Honey House

by LAURA HARNER

  “Ahh, I wondered if he would tell you. And did he explain why he put you in jail that night?” Owen asked softly.

  “He said it was to keep me safe. That it was the one place he knew I couldn’t escape and get into more trouble, like going back out to the ranch under the full moon.”

  Owen and Gregory gave each other a look, and it wasn’t a pleased one.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “The werewolves are real, KC,” Owen said. “You were in very real danger out there that night. How did Quinn find you?”

  “I called him. I pretended I was breaking a date with him so Merkham wouldn’t catch on. Then I left the connection on the cell phone open so Quinn could hear what we were talking about. I knew he would figure it out and hoped he would come find us.”

  “And when he arrived he took you to jail?” Gregory asked indignantly.

  “Yes, he handcuffed me, and put me in the back of the car. He wouldn’t talk to me. Not one word. Then he locked me in the holding cell and left,” I answered softly, the memories of that night pushing at me.

  Without warning, other memories came along, too. I was drowning in despair, the same blackness that drove me from town flooded through me now, only much, much worse. The faces of my tormentors swam before my eyes and I doubled over in pain.

  Owen gasped. Standing quickly, he lifted me and brought me to sit on his lap, my head pressed against his chest. “God, KC, I can feel it. Shh, shh…” He brushed his hands along my back, over my thighs, smoothed my hair. A warmth spread through me, pushing the faces back into the shadows where I kept them.

  “No more tonight, Owen,” Gregory said, standing suddenly. “Something isn’t right. Something is pushing the darkness.”

  “Yes, I can feel it too. I’m taking her home, Gregory. I need to check,” Owen said.

  “Should I call Quinn?” Gregory asked.

  They could feel my darkness? Call Quinn? Why would he call Quinn? Their words made no sense.

  “Not until I know more. I’ll call him if I need him. Do you want to come?” Owen asked.

  Gregory kissed the top of my head as Owen stood, cradling me in his arms. “No, I can’t do what you can do. I’ll work what I can from here. I’ll spell you in the morning.”

  Then Gregory rested his hand on my arm. “I’ll stop by in the morning, KC, and make the coffee. You sleep in, okay? Owen’s going to take care of this.”

  I nodded. I felt shaky, unsure of myself, a little scared. What would they do? What could they do? What did telling Quinn have to do with anything? I didn’t know what was happening. One minute I’d been having a nice evening with friends and we were finally getting down to some serious conversation. Then the memories had come, memories of awful times, memories triggered by my one night in the holding cell.

  I felt terrible, as bad as I had when Amelia had found me. Worse yet, the nightmares were hovering. The dreams of the wolves, dreams of the guards, they were just waiting for me to close my eyes. The dreams were coming for me.

  Owen looked down at me and smiled gently. “Sleep now, little one, while I take you home.”

  ****

  I will not cry. The cuffs were loose upon my wrists, the orange jumpsuit ridiculously baggy, the legs rolled up to keep me from tripping. I shuffled onto the bus, eyes cast down, pretending this couldn’t be happening. The guard patted my butt, and made me sit in the front. I will not cry.

  “What’s your name, little cutie?” the guard asked, his eyes fixed on my chest. His nametag said he was Officer Foster, and he was as old as my dad. Gross.

  “Katherine,” I answered. He raised his hand and brushed the tips of his fingers across my chest.

  “Big name for a little girl. Guess it’s time you grew up to match your name. Don’t worry, little girl, I’ll take care of you.”

  I raised my eyes to find the driver’s gaze fixed on Foster’s hands on my breast. Our gazes met in the rearview mirror. If I thought he would help, I was wrong. He looked away and said nothing. I will not cry.

  When we arrived at the detention center, Officer Foster took charge of me and left the other juveniles to the remaining guards.

  “Judge says we need to keep you separated from the general population. Says you’re too young. I know just the place to let you grow up a bit, little girl,” he said. He led the way through the deserted dining hall, our footsteps echoed against the tile and cinderblock. The smell was a mix of pine and urine and the harsh fluorescents hid nothing.

  Officer Foster opened a steel door and pushed me through, before looking over his shoulder and then following behind me. We were in a short hallway with three doors on either side. “This is where we put violent offenders, little girl. Lucky for us we don’t have any right now. It’s just you and me, and total privacy. Don’t worry, little cutie, if you treat Uncle Petey right, he’ll treat you right.” He smelled of cigarettes and sweat. He reached out to touch my face. I might cry.

  “Take off your clothes, little girl. I brought you something nicer to wear. His hand reached for the zipper on the front of my jumpsuit. As he began to draw it down, I thought, “Oh, God, I don’t want to be here.” I began to cry.

  Hands shook me roughly. “KC! KC! Stop it! Wake up, Goddammit!”

  “Owen?” I asked, confused. Where am I? What just happened to me?

  Owen opened the car door and raced around to my side. He wasn’t particularly gentle as he scooped me from the front seat and ran for the front door of the Honey House, muttering words under his breath that I couldn’t understand. As soon as we crossed the threshold, the terrible pressure in my chest eased, but Owen didn’t slow down until he had me in my apartment.

  Owen grabbed my face and kissed me, hard. His tongue pushed past my lips that were parted on a question, and he thrust, gliding in long searching strokes. Every few seconds he moved his mouth slightly, each kiss repositioned to give him greater access, he was making love to my mouth.

  With each of his kisses, I felt a piece of myself return. It was as though the power of his touch, the strength of his kiss, was pulling me back from the edge, pushing away any lingering darkness. I began to kiss him back, to help push the nightmare away. To put the memory back in its box.

  Finally, Owen let me slide to the floor, with one arm tight around my waist, the other hand still gripping my face, and the kiss began to calm. Gentle now, he traced my lips with his tongue, and then pulled my lower lip into his mouth before letting the kiss go. With a final press of his lips to my forehead, he stepped back and dropped his hand from my face.

  “All better?” he asked with a wry smile.

  “What the fuck just happened, Owen?” I asked, and not with a happy voice.

  He raked his fingers through his hair, leaving a nice tousled look, and blew out a breath. “You’ve been spelled. We’ll talk all about it in just a little bit, I promise, but we need to do a few things first, okay? Will you trust me, KC?”

  Questions raced through my mind, all of them demanding immediate answers, but one look at Owen’s serious expression, and I agreed.

  “Yes, I’ll trust you. I do trust you. What do you need me to do?” I asked. I could hear the anxiety in my voice. I would do anything to keep that particular nightmare at bay.

  Owen’s eyes crinkled with the return of his sexy grin, the one that quirked on the right side to show a hint of a dimple. “Get naked,” he said.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I stood under the steaming water and Owen handed me all new bottles of shampoo, crème rinse, and a fresh bar of soap. None of my usual brands, but that couldn’t be helped. I could buy more tomorrow. While I finished washing, Owen gathered all the lotions and make-up, and dumped them into a trash bag. Replacing everything was going to cost me a fortune.

  When I was scrubbed and rinsed, I wrapped myself in a satin robe and stepped in to a candle-lit bedroom. Uh oh. The room was empty, but flickering candles were on nearly every flat surface. A light woodsy scent filled air. Planned seductio
n? I hadn’t seen that coming. Then I did a double take and realized the sheets had been stripped from the bed. Hmm…

  I wandered down the stairs and found the same woodsy scented candles scattered throughout the living room. “Owen?” I asked uncertainly.

  The door to my apartment opened and Owen came in carrying a laundry basket.

  “Aw, shit, KC, take off the robe,” he said, already unbuttoning his shirt.

  “What?” I stammered, thinking I deserved a little more romancing than a bunch of candles after the evening I’d had.

  “Take off your robe and put this on.” He handed me his shirt. “I don’t know for sure what was used to spell you, but something that was next to your skin made you more susceptible to the effects. It could have been the laundry soap or clothes you wear every day. I’m washing your sheets, now.”

  I dropped the robe and pulled his shirt on. It was yards more material than I needed to cover my body.

  Owen gave me his sexy grin, and stepped closer. “I could get used to seeing you like this,” he said. He rolled the sleeve up to my forearm, and then did the same for the other arm. He didn’t step back once he was finished, but then neither did I. With a jerk, he pulled the lapels, drawing me closer, and I saw the hunger in his eyes. I traced my finger down his chest, following the dark trail of silken hair past his belly button to where it disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans. The moment lingered, built. We hovered, ready to fall into each other, pushing away all the concerns and fears of the night.

  Owen slowly lowered his face to mine, giving me plenty of time to draw back. I raised my mouth to meet him, and still we hovered, letting the anticipation of the kiss fill us, stoke our desire.

  The door burst open. “I can’t see a fucking thing out there tonight. I’ll have to look again in the morning.”

  Quinn.

  He stood facing us, his mouth slightly open, his eyes wide. I swear, I could see his nostrils flare as a slow heat crept up his neck.

  “Well, if that isn’t a pretty picture. You call me over because there’s some metaphysical emergency, and while I’m running around getting fresh shampoo and making sure the little princess here is safe, you’re in here trying to get laid!”

  I expected Owen would flare right back at Quinn, but he just turned that slow sexy smile on the sheriff. I turned, but Owen pulled me back against his chest, and wrapped his big arms around me. He positively thrummed with energy and he was oh-so-happy to have his hips pressed into my back.

  “Come now, Quinn. The way you’re acting makes it seem as if you and KC here have a relationship,” Owen purred. “You didn’t want her, remember? You walked away.”

  “Shut the fuck up. I saw her first, and if I want her, I’ll take her! Come here, Katie. Now!” Quinn ordered and held out his hand.

  I gasped and narrowed my eyes, but Owen gave me a little squeeze, which I took to mean he wasn’t finished. I could wait a little longer before I eviscerated Quinn. If I had to. Then I would go after Owen next. The testosterone was so thick in the air you could practically cut it with a knife.

  The silence lengthened, and Quinn’s words seemed to echo around the room, as we each had time to play them over in our minds. Then Owen was pushing more than his erection in my back. Well-being poured from him, rolling out in waves and washing over us all. I watched as Quinn’s shoulders lowered and his hands unfisted. It was only then I realized how ready to attack he’d been.

  With a little shudder, Owen loosened his arms around me, but didn’t let go completely. “Everybody okay?” he asked gently.

  Quinn shook himself, then dry-washed his face. “Fuck.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. We really need to be careful,” Owen said.

  “Would somebody like to explain what the hell is going on around here?” I asked.

  Owen kissed me on top of the head and led me to the middle of the couch. “Sit, I’ll pour us all drinks,” he said. “Quinn, sit on the couch next to KC, proximity is going to be important tonight.”

  “Aren’t you worried about the drink?” Quinn asked, ignoring the request to sit and pacing across the far side of the room.

  I wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but it seemed like a good question if we had to throw everything else out.

  Owen carried over three glasses and a bottle of Macallan. “It’s a contact potion we’re looking for. Anything else would digest and the effects would be lost. I’m betting on her lotion. It could be the lingerie, or some other clothing worn close to the skin, but shampoo or lotion would be the easiest.

  I reached for my glass, and let the amber liquid flow down my throat before I repeated my question. “Would somebody please tell me what in the hell is going on around here? I get that you think someone spelled my shampoo or something and that made me have the bad dreams. But honestly, that doesn’t make any sense. Even if it was a spell, how could that really work? What happened earlier tonight was a real memory, Owen. We can’t wash those away.” I heard the sadness in my voice.

  Owen sat down next to me on one end of the couch. He half turned, with one leg bent and pressed close enough that his knee rested against my thigh as I sat cross-legged on the couch. “Sit, Quinn,” he said, and there was a touch of exasperation in his voice.

  Quinn walked stiffly to the table and topped off his drink. He didn’t sit.

  Owen sighed, apparently deeply aggravated at Quinn’s refusal to make contact with me. “It’s not really a spell, KC, it’s a potion enhanced and activated by a spell,” he said.

  “And that makes a difference because…”

  “Because it means it’s fucking personal,” Quinn muttered.

  “Exactly,” Owen agreed. “First, someone has to be skilled enough to acquire or brew a fairly unusual potion. The Dark Maker potion can make the victim go insane, but it only works on someone with truly bad memories to begin with. If you use it on a happy person, or a young person without bad memories, nothing will happen, except maybe a rash will break out. Someone with a traumatic past is forced to fight against the memories to keep them from resurfacing.

  “The first potion-induced nightmares are usually just a collection of disturbing images, maybe relating to current fears or worries. Similar to what many people experience when under stress. The dreams might be disturbing, but they’re common enough.

  “When the really bad memories kick in, it’s truly terrifying. It’s all the things you put in your own personal memory box and you thought you’d thrown away the key. Once those start to surface, it’s usually a quick descent into madness. Many kill themselves. It’s an insidious spell.

  “Please don’t worry, we can counter this,” Owen said, passing his hand over my arm. “We can call magick. But first, we need to know what we’re fighting. The spell seemed to hit you hard. What was the first dream, KC? What was the first dream you remember?”

  I thought back over the last several weeks. There had been a lot of dreams. Most of the vague, dark images that left me feeling more tired than rested when I woke. Then the real nightmares began.

  “It was about wolves. It was the night after I was in jail. They were chasing me, and I was running toward the trailer at the Ranch. Then Raymond was there, and then he was a wolf, too.”

  Owen grinned. “Your instincts are good. Or maybe I should say your psychic abilities. Anyway, tonight’s dream changed. What happened?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said flatly.

  Owen stroked my hair. “I know, sweetheart, I know. I wish I could spare you. Don’t you see? The dreams hold power over you because the memories are secret. They’re your own personal hell and you don’t want anyone else to know about it. That’s part of the magick.”

  Owen turned his head to follow Quinn as he paced in front of the glass doors. “Goddammit, Quinn. I won’t ask you again. You know what we’re up against here. You need to touch her. Just brush your knee up against her.”

  “God, what is it with you?” I shouted. �
�He doesn’t want to touch me. It’s obvious I repulse him. I don’t want him to touch me, either!” I gulped a breath. “What’s happening?” I whispered.

  “It’s not that, KC,” Quinn said quietly. “I’m sorry,” he added, not really looking at anyone. He sat next to me, and turned in a similar fashion to Owen, so that his jeans-clad knee touched my thigh.

  I ignored the electricity that seemed to flare between us. This was scary stuff we were talking about here, and I wasn’t about to let myself get distracted.

  Owen was relentless, he seemed to be able to track all the things happening better than the rest of us, because now that Quinn was touching me, he went back to digging. “Tell me about tonight’s dream, sweetheart.”

  “Are we really pushing the dreams away if I tell you? Does it have to be both of you?” I asked. I looked at Quinn for the answer first this time. He gave one sharp nod, but he didn’t look happy. Owen continued to stroke my hair.

  “Let’s get it over with,” I said. I was glad the lights were dim and we had only the flickering candles to show my face. I looked down at my lap. I didn’t want to see the pity in Owen’s eyes and I thought I would scream if Quinn turned his cop eyes on me. I told them about the dream, about the memory.

  Owen moved closer, silently offering comfort. Quinn stayed tightly contained, his knee just brushing my thigh. I left the memory at the first night, about Foster leading me into the isolation cells. I didn’t add any more detail than that. They could use their imaginations, the rest was just more of the same. It should be more than enough for Owen and Quinn to understand the nature of my dreams and the memories.

  “Is that where the dream stopped tonight, KC?” Owen asked in a just-the-facts manner.

  “Yes.”

  “What happened next in the memory?” he asked, still matter-of-fact. “I know, sweetheart,” Owen said as a shudder racked through me.