“What makes you say that?” He dropped it near the swing but didn’t sit.
“I stood on it to change the porch bulb last week. The cushion is covering a size six hole.” She scooted over, leaving space for him beside her. “You're right about the Pathfinder Vessel connection. Your close proximity makes the souls settle.” She patted the seat. “I could sure use some peace.”
How could he refuse her? God knew he didn’t want to. But the old wicker chair without its bottom would have been safer.
Shit. Since when had he ever played it safe? Sitting beside her, the wide wooden slats creaked. He nudged the floor with his foot and set the swing to a slow rock, and then snuck his arm behind her to stretch across the back of the swing.
Crickets eked out their nightly song, a comforting chant that usually worked magic on him tea brewed from weeds could not. He closed his eyes and simply listened.
“You change as soon as your foot hits this porch,” she said, her voice gentle. “Without fail.”
“I never change.” He slanted one eye open to peer at her. “Okay. How?”
Balancing her cup of tea on the broken chair, she angled toward him. “You relax. You lose all your gotta-be-a-hot-shot-attitude. I like it. It makes the souls relax. It makes me relax, too.”
She pulled her bare feet up under her and expelled a long, contented sigh. “You become—more you. I’m guessing it reminds the country boy in you of home.”
“And you think I’m a country boy because…”
“Because”—she rested her head on the back of the swing and gazed up at him, eyes shining like the stars— “your affinity for nothing but blue jeans and shit kickers. For southern fried rock. For your love of this out-of-the-way cottage with only squirrels for neighbors. And that accent of yours. It’s like you speak the language of the trees and wind. You’re connected to nature right down to the bone.”
She looped a strand of hair around her finger, twirled it and watched him. “You may not want to admit it, but I know you pretty well, partner.”
She had him pegged pretty good.
But not entirely. Maybe it was time to completely bare his soul. Secrets had eaten away his insides long enough.
He knew her damn well, too. She was the one person he could trust.
Completely.
“You do.” Clearing his throat, he gathered up all his courage. “And you don't.”
“Hmmm.” She sat up a little straighter. “Then what am I missing?”
The swing’s chain creaked out a slow and steady rhythm, while he considered how to start. Mouth dry, he gulped down what remained in her mug. Tepid as old dishwater, the tea tasted as bad as it smelled.
She was his partner and best friend. More than Swift had been. Without question, she’d stand by him no matter what.
But that warm glint in her eyes—the glint that promised of more than friendship. After tonight, it would disappear. Forever.
Maybe that would be for the best. Then he could let go of hope for good.
“I have a feeling tea isn’t going to cut it.” She slid her feet to the porch, edging to get up.
“No.” He got up, brusquely. The swing jerked as wildly as his heart, knowing he would bring back more than a couple of beers. “I got it. Stay here.”
He ducked inside, letting the screen door slam behind him and strode right for his closet. Squatting, he flipped open the lid on the ancient cigar box and removed one of the two items inside, a folded newspaper clipping.
Under it lay a little velvet sack.
He hadn’t remembered storing it there and thought about its contents for all of a second.
Yeah. Perfect. Time for that, too. He picked it up and stood on knees he hated to admit might be shaky.
On his way through the kitchen, he nabbed two brews from the fridge and returned to the porch.
He dropped the items onto the chair cushion, handed her the beers, and returned inside. By the time he came back, she’d popped the tops on both longnecks.
He snapped open an old quilt and motioned for her to get off the swing. “Sometimes it feels ten degrees cooler out here since the sun never gets through the trees.”
“At least ten.” She stood. “Good thinking, Thorne.”
He draped the quilt around her shoulders, and she handed him one of the beers. As she grasped the corner and pulled it around her, he slung the rest of the quilt around his back.
“On the count of three, we sit?”
“One-two-three.” He counted all at once, dragging her down with him. The swing twisted in an awkward arc, and the chains screeched louder than the buzzing insects.
For the second time tonight, she giggled like a teenager, her head dipping against his shoulder as the swing rocked jaggedly from the rusted c-clamps. How he loved the sound of her bubbly laugh.
Thigh to thigh for probably the last time, he corrected the careen of the swing with a booted foot, grabbing the little sack on the sway forward.
“Got something for you,” he said, dangling the soft, black bag by its drawstring.
She placed the bottle on the nearby windowsill and opened her palm. “A gift? I can’t imagine,” she stammered when he dropped it into her hand. “What is it?”
“Open it.” She’d have to. He couldn’t do it for her.
With trembling fingers, she stretched the fabric along the string and then dumped the contents. “Jesse. I can’t take this. It belongs to you.”
“Shit. Have you ever seen me wear it?”
“No, but—”
“Real men don’t wear necklaces. It’s unseemly. And—well…” He looked into her eyes, so full of emotion. And questions. “Ever since you lost your pendant in the Passion Pit, I’ve wanted to get you something to replace it. But nothing in the stores seem right. Unless maybe you’ve already replaced—”
“This one’s perfect.”
She slipped the chain over her head and the stainless-steel Hell Runners pendant he never wore dangled between her breasts.
“Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.” Her lips grazed his cheek, and he fought flinching.
But not well enough.
Prudence eased back and narrowed her gaze at him, her delicate brows furrowed deep. “What's on your mind, Jess? And I'm not reading you. Your expression says it all.”
Time to get on with it.
He reached for the page on the wicker chair and handed her the weapon that would destroy his heart. Old, yellowed crisp, but readable, the headline still screamed up at him.
Tennessee Father Tries to Kill Teenaged Son
“Is this you?” Gaze flashing from the page to his face, her eyes softened to clouds of blue. “Your father tried to kill you?”
“It would be easier if you'd read it.” He let go then. Let go of the quilt. Let go of his security. “I’ll fill you in afterward.”
He got up and chose a less comfortable seat on the front porch steps, facing the woods and watching nothing while she read.
The crickets sang a solid twenty choruses while he waited for her to ask the questions he'd finally answer. Sipping at his beer, he heard the swing creak behind him, the porch groan, and then her heat at his back.
She draped the quilt around his shoulders, sat beside him, and then pulled a corner of the cover for herself. Her thigh pushed flush against his as she handed him the old article.
“Now you fill in.”
He tossed back another swig of bitter beer for lubrication.
“You were possessed by a demon, weren't you?” she said, starting for him.
“Yes.” Heart heavy, he stared straight ahead. “Those quotes weren't the rants of a crazy man. Dad was justified in shooting me.”
“No. No, he wasn't.” She spoke with vehemence, as he'd expected she would. “He was supposed to protect you.”
“It was too late. I’d let the demon in. Dad was only defending himself.”
Painting the whole ugly picture was killing him, but he neede
d the relief of sharing. Of sharing with her.
“The demon forced me—literally—forced my hands to grab a pitchfork. I chased Dad around the yard, threw it like a javelin and missed. He ran into the house, but the demon wasn’t done. I took the hatchet off the barn wall and stalked my own father.”
“No gun? Your father had a gun.”
“The demon preferred hand-to-hand. Stretches out the agony. The only way for my father to save me was to shoot.”
“Twice?”
“Once in the shoulder, and once in the side. If he really wanted to kill me, he would’ve. The man could shoot the white off a deer’s tail at fifty feet. He packed my wounds in rock salt like he was one of us, like he knew it would drive the demon out. It burned like a son of a bitch, and I wailed like I'd been set on fire. But the demon beat feet.
“Unfortunately, by then the cops arrived. Neighbors don’t ignore gunshots. The demon took possession of the sheriff, then Dad’s defense attorney, and then the judge. By the time he was done, my father was put away for the rest of his life. Punishment for not sacrificing his son.”
She squeezed his hand. “It’s not your fault.”
Sick to his stomach, he answered honestly. “Yes. It is. I’d let the bastard in.”
“Can’t believe it.” She shook her head. “You’re too tough for demons. I’ve seen you in action.”
“I was tough. Had to be from day one. I took my old man’s shit when he got drunk. Which he did. A lot.”
“He punched you?” She clutched his hand harder, her palm moist from their body heat trapped in the blanket.
“Nah.” He gritted his back teeth against the burn. “Pop was more a pusher and verbally abusive, but only when he drank, so—I usually screwed off after school. Anything not to go home. One day, this dude in a Corvette offered me a ride. Looked like a regular guy, not a scary Minister for the Underworld. And what poor kid doesn’t want to sit in an expensive car?
“Once I got in, he locked the doors and took off like a bullet. Said I belonged to him. That I had his mark.”
The words tasted more bitter than his beer, and he stopped talking.
Prudence said nothing. She held tight to his hand and waited him out.
“It all happened in a flash. First, we were driving through town, then somehow we’d dropped into Hell. He slammed on the breaks, and we were suddenly parked in a pit full of the ugliest sons-o-bitching demons you’d ever see. I wasn’t going to get out of the car, but he snapped his fingers, and there I was. Among them. There he proceeded to demonstrate how to use my gifts. Basically the demons came after me and I ran. Of course, by that moment, I suspected I knew one of the gifts already.” He scoffed, ashamed for the pride he used to feel. “No one beat me at track. No one ever came close. I thought I was athletically gifted when I was actually a freak. I was—”
“A boy,” she interrupted. “Being manipulated. You can’t blame yourself.” Gently, she held his chin between her soft fingertips and thumb, staring into his face with more understanding than he deserved. “I won’t let you.”
He bit the inside of his lower lip intentionally hard, the pain reminding him she’d change her mind before he was done.
“What happened next?” Jesse swallowed the lump in his throat. “He promised me his son for a friend. Said I could keep the car, too. That’s when I realized he couldn’t keep me. I had a choice.”
“What’d ya do?”
“I jumped into the driver’s seat, hit the gas and thought about home. Before I knew it, I was speeding past the school.” A breeze cut across the porch, cool against the dampness on his face. “I have no idea how I got back. I ditched the car on a dirt road and never looked at it again.”
“You refused a demon. You should be proud. Evil can be extremely persuasive.”
“Yeah, well…” He resisted the urge to hug her and picked up his beer instead. “Proving the existence of bad sure makes fighting for good a lot whole easier.”
After a long swig, he hung his head. “But what brains I had wasn’t enough. He let me go a week to feel like I shook him off. Then he showed up at school, different face this time, posing as a college track coach.
“I fell for it. He offered to sit down and talk scholarship with Dad. I told him I didn’t need Dad’s approval and shook his hand. That was all it took. He was in me. I spent the better part of three days fighting against the malicious things he wanted me to do. Then Dad went on a bender, started pushing my buttons, smacking me around a little. I lost it, and the demon took advantage. The rest, you know.”
The woods seemed to close in around him. Draining the bottle, he prepared for the rest of the bad news. “Looking back—he knew I was the Pathfinder. He wanted me to find the Door to Heaven.”
“Why?”
“I’ve given it a lot of thought over the years. I think he can steal souls from Heaven the same as we do from Hell. But he has to get in first.”
“Huh. A counterweight to us. I never considered that a possibility.” Her brows furrowed in concentration. “Okay, so what happened to you after the incident?”
“Typical story. I was shuffled to foster homes and suffice it to say I was less than cooperative. I was too wise and too big to boss around like a five-year-old. The demon would taunt me in my sleep, and I'd sneak off at night with a double-barrel full of rock salt, searching. Never found him.
“I did find other avenues of trouble late at night. Wound up in front of the school counselor and a social worker. I thought, what the heck, I'll tell them the truth to watch their faces melt. Instead, they returned me to my temp home without so much as saying boo. Two days later, Connie and your father knocked on the front door.
“He saved me, Prudence. Going against him is torture.” He cleared his throat. Now was the time. “I feel like I’ve been going against you, too.”
“Me?” Her eyebrows rose.
“The demon may not be done with me.” He scrubbed a hand over his whisker-roughened face. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. But I didn’t want it to be true.” He leveled his gaze at her, prepared for her anger. “We encountered him. Recently.”
“What?”
“He’s Baalberith. The demon who sent the beast after us.”
Quiet for a moment, her cheeks flushed, but her eyes remained strong on his. “You mean the beast whose minion got his butt handed to him by a girl.”
“Yeah, that one.” He snorted and let himself smile a little. One hurdle down. “According to Connie, it was pure coincidence.”
“She could be right. Any direct contact?”
“None.”
“Good. But since we’re looking for the Door, chances are we’ll run into him again.” She grabbed his face between both of her hands. “I’m not afraid. Especially not with you. But you could have told me before. All of this.”
He nodded but didn’t mean it. All wasn’t out yet.
“When we find the door, Dad will understand.” She reached around him and pulled his corner of the quilt across his chest, closer to her. “I'm so glad he found you.”
“Me, too.” His heart swelled and ached in a way it never had before. He could have been content, huddled against her forever. But it wasn’t going to happen. In one more minute, she’d push him away.
“There's more.” He shrugged until she let go of his corner of the blanket and then stood up, launching off the steps. He couldn’t bear to feel her embrace turn cold when he finished telling the truth.
“Well, it can’t be worse than demon possession.” She patted the step, inviting him to return. “And we’re kicking their collective asses for it, in spite of it and because of it.”
“Because of you, too. You drank Holy Water as an experiment for Deschamps, but it’s become another form of protection. You literally burn demons with your sweat.”
“Maybe you can, too. You haven’t tried, and I think—”
“No.” He spoke too harshly, but he couldn’t help it. Words wouldn’t do anymore
.
He stripped off his T-shirt and pointed to the Pathfinder emblem. “This isn't the mark of the demon. But I carry one inside me that is.” At last, he extended his hand, the one she’d been holding, so she could see the rosy imprint.
Eyes widening, she stood, the quilt dropping to a heap on the step. “Are you saying I did that to you? Just now? I gave you that burn. And the other one, too. Right? The hand that’s wrapped.”
He nodded. “I’m demon stained. It’s why I can see them. Why I walk in Hell without worry. And—you drink Holy Water. That’s why I can never touch you. Never kiss you. Never—” Frustrated, he let his words trail off.
“Never. Anything.” Hand to her mouth, somehow she didn’t cry when he thought she might. Part of him was disappointed she hadn’t shed a tear. Part of him was relieved. For all of about two seconds, then she stepped back and up onto the porch. Increasing the distance between them.
Just like he knew she would.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Come on. Pick up,” Prudence urged into her cell phone on the twelfth ring. If she had to let it ring all day while she sat at her desk, she would.
It had been nearly two days since Jesse had bared his soul. Two days without speaking to him, though that was his doing, not hers. God knows she’d called enough, even went to the cabin, yelled for him and beat on the door until her knuckles hurt.
Worst of all, she didn’t understand why. Didn’t understand the instantaneous change.
He’d finally opened up. Trusted her with his deepest secret and then went silent.
For Pete’s sake, you don’t run from the people you trust. You run to them.
Like she was doing now.
Running to him in every way possible.
Deep down, she figured her immediate reaction probably had something to do with his self-imposed distance. But he must have anticipated her shock. Known she’d be wounded and disappointed.
Not disappointed in him or the fact some crazy demon possessed him.
But frustrated in the knowledge she could never touch him. Never love him with all her body, the way she did with all her heart.
Rule Breakers, Soul Takers (Hell Runners Book 1) Page 26
