by Dean, Cate
“He betrayed me!”
“He did his job. He protected those he thought were innocent. Let him go, and you have me. I will not fight you, unless you hurt him. Do that, and I will kill you, whatever it takes.”
The darkness around the chief flared, the cold icing her skin. “Are you threatening me?”
“Absolutely.”
With a scream the chief lunged forward—and collapsed like a broken doll. The darkness coiled up from him, and took form, substance, until a tall, rail thin woman stood before Claire, hands on her hips. One look at her, and Claire understood her comment, understood the cruel nickname. Jane was unfortunately blessed with a long neck, and a prominent, narrow nose that overshadowed her thin lips. Waist length white blonde hair floated around her. Along with the black, close fitting shirt and the skirt that brushed her pointed boots, her entire look accentuated the lack of curves.
“I will not be threatened, and I will not be denied what is mine—what should have been mine. And you will be my first vessel.”
Claire shoved down her panic, met the predatory grey eyes. “It will not be as easy as you expect. I’m not what you think, and your power will not sit well with what I am.”
“Is that meant to frighten me? I am more powerful than you can imagine—death only gave me more, made me more. Your insignificant threat means nothing to me.”
Before Claire could react, Jane plunged her fist into Claire’s chest.
They both screamed—Claire in shock, Jane in agony. Jane tried to pull herself free. Claire’s legs buckled as the shock became pain, icy pain that spread out from her chest and snatched her breath away. She reached up to grab Jane’s wrist, knowing her hand would go straight through—and gasped when her grip held, the ghost’s skin real, solid against her fingers.
Darkness crowded her vision, her lungs screaming for the breath she couldn’t take in. Her fingers scrabbled on the arm that trapped her, her body jerking. She couldn’t escape, and this time her now mortal body would die—
Jane’s scream spiraled, and then cut off as she burst into fire and smoke and disappeared.
Something cold and sharp scraped across Claire’s right arm. Through the smoke she smelled iron—and recoiled, knowing it was already too late, that the contact would burn straight to bone—
“Claire!” Simon’s voice jerked her out of the panic, and she realized there was no pain. No acid burn, no blackened, smoking wound. Just the sting of whatever hit her. “Are you okay? I didn’t think I would be able to stop her in time—”
“What did you do?” Her voice rasped out of her throat.
He hefted the stretching cat doorstop still in his hand. “Iron—ghosts hate it. Add in some nice rock salt, and you have an arsenal they can’t fight. You were holding on to her wrist, like she was—”
“Becoming solid.” Claire took in a shaky breath. “She was. We need to get out of here, there will be others—God above, the chief—”
“He’s alive. I don’t want to leave him, but the only way we can help him now is by getting rid of her. For good. Come on.”
Simon hauled her upright, gathered the hematite scattered across the floor and shoved it in his pocket. He helped her over the window ledge, caught her hand and pulled her behind him, heading down the boardwalk at a fast clip. Claire gripped his wrist, fought to keep up with him as he rounded the corner—and nearly ran into him when he skidded to a halt, inches from the shotgun aimed at his chest.
“What did you do to her?” The woman—who didn’t look much older than Lea—stared up at Simon, wearing the darkness and the cold that marked her as one of Jane’s. She shoved the barrel into his chest. “Answer me!”
“She was not harmed.” Claire stepped out from behind him, spoke quietly, in an even tone she reserved for her more skittish customers. “Simon was protecting me—no,” she held up one hand when the woman cocked the trigger. “Please. As deputy, he was doing his job. Just as you are, trying to protect your mistress.”
Simon glanced at Claire. She shook her head, slightly, keeping eye contact with the woman. Her other hand inched down Simon’s wrist, closing over the doorstop still in his hand. Part of her flinched at the cold touch of iron, waiting for it to burn. She just hoped her theory was right—otherwise one of them was probably going to get shot.
“Your loyalty is admirable,” Claire said, holding the woman’s attention. “I know she will reward you for it. And I am so sorry—”
She swung the iron cat up and into the woman’s right side.
The woman let out a choked scream. Simon grabbed the shotgun barrel, shoved it up toward the sky just before it went off. The blast echoed around them.
The darkness flinched, like it had been hurt by the touch of iron, then spiraled above her head and snaked around the building. Claire dropped the doorstop and caught the woman as she toppled, taking them both to the ground.
Leaning over her, Claire brushed tangled brown hair off the shock pale face. The skin under her fingers already began to warm. “She’s not possessed, Simon. I saw it leave her.” He lowered his gun, the shotgun still clutched in his left hand.
The woman stirred, opened her eyes—and jerked upright when she saw Claire. “Where—what am I doing out here? Oh, God—” Brown eyes widened as she remembered. “Deputy Asher—I didn’t—did I hurt you? I had no control—it felt like I was—oh God—I’m so sorry—”
“You are not to blame.” Claire laid one hand on her cheek, wiped away the tears that slipped down her face. “What is your name?”
“Theresa,” she whispered.
Simon filled in the rest. “She’s Bertram’s daughter.”
Claire pushed aside her sympathy. “We have to go, Simon—and I don’t want to leave her here.”
“I’m with you.” He helped Claire stand, held out his hand to Theresa. “Let’s get the hell out of here. We might as well have a huge neon sign blinking right over us after—”
They heard the shuffle of feet, and shouts coming from the far end of the street. Simon yanked Theresa upright. She didn’t need any prodding as they ran along the side of the building, slipping around the corner just ahead of the first gunshots.
Simon grabbed both of them by the hand, dragged them into a narrow alley across the street. His hand transferred to Claire’s waist when she stumbled. She held on, tried to keep up with him. Her chest still ached from Jane’s invasion.
She just had to make it to the cabin. They could mount a defense there if they had to—if they couldn’t shake their pursuit.
I only have to get to the cabin—to Marcus—
Even if she had to crawl.
ELEVEN
Annie paced, until Eric pulled her down to one of the chairs at the small farmhouse table. When she got too antsy to sit, she jumped up and paced more, taking a detour every few passes to check on Marcus.
He was sleeping, and not peacefully. Lea kept him from tumbling off the bed more than once that Annie witnessed, and probably at least a few that she didn’t.
When she didn’t check on Marcus, she stalked to the front window, staring out at the darkness, hoping to see—something. They had been gone too damn long, and if they didn’t show up soon she would—
The door burst open, and Mindy Kay rushed in, her red hair disheveled. Annie leapt forward—she’d been on patrol, watching for—
With a smile she stepped aside, revealing Simon, sweat streaked and carrying a weapon in each hand. He stumbled inside, and before Annie’s heart had a chance to plummet, Claire appeared, her arm around a woman that topped her height by at least three inches—and had a taint attached to her that Annie recognized.
“Son of a bitch—” Annie stalked forward, shut the door and bolted it, then yanked the woman away from Claire. “What are you thinking? She’s been—”
“Possessed. You’re seeing the echo, Annie. She’s clear—trust me, I would know.” Limping forward, she eased the woman out of Annie’s grip, led her to a chair. “Annie, this is The
resa. We—met in town.” She looked up. “The chief is her father.”
“Damn—I’m sorry.” She took the weapons Simon handed her, watched him stride into the bedroom, pulling a handful of hematite out of his pocket. “I’ll take care of her—Simon’s going to need you in there.”
Claire brushed hair off Theresa’s cheek. “Don’t let Annie scare you. She’s all bark. Thank you.”
She limped after Simon, looking like a survivor of some terrible accident, which wasn’t far from the truth. As much as Annie wanted to protect her, she knew Claire would have nothing to do with it until everyone she cared about was safe.
Still chewing on her anger, Annie turned on the woman. “You attack them?”
Theresa stared at her hands. “I wasn’t—yes, I did.”
“You want to make up for it?”
Wiping her cheeks, Theresa looked up at Annie. “Yes, I do.”
“Good. I hope you’re not squeamish, cause we’re about to walk into a big, ugly pile of nasty.” She took Theresa’s arm, pulled her up. “After you.”
*
Claire stood at the end of the bed, watched Simon’s muscled figure bend over Marcus—and noticed for the first time the blood that stained his left shoulder. She remembered him gasping as he covered her in the shop, when the window exploded. He had been injured, and never bothered to say anything.
Moving to him, she touched his left wrist. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”
“Busy.” He glanced over his shoulder. “It can wait, Claire. This can’t.”
Lea waited on the other side of the bed. When he nodded to her she handed over a piece of paper. “I think I got it right. It’s a language I’ve never heard before.”
Simon studied the paper, raised his eyebrows. “It’s Aramaic.” Claire peered at it, then looked up at him. “I studied ancient languages when I lived in Cairo. You did great, Lea. Has he been awake at all?”
Lea nodded, tears filling her eyes. “Just once. He’s been restless, fighting me and talking in his sleep. Every time I touch him he feels hotter.”
Claire stepped to her, one hand brushing her cheek. “You kept him with us. I couldn’t ask for any more.” With a sob, Lea turned into her. Claire wrapped both arms around her, knowing she was beyond exhausted, and probably scared. “Simon?”
“Ready.” He looked over at the doorway; turning, Claire saw Annie, Eric, and Mindy Kay standing there, all of them wearing the same mask of grief. “I’ll need all of you to hold him. The stones have to stay in contact during the blessing—and I’m pretty damn sure this is going to hurt him.”
They moved around the bed, each one silently taking a limb. Claire noticed Theresa, huddling next to the doorway. So did Simon, and he waved her in. She shook her head, backing away from them.
“I could hurt him,” she said. “Because of—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Annie stalked over to her and grabbed her hand. “You’re not poisonous. You can hold the paper for Simon, since I’m sure he has to be touching Marcus when he does the blessing.”
With a smile, Simon held out the paper. “You can, and I will.”
Claire looked over at Annie. “Thank you.”
Shrugging, Annie smiled. It faded when she took Marcus’ right ankle. “He’s burning up. We need to do this.”
Simon was already busy, laying hematite along either side of the injured arm. He looked up, nodded to them. “Hold him tight—it’s going to be a bumpy ride.”
He started chanting, his deep voice bringing the ancient language to life. When the first stone touched Marcus he bolted awake.
Claire gripped his right shoulder. “I’m here, Marcus. Look at me—focus on me.” He turned his head, and it took all her control not to flinch when she met his eyes. The once rich, striated green was laid over with grey, and shadowed by death.
“Claire.” His sand raw whisper scraped over her skin, over her heart. And the realization jolted her. Somehow this man, this Jinn, found a way through her barriers, and it shook her to the core. Heaven above— “This effort will do—”
“Keep talking, Jinn, and watch how fast I shut you down.” She put her weight on his shoulder when she saw another stone headed for his bare chest. It made contact—and his raw scream bounced off the walls. “Marcus—Marcus!”
Four strong adults pinned him to the bed, but he still managed to arch away from Simon, his back bowing up, every muscle shaking and clenched. Tears burned her eyes as she held on to him, Simon’s deep, resonant voice repeating the blessing, over and over. With a raw cry, Marcus stopped fighting and collapsed to the bed.
Her heart pounded as she checked for a pulse. It beat under her searching fingers, thin, thready. She framed his face, his skin grey against the wild black curls. “Stay with me. Focus on my voice.” Tears slipped down her face. Ignoring them, she leaned in and brushed her lips over his cheek. “If you die, so help me I will follow you to wherever you Jinn fall and drag you back.”
He opened his eyes, the poison polluting their jade green depths. “I would—like to see that.”
He arched away from her as Simon’s voice rose, the power of the blessing charging the air, and she knew it would be now or not at all for Marcus. His broken voice slid under Simon’s and spoke the blessing, matching word for word. Then with a last, violent shudder he went limp.
“No—Marcus—” Claire pushed tangled curls off his face, his skin suddenly cold and clammy under her hands. “Marcus—”
“Let me in, Claire.” Eric gently pulled her away, leaned over him. When she started to shake Annie closed both hands over her shoulders, and wrapped her in an embrace. Lowering her head, she braced herself for the bad news. “He’s still with us.”
Claire felt her legs give under her. “Whoa—I’ve got you, honey. Just lean on me.” Annie caught her around the waist. “Let’s get you out of here. You’ll just be in the way now.” She led Claire out of the bedroom and settled her into a chair at the table, then crouched next to her. “Look at me, Claire.” Warm brown eyes met hers, the love and concern in them overwhelming. “You need to take a breather. Sit for a minute, or ten. I know I can’t talk you into a nap, but at least sit here. I’m going to find myself a comb and see what we can do with your hair.”
A surprised laugh burst out of Claire. “Only you, Annie.”
Glancing over her shoulder, Annie grinned. “You betcha. Here we go.” She pulled a wide tooth comb out of her purse and pulled another chair over, sitting behind Claire. “God, what a mess. This is probably going to hurt.”
Her fingers were gentle as they worked on the messy knot. Claire let out a sigh, closed her eyes, the human touch soothing. Until Annie snagged a tangle and nearly yanked the hair out of her scalp.
“God above—” Claire gripped the offending hunk of hair. “Just cut it, Annie.”
“But—I’ve always loved your hair, that beautiful, rich brown, the way it just floats around you. I can’t—”
“Annie.” Claire looked over her shoulder. “It’s just hair.”
“Right.” Annie let out her breath. “I’ll see if I can hunt down some scissors. Who’s place is this, anyway?”
“Mine.” Simon walked out of the bedroom, pale and sweaty. “A member of my church rented it for me, in case I needed a place not connected to me.”
“Are you sure you’re a priest?” Annie said.
Simon laughed. “Last I checked. And Eric already treated my shoulder, Claire, so stop staring at me, waiting for me to fall over. It was just a small—”
“Hunk of glass.” Eric came in behind him, wiping his hands on an already bloody dishtowel. “And not small. But staying imbedded kept him from bleeding more than he did—though it must have hurt like a bitch.”
Simon shrugged, wincing at the movement. “I’ve had worse.” He sat, slowly, faced Claire and took her hands. “Marcus is stable, for now. The blessing, and the stones, seems to have halted the damage. I don’t know what to do beyond that, except
keep him warm, and safe, until we end this.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. Simon squeezed her hands, studied her with those clear green eyes. “I know—I look like hell.”
“I’m afraid it’s only going to get worse.” Letting her go, he leaned back in the chair. “We have to stop her, before whatever she’s doing to bring herself back to life is completed.”
*
Dishing up the canned stew he found in a cupboard, Eric watched his friends—old and new—gather around the table like a ragtag army, planning and arguing every detail of that plan. Lea was in the bedroom with Marcus, overriding the protests that she needed a break with the simple statement that she owed him her life. Even Claire had no argument for that. Eric went in and set a bowl for her on the bedside table.
“You call if you need me.”
She covered the hand on her shoulder, smiled up at him. “Thanks. That brown stuff masquerading as food actually smells good enough to eat.”
“I hope you’re not a vegetarian.”
Her laughter floated over him. “Every man in my family hunts. I would have been thrown out for a traitor if I even said the word.”
Eric kissed the top of her head, leaned over to check Marcus’ pulse one more time. Slow, steady, but too weak for his liking.
“Eat, and rest, while you have the chance.”
Heading back into the kitchen, he took his own portion, sat down in a vacant chair, and watched the show.
Annie shot her own comments into the conversation, and at the same time carefully cut away the hopelessly tangled length of Claire’s hair. The soft waves curled up as they were cut, brushing her shoulders. It fascinated Eric to watch the female reactions; Annie’s obvious pain as she worked the scissors, Mindy Kay gathering up the strands, keeping them out of Claire’s view.
Theresa—still visibly uncomfortable—picked at her stew, while Simon devoured his and told Claire the short hair made her look years younger. Eric hid his smile.
