was almost as tall as his companion, but his demeanor seemed contrary to the man next to him. Dark blond curls covered his forehead and brushed his nape, giving him a boyish look. Where the white-haired man’s stare repelled her, Claire found herself drawn to the warm gaze of the blond-haired man. She almost wanted to walk over to him.
She shook herself and forced herself to look away again. It didn’t matter how tired she was of being alone and isolated, she wasn’t here to be drawn toward anyone. She was here to disappear for a while and to try and enjoy what little time she had before Mark tracked her down.
The odd feelings she had must be due to the spooky stories she’d been hearing all night and her reason for being in St. Augustine in the first place. She’d spent the last week driving from city to city, looking over her shoulder and expecting to see Mark’s pulling up behind her. It was to be expected that she was going to be a little paranoid. Okay, a lot paranoid.
Claire had invested a great deal of time and patience in this escape and she feared Mark would catch up to her before she had a chance to taste freedom. She had fought the urge to fight back on so many occasions, instead pretending to be the meek and cowering wife Mark thought she was. He thought she was too weak and too intimidated to even think about leaving him. And so Mark had finally left her alone with his bitch of a mother who lived with them, while he went on another one of his trips. He’d even been so confident in his control over Claire that he’d taken a limo to the airport and left the keys to his BMW in the drawer of his nightstand.
His mother’s sudden and severe case of the flu after Mark left was the perfect opportunity Claire had been waiting for. She had played the dutiful daughter-in-law for the first day, waiting on Mark’s mother and seeing to her needs without complaint. Claire grinned as she thought about the pot of chicken and rice soup she had cooked for the old hag. The sleeping pills she had slipped into her mother-in-law’s soup had done their job well. Claire would bet she had made it to the Colorado state line before their effects wore off.
