by Jory Strong
Endings. Transitions. Rarely does the thirteenth card represent actual physical death, she told herself as she slipped them into her purse.
But it can, her inner voice said. It can represent physical death. She knew that only too well now.
Bryn turned and found Atticus watching her, the carton of Cherry Garcia in one hand, a spoon in the other. Even in the jumble of frightening thoughts urging her to run she still thought he was gorgeous, still thought she was halfway in love with him.
Her gaze skittered to the bed, where the tethers she’d bound him with hung decadently over the sides of the mattress. The sight of them anchored her, reminded her of the pleasure given and received, steadied her heartbeat and calmed her.
She was over-emotional, imagining things, she told herself. Seeing an angel of death would do that to anyone. Witnessing death would do that to anyone.
A shudder went through Bryn, leaving her feeling weak. She forced herself to close the distance between them, to put her hand on his arm.
It was warm, human, his scent masculine, his expression so caring she nearly started crying again. “I’m going to go see my friend Ava.”
She wanted to tell him she was having a tough time dealing with Ester’s death, with the idea that there would be more like it. She wanted to tell him it was making her question her sanity, her judgment, that she hoped having Ava handle the cards would help her regain her emotional balance. Instead Bryn tightened her fingers on Atticus’ arm in a gesture that begged him to give her time and space, that reassured her he was solid, real.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said, her failure to invite him to go with her adding weight to the air around them.
Pain ripped through Atticus’ heart. Fear. Regret. Death had built a wall between them and he didn’t know how to tear it down.
He braced himself for rejection as he reached for her and pulled her into his arms. The urge to strip her out of her clothing, to make love to her and reaffirm life shocked him with its intensity, nearly overwhelmed him.
“Bryn,” he whispered, holding her, rubbing his cheek against the soft silk of her hair. She was teetering on the verge of recognizing who and what he was. But her rational mind anchored her ability to deny what deep inside she knew.
He should say something, do something to prepare her for what was to come and yet words and actions eluded him as they stood near the precipice of their future together.
He was Death but he was also Atticus Denali. She was his wife, the one chosen to walk at his side and not merely pass through his shadow.
Perhaps he should have parted the shroud separating him from the knowledge that was his birthright. He could have seen that Ester’s mortal life was at its end, had wondered briefly if her time was near when her mind painted his face into the memory of her aunt and sister’s passing.
No doubt she’d felt their impending death, dressed it as a dark-suited stranger, a child’s vision of an undertaker at her aunt’s bedside, the image revisited in later years at her sister’s death. Her ability to see the ghost in her family’s private cemetery testified to her sensitivity.
But even now he couldn’t regret his choice not to know or interfere. Death was a brief moment, a step between a life lived and what came next. And yet he wouldn’t have had Ester take that step unattended, her fear heightened because she was alone.
“Bryn,” he whispered again, smoothing his hand down her spine, wanting her to melt against him as she always had before. “Do you believe in soul mates?” he asked, the question emerging from the tangle of his thoughts and emotions.
A shiver went through her, the subtle struggle of the subconscious to be heard. “Yes,” she said, the word barely audible.
He cupped her cheek, used his touch to coax her into looking up at his face. It’s too soon, he thought, and yet it was also too late. They were already bound together as man and wife. Only the Oracle of Amun could sever that bond and set Bryn’s soul free.
“You’re my soul mate,” Atticus whispered, “the only woman for me. Accept me for who I am just as you want me to accept who you are.”
He lowered his mouth to hers. Pain ripped a hole in his heart when she tensed. Pleasure healed the wound when she finally softened in his arms, her lips yielding, parting, her tongue greeting his, tentatively at first, then with more confidence.
Love coursed through him, tender and fierce, all consuming. It made him feel possessive, protective, transcended the physical need to couple with her even as it ratcheted up the desire to do so.
He said with his kiss what he couldn’t yet put in words, what she wasn’t ready to hear. He told her of his love, his desire, gave her his promise to honor and cherish, to care for her.
Only a hint of wariness remained in her eyes when the kiss ended. Hope fluttered through his chest at the reprieve though a tight knot of worry formed in his stomach. Time was running out. When his vacation ended there would be no shielding Bryn from the truth.
“I’ll be back after I visit my friend,” she said.
Atticus brushed his thumb over her lips. “I’ll be here.”
He let her go, watched from the doorway as she drove away, and felt utterly alone when he returned to her living quarters. Quiet descended on him, making him agitated rather than peaceful.
He paced, paused to look at her books, to study the poster art on her walls, to handle the knickknacks she’d collected. They were all Bryn but it was only because of her that they held meaning for him.
Desolation threatened to swamp him. Surrounded by her things, by the memories they’d made over the last days, her absence now, with things unresolved between them was intolerable, nearly unbearable.
He couldn’t lose her. Every road she might take led back to him. That kept him sane. But as Atticus paced and waited, the weight of the human experience settled more heavily on him and his admiration for them grew. That they could risk emotional devastation by loving deeply and without regret in the face of life’s tenuous nature took courage, an amazing amount of courage.
Chapter Twelve
Bryn placed the five Death cards on the counter. She was relieved when Ava’s sole reaction was lifted eyebrows before looking down to study them.
“I’d say old, as in, very valuable collector-old,” Ava said.
“I thought so too,” Bryn said, biting her bottom lip to keep from saying more since Ava wouldn’t appreciate any additional information, anything that might influence the reading.
Even though the cards weren’t in any particular order, Ava picked up the one left by Suriel the Trumpeter first, then unerringly picked up the one left by Charon the Coachman next.
Goose bumps crawled along Bryn’s arms when Ava selected the card left by Seker third, followed by the one left at Ester’s house, and finally the one waiting when she got home.
She crossed her arms, tried to draw some comfort in the fact that Ava hadn’t run screaming from the room, didn’t seem particularly alarmed by what she sensed in the cards.
In reverse order Ava picked them up again, this time with her eyes closed. When she reached the first one she said, “There’s a lot of energy in these cards. They are old, extremely old, not just high quality reproductions. They’ve passed through a lot of hands though most of them were a long time ago. They’ve been playing cards and divination cards. And despite the fact they all say Death on them, I’m not sensing any implied threat. They seem more like those visiting cards aristocrats liked to use in the seventeenth century.”
Ava touched each one of them again. “Recently they’ve been handled by six different men. But all of them belong to one of the men, someone extremely close to you, not just physically close but emotionally, a soul mate, a—” Ava opened her eyes, a question in them, a hint of hurt feelings. “Did you sneak off to Vegas and get married? Do these belong to your husband?”
Bryn’s obvious shock answered the question and caused Ava’s eyebrows to draw together. She closed her eyes again, concen
trated on the cards as Bryn’s head filled for an instant with white noise.
Even after a lifetime of dealing with ghosts, Bryn didn’t want to believe, still found it nearly impossible to believe, to accept. For long moments she clung, wrapped herself in denial. But in the end she couldn’t hide from a truth her subconscious had already arrived at.
Five cards. Five brothers.
Do you believe in soul mates? he’d asked before she left.
Yes, but— She’d always thought her soul mate would be human.
You are my soul mate, the only woman for me. Accept me for who I am just as you want me to accept who you are.
Her heart raced in her chest, pounded and thundered as she tried to process lightning-fast thoughts, as her world turned on an axis that jarred with the reality she had always known— And yet her reality was different than most people’s. What made her think it was the only one when it came to the supernatural?
She’d never met a man who felt so right for her, so perfect—until Atticus. When she was with him she felt completely free to be herself.
I have a professional interest in death, he’d said and she’d immediately labeled him a mortician.
He’d told her repeatedly it was the two of them together that were responsible for the manifestations of Death—for the greetings from his brothers, he’d meant, though she’d come to believe it was her ability to see ghosts combined with his belief in a death entity that were the reason everything was so different.
“So what gives?” Ava asked, opening her eyes and spearing Bryn with a look, interrupting the wild flow of thoughts going through Bryn’s mind.
Bryn scooped the cards up and returned them to her purse. “I think I need to find that out myself,” she said, skirting the counter and hugging Ava before exiting the store.
She could run. But what was the use in that? Especially if he wasn’t what he appeared to be, human, if he was what she’d come to believe he might be.
There was a calmness that came with accepting. The image of Ester reaching for Azrael’s hand flashed through Bryn’s mind but she pushed it away, not ready to go there yet. Not ready to think about the deeper issues of what it might mean to be Atticus’ soul mate, his wife, as Ava believed.
Lost in the fog of her thoughts Bryn didn’t register Mark’s presence until she was in her car driving—and suddenly he was there, in her rearview mirror, in her backseat, a gun in his hand.
Terror held Bryn in its grip, froze her foot to the gas pedal and her eyes to the mirror for a horror-filled second. She saw her death in his gaze and had it confirmed when he said, “I don’t have anything left to lose, Bryn. You shouldn’t have sent her away, especially when she didn’t want to go.”
Ice filled Bryn’s chest as she drove, staying on course to her apartment, to Atticus. “What are you talking about Mark?”
“Don’t lie to me!” he screamed, face contorting into anguished rage, the barrel of the gun jamming into the back of her seat hard enough for her to feel it, to know it was just as deadly there as pressed against her temple.
She didn’t dare slam on the brakes and wreck the car. She couldn’t risk that the gun was loaded, the safety off, his finger on the trigger.
A sick feeling crept into Bryn. Realization dawned as she neared her office and thought of the unexpected tarot card she’d found there and what it must represent, of Atticus’ unexpected absence and early morning return with a carton of Cherry Garcia ice cream.
“No!” Mark shouted from the back seat, jarring Bryn from her thoughts. “Drive to my house. You’re going to bring her back or we’re going to join her.”
The destruction in the kitchen made Bryn gasp in shock. It was shades of the bookman’s fury, only the fight he’d put up was nothing compared to Mark’s mother.
Furniture lay overturned and broken. Silverware and cooking utensils were embedded in the wall around the kitchen door and in the hallway. Shattered glass and plates littered the floor, turning it into a minefield and leaving the counter bare except for a Ouija board.
“You didn’t know?” Mark asked, his voice sounding like a lost child, giving her hope that she would survive this encounter.
“I didn’t know. When did this happen?”
“Last night. I came home from work this morning and she was gone.”
Mark’s hand tightened on Bryn’s wrist. His grief translated into a jolt of pain up her arm.
“If you want to bring her back we’ll need special candles for the séance,” Bryn said, keeping her voice calm, soothing, confident, the desire to stay alive making the lie come easily and without remorse.
“What kind of candles?” he asked, his grip on her arm loosening.
She’d had time in the car to think about it, to plan. She prayed she wasn’t putting Ava in danger but she didn’t think Mark would strike out at a stranger.
“The only place you can get them is from the occult shop on Boulay Street.”
Suspicion tightened his face. “You were just there.”
She nodded, not surprised to learn he’d followed her there before breaking into her car and waiting. “I wanted to consult with Ava about some tarot cards,” Bryn said, giving him a truth in order to strengthen the lie. “She’s got a witch friend who makes candles for her to sell in the shop. The ones we need for the séance are special, they help open the ghostway so a spirit can be called through it. They’re really expensive, Mark, and they have to be destroyed afterward but if you want to do this—”
“I do.”
“Then we need the candles for the séance.”
* * * * *
Atticus knew fear when his brothers appeared in front of him, their faces remaining somber as they took in the restraints still attached to the bed, the erotic romance book in his hands. His first thought was of Bryn, that something had happened to her.
“What is it?” he asked, rising, tossing the book to the bed.
“We were called to the Oracle of Amun,” Sammael said.
The tension drained from Atticus with a suddenness that left him weak. Given their recent antics, he wasn’t surprised. “What did the Oracle say?”
His brothers exchanged worried glances. “She forbade us interfering or coming to you until Bryn’s life was in the hands of another.”
The fear returned in a rush. “Where’s Bryn?”
“With her suitor.”
“Where?”
Sammael shook his head. “We’re not allowed to say.” His hand reached out to grip Atticus’ arm. “We would though, and suffer the penalty for it if it were in your best interest or your wife’s. But it’s not.”
Atticus covered his brother’s hand with his, saw the pain and worry in Sammael’s eyes, the frustration at being used as a pawn in the Oracle’s game. He acknowledged it with a nod.
“I’ll find her on my own then,” Atticus said, adrenaline pulsing through him, his destination crystallized by the time he got to the Aston Martin.
There was only one place a man obsessed with his mother’s ghost would go, and that was home.
* * * * *
Bryn tried not to let terror overwhelm her as Mark used duct tape to secure her to a chair, which he then secured to the pantry doorknobs. She hadn’t expected him to trust her when he went for the candles but she’d hoped he’d lock her in a bathroom or closet.
Stay calm, she told herself. It’s a good plan. Ava will know I’m in trouble as soon as he asks for the “special” candles.
They’d had more than one conversation about the ghostways, the impossibility of bringing back spirits who’d entered them. And though Ava didn’t generally “read” people, she’d pick up the vibes around Mark and find a way of getting his address. Bryn had to believe that.
“I’m sorry, Bryn,” Mark said as he tore a dishcloth and used it to gag her.
His voice had lost its desperate edge and that helped calm her, made it easier to bear his touch without flinching, to meet his eyes with compassion and underst
anding in hers.
She could freak out later. After. But now she needed to continue restoring his trust.
Trust. A shiver went through Bryn as the image of Atticus tied to her bed rose in her mind. It surprised her that she could think about it now, and yet there’d been such beauty in his face, his straining body, in what had happened between them. Even with what she suspected, she knew she’d let Atticus tether her to the bed. In the face of this death she realized she trusted him, believed absolutely in the sincerity of his claim that they were soul mates.
If—no, when she got away from Mark then she would confront Atticus with her suspicions, face her fears of the unknown head-on. She felt the rightness of being with him even if she didn’t understand what it meant for the two of them.
* * * * *
In the daylight Atticus saw the military precision of the yard. Shrubs trimmed to rigid conformity. Grass clipped short like a military haircut.
The absence of a car in the driveway sent fear skittering along his nerve endings and roiling through his stomach. He’d gambled Bryn would be here. He couldn’t allow himself to think he’d lost.
He kicked the door and the wood yielded under the force he applied, adrenaline and resolve giving him superhuman strength. Upstairs was the war zone he remembered. He took only enough time to check behind every door before crashing down the stairs.
“Bryn!” he said, emotion pummeling him when he found her in the kitchen.
Uncaring of the debris, he knelt before her, ripped the gag from her mouth and covered her lips with his own. She greeted him with passion, sobbed into his mouth in relief and fear.
“How did you know?” she asked, pulling at her bonds.
He cupped her face, wiped away her tears with his thumbs and couldn’t lie to her now that she was safe. “My brothers,” he said, relief sliding through him when she didn’t seem puzzled or surprised.
Reluctantly his hands left her face. He struggled for a moment with the duct tape before saying, “I need something to cut this with.”
