He had returned again and again, and she couldn’t guess what his presence meant.
“You’re close now, aren’t you? Come out and show yourself,” she challenged. “Or are you a coward?”
“I am no coward.”
The answer echoed in the darkened room. She had spoken the words with her own lips. But she sensed the wolf’s truth.
Chapter 1
A wolf mates for life. And what if his mate is killed? Does he slog through existence without her? Or does he find a way to end his misery?
Grant Marshall turned the question over in his mind as he drove down the two-lane highway toward Sea Gate, New Jersey.
He had opened the window partway, and a cold breeze off the ocean blew back the dark hair from his forehead. He knew he needed a haircut. He’d get one at the barber shop in town and hopefully get the locals talking about last month’s murder.
He wasn’t the kind of man who naturally started conversations with strangers, but necessity had changed his habits.
Once, he’d built houses. Now he was a vigilante—dedicating every moment of his existence to finding the man who had killed his life mate.
And when he had sent the devil’s spawn back to hell, he would plunge into the cold sea and swim away from shore—until his strength gave out and he could join Marcy.
That is, if they let werewolves into heaven.
He dragged in a lungful of the damp air, imagining that he could catch the scent of evil drifting toward him. Did the killer live in this town? Or was he only passing through—as he had passed through so many communities in the last eight years.
Marcy hadn’t been the killer’s first victim. Or his final one. But Grant was close on his heels now. He knew the signs. Knew the kind of woman he preyed on. He knew how to search the Internet and newspapers for the creature’s spoor. He would track down the monster and make sure it never took another life.
He reached the town limits, then cruised down Atlantic Avenue, which was a block from the ocean. It featured a commercial district overflowing with art galleries, real estate agencies, and t-shirt shops, most of which were closed for the season. But the all-year-round establishments like the drugstore, grocery, and cleaners were still open for business.
At the far end of the main drag and on several side streets, he saw Victorian-era houses in various states of repair. Some rivaled the decorative splendor of New Orleans’s famous painted ladies. Others were worn by salt, wind, and rain.
He found the murder house on Maple Street. A blackened wound in the flesh of the town, much like the remains of the home where his wife had died.
Seeing the charred remnants of the structure made his throat close, and he gripped the steering wheel to steady himself.
He should drive on past and wait until tonight to poke through the ruins of Elizabeth Jefferson’s life. A wolf could pick up more clues than a man.
Yet he couldn’t stop himself from pulling to the curb, then climbing out.
He walked around the foundation of the structure, breathing in the scents of burned wood and a crowd of people. The place had been a regular sideshow attraction. He was halfway around the blackened derelict when his sharp ears told him he had made a tactical error.
A car was gliding slowly to a stop in back of his SUV. Turning, he saw it was a patrol car.
Shit.
He kept the curse locked in his throat as a cop climbed out of the cruiser, wearing a blue uniform and an attitude. He appeared to be in his late thirties, with close-cropped blond hair and piercing gray eyes. The black plastic tag on his chest said his name was Wright. Probably he thought he always was.
“Mind telling me what you’re doing here?” he said, his voice lacking any touch of warmth.
Grant stood with his hands at his sides, hoping his body language made it clear that he wasn’t going to pull out a concealed weapon.
“I read about the incident here. I thought I’d stop by the house where it happened.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m considering buying property in town,” he answered, giving the cover story he’d been using for the past two years when he came to investigate one of the murder sites.
“Let me see your driver’s license, please,” the cop said.
Grant pulled his wallet from his pocket, fished out the plastic card, and handed it over.
Wright studied the license, comparing Grant’s dark eyes and hair to the man in the photograph. And his six-foot height, hundred and ninety pounds to the written description. He’d lost some weight since Marcy’s death, and he’d never gained it back. But the license was otherwise accurate.
“You’re from Pennsylvania, Mr. Marshall?” the cop said in a flat voice.
“Yes.”
“What are you doing down here?”
“Like I said, I’m looking to buy a home in a town on the ocean.”
“Why here? Are you some kind of vulture?”
“I’m a prudent investor.”
Wright walked to his cruiser. Grant followed, standing back as the cop checked his name on the onboard computer.
Even though he was sure nothing was going to come up, he could feel his heart drumming inside his chest.
“You’re clean.” The officer sounded sorry about that as he handed back the ID.
“Yeah,” Grant agreed, glad that his license didn’t have “werewolf” stamped across the front.
“We don’t need outsiders coming in and taking advantage of our . . . tragic circumstances.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Grant said, using the mild voice that worked best with aggressive small-town cops.
He felt the man’s eyes on his back as he got into his SUV and started the engine. The cop followed him to Atlantic Avenue, then sped away with his lights flashing, probably racing home for a late lunch.
SWINGING back the way he’d come, Grant turned onto Norfolk Street. He intended to stay in town until his business was finished. Now he knew from the get-go that he’d have to watch out for the law.
As he turned another corner, a sign caught his eye. It said BED AND BREAKFAST, CLOSED FOR THE SEASON.
Under it was an additional line that said TAROT CARD READINGS.
He made a snorting noise. He had never gone in for mumbo jumbo like fortune-telling, and he had no intention of starting now. No intention at all. But some impulse caused him to stop for the second time since reaching Sea Gate.
Pulling up beside a neatly trimmed hedge, he studied the house and grounds. The Victorian’s clapboard siding was painted dove gray, with darker gray trim. Neatly tended gardens surrounded the structure, and several bird feeders hung from the lower branches of large, old trees.
What the hell, he thought. Maybe she can tell me if this is the week I get lucky.
As he rang the bell, he was picturing a stoop-shouldered crone wearing a shapeless dress and knit shawl over her plump shoulders.
“Yes?”
The woman who answered the door uttered only that one brisk syllable, then went very still.
He fought to quickly rearrange his thinking. Instead of a housedress over a dumpy figure, she was wearing gray wool slacks and an emerald-green sweater that showed off her slender curves. She looked to be in her late twenties, although a streak of white at her forehead split her shoulder-length dark brown hair, drawing attention to her lush, shiny curls. But he was more interested in her blue eyes. Though she seemed to be focusing on his face, there was something strange about the way she regarded him.
It took several seconds for him to realize that she was blind.
“I was looking for the tarot card reader,” he said.
“You found her.”
“But . . .”
ANTONIA fought a sudden sharp stab of panic. He might leave. And she couldn’t let that happen. Hoping her face showed none of the tension coursing through her, she said, “I’ve been working with tarot cards for a long time. I don’t need to see them to read their meaning.”
; An eternity elapsed as he considered the statement. Finally, he answered. “Okay.”
She had to gulp in a breath of air before she could manage to say, “Come in.”
Then she waited with her pulse pounding while he stepped into the front hall and closed the door.
Hoping she didn’t look like a nutcase, she led the way to the table in the corner of the lounge with its comfortable upholstered chairs.
She didn’t need to see where she was going. She knew the landscape of this house as well as she knew her own body. Every piece of furniture was where she had placed it. Every cup and saucer was put away where she could find it.
She needed that order in her life. And usually her control of the environment left her feeling calm and confident.
Not now—because she sensed something unsettling and at the same time compelling radiating from this man.
She had learned to form quick impressions of people. That was more difficult when you couldn’t see their eyes. But she liked the deep timbre of his voice. Liked the clean, woodsy scent that clung to him. Not from aftershave, but from some unnamed quality all his own.
Yet it wasn’t voice or scent that commanded her to keep him here. It was fear—that he would leave her and do something that could never be set right.
She didn’t really know what that meant. She only knew she had to find out what was troubling him—for his sake and for hers.
She sat down, then listened for the small sound of chair legs scraping across the rug. When she heard it and knew he’d joined her at the table, she let out a small sigh.
The cards were sitting where she’d left them. She picked up the deck and shuffled.
“I should have introduced myself,” she said. “I’m Antonia Delarosa.”
“Grant Marshall.”
He didn’t offer to shake her hand, but she knew he must be watching her, probably deciding whether to go through with a reading. Should she offer to do it for free? No. Instead of reassuring him, that would probably drive him away.
She wanted to study his expression, judge what he was thinking. She’d been sighted for the first twenty-five years of her life, and she wanted to see this man. If she couldn’t do it with her eyes, she wanted to use her hands. But that would step over a social boundary she couldn’t cross, so she kept her fingers on the cards.
“I guess you’re wondering if you’ve made a major mistake by coming here,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady.
When he didn’t answer, she went on. “I charge fifty dollars for a reading, and I can refund your money if you’re not satisfied. But I think you will be. I’ve had psychic abilities since I was a little girl.”
He cleared his throat. “Like what?”
She had stories waiting at her fingertips. Setting down the cards, she said, “I’d know things—things that I couldn’t explain by normal means. I remember when I was seven, waking up crying—worried about my parents. My baby-sitter couldn’t calm me down, and it turned out Mom and Dad had been in an automobile accident. She broke her shoulder and collarbone, and my dad had a concussion.”
Into the silence from across the table, she went on. “That’s just an extreme example. I knew other stuff. Not necessarily anything monumental. Like maybe whether a friend was going to call me on the phone. When I grew up, I did tarot card readings in New Orleans, before I lost my sight. People came back to me again and again. And they recommended me to their friends.”
“How did your parents react to your making a living that way?” he asked, and she sensed that the answer to the question was important.
“The talent has been in my family for years. It was something we all knew about and accepted.”
“So you can see the future?” Again, tension infused the question.
“You want to know your future?”
“I want to know . . .” He stopped, swallowed, drumming his fingers against the tabletop.
She never pushed people to reveal more than they were willing to tell her. She always let a querent—a person who came to her for a reading—give her information at his own pace.
Breaking one of her own rules, she reached across the space that separated them and found his hand. It was large and warm and strong, with a hint of callus between his thumb and index finger. When she stroked her own thumb along his palm, she couldn’t hold back a strangled exclamation.
Chapter 2
“WHAT?” the man across the table asked sharply, pulling his hand away.
“It wasn’t your fault. The fire.”
He made a low, angry sound. “She didn’t die in the fire. Whoever killed her poisoned her first.”
Antonia gasped, but Grant Marshall was already speaking again. “I should have been home with her!” The words came out as a menacing growl that would have sent her running in the other direction if she hadn’t been glued to her chair.
She and this stranger were speaking a kind of shorthand now. They’d met only minutes ago. He hadn’t told her that someone had burned up his house with his wife inside. She’d pulled that terrible image from his mind. And more. The fire had left him with scars. Not physical marks but guilt and unbearable pain that ate at his soul.
“You didn’t know anything bad was going to happen.”
Antonia had uttered that phrase many times in the past. Sometimes it gave comfort. Not now. There was only one thing that would give Grant Marshall any kind of cold comfort. And he didn’t want her to know about it.
He stood up. “This is a mistake,” he said, sounding angry.
Desperation came out as a plea. “Don’t leave.”
“You . . . see too much.”
“Maybe I can help you find him,” she said quickly, then sat with the breath frozen in her lungs.
He stood a few feet away, but she imagined she could hear his heart pounding.
When the chair scraped back again and he sat down, she allowed herself to breathe.
“You got that picture of the burned house from my head,” he said in a voice that told her he didn’t want to believe her insight.
“Because you’ve been focused on it for a long time.”
“What else are you going to see?” he asked.
His wary tone made her tread carefully. More than you want me to see, she silently admitted. She was still frightened. Not of him, although she knew violence was not far from the surface of his mind. That should worry her. Yet she was more worried that she would drive him away if she said too much.
“Let’s use the cards,” she said, wondering what she was going to do now. She couldn’t be dishonest with him. That would violate her personal code of ethics. Yet she’d learned to soften bad news.
“I’ve never asked for a tea leaf reading. Or anything else like that. Maybe you’d better tell me something about these cards,” he said, buying them both a little time.
“Well, I don’t mess with tea leaves.” She laughed. “All I’d get from them is wet fingers.”
Ignoring her attempt at a joke, he pressed for more information. “Then how do you read the cards?”
“Braille markings. After that, because I know the pictures so well, I see them in my head.” She went on quickly, “The tarot deck has seventy-eight cards. They’re divided into the twenty-two Major Arcana, cards which reference the archetypal passages in our lives, and the fifty-six Minor Arcana which deal more with day-to-day life.”
Sensing that he was listening intently, she pushed the deck toward him. “Take a look at them. Each one is full of symbolism. Some go all the way back to Egyptian mythology or the Hebrew Cabala. But it’s all open to interpretation. And no card is either good or bad. It’s all in context.”
She heard him shuffling through the deck. “What about this one? With Death riding a white horse.”
She heard the strong emotion in his voice, emotion he was struggling to hide. She knew why he had pulled out the card. He was contemplating his own demise, but she didn’t need to tell him that.
Instead, she
said, “It looks scary, but it’s not so bad. It can symbolize transformation or rebirth. The king is dead! Long live the king! It can come up when people are going through lifestyle changes. It can signify that it’s time to move on. It can mark new beginnings rather than endings.”
It seemed he was too restless to stay seated across from her. He put the cards down, got up from the table, and paced the room.
“You know why I came here?” he asked.
“To my house? Or to Sea Gate?”
“Sea Gate.”
She swallowed. Again she wondered how much to say. “You know there was a similar murder here. You think it’s related, and you hope the person who did it is still in town.”
“Yeah.”
Unspoken words hung heavy in the air between them.
Under the table, she squeezed her hands into fists, considering her next move. She knew she was taking a chance when she said, “In the summer, I run this place as a bed and breakfast. Well, I have people who do the actual work. There are plenty of rooms. You could stay here.”
“I wouldn’t be very good company.”
“I’m not looking for company. And I could use the money,” she added, not because money was really an issue, but because it might help him make up his mind. “I can give you a winter discount, a hundred dollars a night. For the room and breakfast.”
Again she held her breath, waiting. When he said, “All right,” she felt almost dizzy with relief.
“You can bring your luggage in,” she said quickly.
When he walked toward the door, she wasn’t sure whether he was walking out of her life. And she’d never been more frustrated in her blindness. She wanted to follow him to the car and see that he was getting his suitcase. But that would surely send him away.
Her own anxiety shocked her. She was desperate to keep this man from killing himself. More than that, she ached to make him realize that life was worth living. But she couldn’t force him to see things her way, so she pushed back her chair with deliberate slowness and walked into the hall.
Cravings Page 23
