Cait sat on the edge of the bed, faced away, her shoulders hunched as she crushed the small, heart-shaped bag again. “It’s nothing,” she said and tossed it onto the nightstand.
By the intensity of her outburst, he knew she was lying, but he didn’t push it. Cait had already opened up to him more than she had during the two years of their marriage.
When she glanced over her shoulder, her expression changed again, as fast as a curtain dropping over a window. Her darkening eyes issued a challenge. “Want another go? There’s time.”
Sam dropped his eyelids and gave her a steamy look. Then he ran a hand down her naked back. She began to turn but was too damn slow. Before she took another gasping breath, he had her under him. And because he knew he’d been quick the last time, he gritted his teeth, determined that he’d take it slow and build her lust. Something he’d never managed to do before, but he wasn’t as into her now, he thought, lying to himself.
As always, Cait’s flash-fire heat matched his own, lick for burning flame. Settling over her body, her moist heat beckoning, he found he couldn’t waste time on preliminaries after all and thrust straight to the heart of her.
Cait didn’t like graveyards. They were too damn noisy.
The staticky hum began even before she’d parked the car inside Edgemont Cemetery’s gates. Spirits clamored, eager to connect. But her creaky “Spidey sense” tingled, telling her the ghosts of the departed weren’t the only phantoms there. From the moment she’d stepped out of the car, she’d felt an eerie, heavy presence.
Maybe she was uneasy because the sky had darkened with heavy, gray clouds where moments ago there’d been wispy streaks of white sliding across a blue sky. She’d shrugged it off as coincidence, unwilling to give in to the urge to slide her hand into her pocket and clasp the familiar flannel bag she’d stuffed there before she’d left her apartment.
Maybe it was the section of the cemetery she approached. Here the graves were older and many studded with ostentatious statues—lambs adorning children’s graves, their features blurred by erosion, and angels grown grubby with soot and dirt—hovering over sad little plots where rain and time had sunk the mounds. Water from the previous night’s storm settled in the hollows.
The prickle of goose bumps lifted the fine hairs on her arms and the back of her neck. Electricity crackled in the air.
And the whispers, usually so many that their individual messages were lost in the noise, coalesced into a single thrumming chant.
Beware, beware, beware…
Cait grew rigid, a heavy knot of dread settling in her belly. If she’d been alone, she might have heeded the warning.
“Hey, I found them,” Jason called from a small, manicured square enclosed inside a wrought iron fence. “Constance, Hope, Charity, all sisters. Here’s mom,” he said, pausing in front of the grave marked with a modest headstone. “Margaret Worthen. Damn, they all died on the same day.” He turned to aim a questioning glance her way.
Like she should know why they were here looking at the headstones of a family who’d died a century and a half ago? The list they’d found in the girl’s apartment had led them on this wild-goose chase.
Despite the ominous signs, she shrugged, pretending indifference. So far, she’d managed to keep Jason in the dark about the details of the woo-woo side of their investigation. How the hell would she ever make it sound anything but crazy? “Maybe our missing girl was researching someone’s family tree?”
Jason grunted and knelt in front of the father’s more elaborate headstone. “Jonas Worthen. Same day. October 14, 1864. They had a family crest—a shield with a lion’s head and tree branches surrounding it. Guess it impressed someone if they put it on his headstone.”
A tendril of ice-cold air teased along her cheek, and she recognized the chill for what it was. Then something moved at the corner of her eye.
Expecting the caretaker who’d led them to the family plot and hovered nearby in case they needed further help, she turned, only to find a tall marble statue beside her—Blessed Mary dressed in robes, a finger lifted to her lips, which might have looked a little less sinister if her face weren’t blackened with grime.
Cait grimaced, thinking she’d let her imagination get away from her because the place creeped her out, but she couldn’t drag her gaze away. Some inner instinct held her immobile.
Jason leaned toward Jonas Worthen’s headstone. “There’s an inscription.”
“Ever near us though unseen,
Thy dear immortal spirit treads…”
The statue shifted. Almost imperceptibly. Her head lowering toward Cait.
Chest tight, Cait jumped back. “Jason, stop!” she tried to shout, but her throat constricted.
“For all the boundless universe
Is life—there is no death.”
The chill wind stiffened, grasping like invisible fingers at her hair and clothes. “Jason,” she repeated faintly. How would she explain this?
Frozen, she reached into her pocket and crushed the red flannel bag in her fingers, grateful as never before for her mother’s intervention.
Jason straightened and stepped backward, but his foot fell into a deep puddle at the edge of the mother’s grave. Cursing, he tugged his boot, but the suctioning mud held it.
The statue behind him was an angel whose even features slid into a narrow-eyed glare and whose lips pulled away from its teeth in a feral snarl. It reached out.
Inside her head came voices shouting, Run…run…run…
Advice she didn’t need. Her skin prickled into gooseflesh. Her heart skittered. “Hey!” Cait lurched forward and grabbed Jason’s arm. His foot slipped from the boot. He turned to retrieve it, but she shoved him forward. “Forget it—move!”
The caretaker stood at the bottom of the hill, his dark face tightening, eyes widening as he stared at the statue Jason had yet to see.
“Cait—my boot. What the hell’s gotten into you?”
The temperature was dropping fast. Didn’t he feel it? “No time. Run!”
She grabbed his hand and pulled him down the rise, falling in beside the caretaker, who didn’t need convincing.
“Holy Mary, mother of God…” he whispered under his breath.
“Consecrated ground,” she blurted, racing along, pulling still on Jason’s sleeve.
“It’s all consecrated ground. It’s a damn cemetery,” Jason muttered. Then his jaw dropped. “What the fuck?”
An angel with its serene face tilted toward the sky opened its eyes and peered down at them, the sockets hollow and black.
Another waft of cold air buffeted Cait’s back. “A crypt!” she bit out. “We need something covered.”
“Follow me,” the caretaker said, his burly body surprisingly nimble as he cut across a row of graves and headed to the east side of the graveyard.
The cold tendrils grew stronger, clawing at their backs. The trio’s labored breaths puffed in frozen clouds.
“Here,” whispered the caretaker, stopping at a stucco-and-concrete crypt and pulling out a ring of keys. His fingers shook as he flipped through them, found the one he needed, and unlocked the door.
The three of them lunged inside and slammed the door behind them.
Cait set her back to the door, digging in her heels. The door shuddered against her.
“What’s goin’ on, Cait?” Jason asked, his voice tightening, his gaze jumping from her to the worker.
The caretaker’s dark face was ashen. “Some bad mojo goin’ on here.”
“Did I mention that Henry’s killer isn’t human?” she asked, her breaths ragged.
“No, you didn’t,” Jason replied with a nasty snarl. “What is it with you? Can’t you trust anyone?”
“I’m sorry, Jason. I never expected a freaking wraith to follow us here.” The door continued to rattle, and Cait began to worry about the stained glass panels at the far side of the crypt. Although she’d given up on God a long time ago, she made the sign of the cross over he
r chest.
“Why are you doing that?” Jason asked, his expression growing pinched. “This is hallowed ground, right? Aren’t we safe?”
Cait grimaced while saying a silent prayer that was true. “Reflex. The bastards scare the bejesus out of me.”
Jason gave her a grim smile. “Paddy O’Connell’s daughter to the end.”
The caretaker lifted a shaky hand like a child requesting permission to speak.
“What?” Cait bit out as the door rattled harder.
“’Pears we’re safe in here, but how the heck do we git out? We gonna die here?”
She wouldn’t admit to the two men who were looking to her for all the answers that she hadn’t strategized beyond finding shelter.
Cait slid down the door, letting the wind ravage outside unchecked. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the ratty, red flannel bag. For a long moment, she stared. Then, drawing her courage around her like a cloak, she crushed it in her fist.
It was just fabric, filled with desiccated flowers soaked in dragon tree oil. Not a precious gift her mother had given her. She had to try something.
Setting her face in harsh lines, she aimed a glare their way. “Either one of you have a lighter?”
Chapter Nine
The spell bag burst into flames the moment the caretaker’s lighter touched the fabric, singeing Cait’s fingers before she had a chance to drop it to the concrete floor. With a hiss and a puff of black smoke, the bag reduced to ashes in seconds.
She stuck her burned fingertips in her mouth and stared at the little ashy mound, waiting for something to happen. She’d half expected the ground to shudder and a horrendous howling to begin the moment it burned. However, the wind continued buffeting the door behind her and rattling the glass in the small windows just as it had before, nothing more.
Disappointed, she slumped. “Well, hell. What the fuck do we do now?” Cait hadn’t had a game plan. Burn the bag, then what? She’d hoped the same instinct that had her running for shelter inside a crypt and then reaching into her pocket for the mojo bag would somehow clue her in to the next step.
Jason lowered his cell phone. “No signal. Figure that. Won’t even power up, and I know damn well it was fully charged.”
Cait didn’t bother sliding hers out. Magic had a way of tampering with technology. Not something she’d ever understood. But she accepted they were truly stranded because whatever it was outside the crypt wanted it that way.
“Cait, what’s going on out there?” Jason asked, crouching beneath a window to look outside. “How is any of this possible?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, teeth chattering, more from fear than the dropping temperature. “I think that inscription you read woke something. Or maybe it was waiting for us. I don’t know.”
The caretaker shook his head, pulling his knees against his chest as he rocked. “Not sure what I saw. Angels comin’ to life—that can’t be real. Bad storm comin’. That’s all.”
Cait gave him a baleful stare. Was he in denial, too freaked out to accept what he’d seen?
Jason sank to his knees. “So what’s this about Henry’s killer not being human?”
Cait heard the faint whispers of the ghosts who’d been her life’s soundtrack. They were no longer joined in a single chant but whispered frantically, unintelligible voices overlapping, no message for her to glean.
“Cait!” Jason gave her a blistering stare.
She jerked back to him. “Sorry, it’s so noisy. Hard to think. Henry was murdered. But his body wasn’t in the room. I found it inside his dresser mirror. Sounds nuts, right? When forensics got the dresser back to the lab, it blew up along with his body. If you don’t believe me, ask Sam.”
Jason studied her expression. “And what was with that mojo bag you just torched?”
“You know what it was?”
He shrugged. “I know lots of things, Cait. Tell me about it.”
“My mother made the bag for me. To quiet the voices of wraiths. That’s what I thought was out there.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “I thought if I burned it, I’d hear them.”
“And that would help us how?”
“Not sure.” She sighed, frustrated. “I was going with my gut. Thought maybe if I heard them, I’d know when it would be safe to leave.” She grimaced. “It’s kind of anticlimactic. Nothing happened.”
“Maybe you’re not listening hard enough.”
The door rattled against her back. Cool air seeped around the seams. She stared, wondering whether Jason was only humoring her. Or if maybe he knew more than he said. What did she know about the man anyway? Sure they’d been partners awhile, but they rarely talked about things unrelated to the cases they worked. Come to think about it, it was just a little weird, the things he let slide. Who dragged their partner out of bed when they were too hung over? Other than Sam—who’d have read her the riot act? Jason, on the other hand, never seemed to judge. Why did he put up with her crap?
Jason pulled off his mud-coated shoe and dropped it beside him, his face screwing up in disgust. “You haven’t heard wraiths for years, right? Maybe the magic wasn’t all in that bag, but something you did.”
Cait froze. What? Something didn’t feel right about what he’d said. He displayed no surprise, no hesitation when she’d talked about the mojo bag and what it did. How long had he known about the frightful voices she used to hear? She stared, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze. Now wasn’t the time for that conversation. “I don’t have the kind of skill needed to make a spell like that work. Wraiths scared the shit out of me when I was a kid. When my mother gave me an out, I took it.”
His face lifted. “Maybe you’re still afraid to hear them. Did she cast the spell? Or did you?”
She and her mother had chanted together. Her breath stilled. A chill rippled down her spine. They’d both put their own desires into the spell as her mother filled the bag with flowers.
“Of course I’m still afraid,” she said more to herself than to answer his question. “A wraith killed Henry. Picked him up like he weighed nothing and dragged him through a fucking mirror.”
“But you had the sense to run when things went south out there,” he said, pointing his chin toward the door still buffeting her back. “You’re not a kid anymore. And you have something of your mother’s talent, don’t you?”
All this time he’d hidden things from her. Someone from that world had talked to him. But who? Celeste and Morin were the only people alive who’d known about her magical past. Betrayal left a bitter taste in her mouth. “What do you know about my mother? About me?”
“Enough. It’s why I took you on. Why I haven’t been on your ass when you drank too much. I knew you had your reasons. That you weren’t ready.”
“Ready for what?” she spat out, narrowing her gaze. “Do I know you at all?”
Jason grinned. “Sure you do. I’m a fuckup. Just like you. Birds of a feather…”
“And do you have skills?” she asked snidely.
“None. Other than the fact the kid I killed in that alley wasn’t a kid. Not something I could tell anyone on the force about.” He hung his head for a moment and then glanced her way. “I’ll tell you about it—after you get us the hell out of here.”
His face blurred. She’d thought they were becoming friends, learning to rely on each other, but he’d lied to her. Tears she hadn’t known were gathering threatened to spill. She blinked them away. “I don’t know enough. Years ago I stopped walking in that world.”
“You never really shake it though, do you?” he asked, his expression scarily intent. “It’s part of you. You just have to be ready to embrace it. I sought answers for a long time. I know a little. But there’s nothing special inside me. Not like there is in you.”
“There’s nothing special in me either. I walked away. I drank myself stupid.”
“That’s a crock of shit, and you know it. Everyone knows your instincts are good. Your gut isn’t calling the shots.”
His hand jerked in the air. “Whatever’s inside you—magic, psychic talent—that’s what’s kept your ass alive and helped you close cases no one else could. Time to own up to what it really is and what you are.”
She snorted. “And what’s that, Jason? All I am is a fuckup. A fuckup whose mother was a witch—a really bad one because she killed herself with her own damn spell.”
He scraped a hand through his hair and glared again. “Well, you’d better figure out what else you might be, and quick, or we’ll be here a long damn time. No one knows we’re out here. You didn’t tell Sam we had another lead, did you?”
Of course she hadn’t. He’d have given her another of those stony stares, like he was trying to figure out if her brain was mush from scotch. Even though she’d proven there was magic in the world, he still didn’t fully trust her.
A powerful swell of wind pushed at the door behind her back, more cold air leaking through the cracks to swirl dust and grit inside the room. Rocks pelted the crypt. In the distance, tree branches cracked and fell with heavy thuds. She dug her feet into the cold slab floor and pushed back against another surge. They were running out of time. Her gut told her so.
“I can’t remember any spells that might help. It’s been a shitload of years…”
“Is it the words or is it the thought that makes them work?”
“I always needed the words. And they weren’t mine.” When she’d been practicing, playing at being a witch, she’d recited them like Bible verses, sure she’d drawn power from the author, not from inside herself.
“You have to try,” Jason said, his face pulling into a bulldog scowl.
He was right. They couldn’t stay like this for long. They had acres and acres of consecrated ground around them that hadn’t provided any protection because the wraiths were swept above it, carried by the wind. The crypt was covered, but how long would it take the wraiths to lift the roof? Think. “We need to sneak out of here without them seeing us leave. We need a masking spell.”
Shattered Souls Page 7
