by Adams, Lori
To our surprise, the lights are on, and Miss Minnie is waiting behind the counter. Bailey gives me a look that says Fah-reeeee-ky, and then we step inside. The bell on the door chimes above our heads, and we quickly close the door. I think about all the bizarre revelations I’ve had tonight—the ducks and the McCarthy twins, Miss Minnie being clairvoyant—and I laugh nervously. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.
“I understand you girls want to find Alice.” Miss Minnie’s voice is grave, and my smile slides off. I want to go into details but she holds up a hand. “I understand completely. That’s not the issue. You see, Alice has gotten herself into a sticky situation. She …” Miss Minnie frowns and rubs a hand over her knobby knuckles. She’s having a deep, disturbing thought. She pulls out a tissue kept inside her sweater sleeve, and dabs her eyes. “It’s La Croix.”
“What’s La Croix?” Bailey asks.
“It’s a club in New York, and Alice … well, I suppose she has her reasons for being there. If you want to find her, I would look there, except …”
“Except what?” I ask, stepping up to the counter. I’m determined not to let anything interfere now that we have a plan. It may be whacked but it’s the only plan we’ve got.
Miss Minnie fidgets. She’s hesitant and uncomfortable. She decides not to share her concerns and turns away. I clutch her arm.
“Please, Miss Minnie! This is important. The most important thing I’ve ever done.” We stare at each other while a strange feeling flutters through my hand and up my arm as though something is passing from her into me. I pull away but the feeling continues, swirling into my thoughts and leaving a sensation of awareness. I feel a calm certainty settle deep inside me. “I think you know what I mean. I think you’ve known all along. You know why I came to this town. And you know why I have to find Alice.”
She blinks those old, watery blue eyes that I’ve come to love. Resignation passes over her features, and I understand that she has known everything all along. She was the one, not High Alice, who told the sheriff to pull me over. She told him to write a note on the back of the ticket, sending me here for work. She wanted to keep an eye on me. She sent me to take photos in the courthouse the night Michael saved me when I jumped out the window. Everything changed that night, and I don’t know how or why, only that Miss Minnie has known all along.
“I trust you, Miss Minnie. So please, please trust me.”
She nods, acknowledging that I’m putting things together. But not everything.
“You don’t understand, child. Things have changed unexpectedly—Alice has changed. She might not be able to help in the way you want. But … she does have the book you need. I suppose if … if you were to get the book, you could … it’s just that … Alice lives in a back room of La Croix. You can’t get inside; it’s a nightclub and—”
“We’ll get fake IDs,” Bailey says like we’re picking up milk from the store. Miss Minnie looks grave.
“That’ll do no good. They don’t check IDs. It’s invitation only. Girls, La Croix is a private club … for demons.”
Chapter 17
The Future Perfect Past Tense of Me
I’m sitting on the edge of my bed feeling like someone dropped an anvil on my head. A private club for demons? Are you freaking kidding me?
Miss Minnie said we needed High Alice or at least her book to make me a temporary two. She said La Croix was invitation only, and we either had to be demons or had to be invited by demons to enter. She wrote down the name of High Alice’s book, and then I thanked her and told her we’d be in touch about it. I yanked Bailey out of the office before she shot off her big mouth. I knew exactly what she was thinking, and she said as much the minute we stepped onto the sidewalk.
“The solution is obvious, Sophia. We have to ask Dante and Vaughn to get us in.”
Hell no. “I’m not speaking to Dante, so … solution not obvious.”
In fact, we have no solution at all. Our plan has hit the proverbial brick wall. So now I’m sitting here pondering ways to summon Rama. He wasn’t here when I got home, and I desperately need to talk to him. I have to tell him that I lost Colin Firth and, oh by the way, I also really, really need to sneak into a den of demons, find a spell book, and make another me. I’ll use simple words and short sentences so he doesn’t keel over in a dead faint.
Hmm, how does one summon an Ascended Master anyway?
I open and close the closet door a million times but he doesn’t appear, so I give up. I ready myself for bed, moving cautiously and with significant pain. My ribs are still sore from Teriza’s beating. I shoo Sundance out, afraid he’ll bump me in the middle of the night, and then I gingerly maneuver myself between the covers. Luckily, Dad was in bed when I snuck in. He’d freak if he saw my fat lip. I’m planning to use some makeup magic in the morning.
It’s been a grueling day, and I sink into the mattress, exhausted. Even my bones ache. I let my eyelids fall, my mind drift, and I soon slip into a deep sleep with disturbing dreams. Mostly, I dream of Colin Firth crying and being devoured by darkness. It rips me apart all over again. I twitch and toss my head, groaning.
I want to help! Let me help! Don’t go!
A warm hand caresses my forehead, easing away the troubling thoughts. Then it brushes my hair aside and cups my cheek. I sigh, smiling. I like this hand; it’s comforting. The hand leaves and the bed shifts, and I feel soft kisses where the hand had just been. They trail down my face. “Mmm,” I moan and turn my head, welcoming the affection. This is a dream more to my liking.
The kisses continue along my cheek, drifting gently over my mouth. Warm lips linger and tingle, and I open my mouth, begging for more. I want more. The kisses are light and delicious, soft, warm lips. Yes. This feels so good. I want this. Then I feel a weight on me and I grimace. Sharp pain shoots through my rib cage and I blink quickly, forcing my eyes open.
“Dante!”
Green eyes shine in the dim light as Dante grins down at me. He shifts his weight so I can breathe easier but it hardly matters. I’m gasping in shock.
Oh my God, Dante was kissing me! How could I have been so careless?
I pause to see what effect his kisses might have had. The last time he kissed me, fire rolled through my body, burning everything it touched and killing me.
Thankfully, I feel nothing but his weight on me, and anger. I struggle but my arms are pinned beneath the blankets. I stop and stare at him. His face is calm and serious. Are his eyes swirling? No. Wait, are they? I can’t be sure. I don’t want them to swirl, and I try to look away but can’t.
I become aware of the heat from his body; Dante was always so hot, as though his blood was boiling. I feel my own blood stir beneath him as I stare deep into his eyes. Dante is dangerously handsome, and has a way of making my pulse jump without effort. It’s the way he looks at me, like he is now, as though he is remembering me from another life. As though we are lovers and I’m not running from him but to him, with love and affection. With desire.
Somehow this seems familiar, seeing him above me, feeling his weight on me. Far in the distance, I hear the music box begin its tinkling melody. Our song. I blink lazily, my eyelids drooping, my body relaxing beneath his. I feel anesthetized.
Keeping his eyes locked with mine, Dante lies next to me, propped on his elbow. Then he slides the covers over my chest and arms, across my stomach, and past my bare legs. He takes up my right hand like it’s something to cherish, brings it to his mouth, and kisses my bruised knuckles. A jolt of electricity shoots up my arm, and I feel my heart straining beneath my T-shirt. He lays my hand high over my head and then reaches for the left one. Another jolt zings through my arm as he kisses that hand, too, and then places it on top of my right one. I feel as though my blood is rising to the surface. My pulse thumps violently at the base of my throat. I want to touch it, to calm it down, but my arms feel pinned by a heavy, invisible weight.
Hair falls across Dante’s forehead as he leans over me. His eyes ar
e pale like the Caribbean, and I have the urge to reach up and cup his face. I want to pull his mouth onto mine.
He gives me a tantalizing smile as though he knows. With his eyes hooked to mine, he reaches down and slides his hand beneath my shirt. I catch my breath. His touch is blazing across my skin, and I tremble with need. I want the heat. I want his touch. His eyes dance with amusement; he loves to see his effect on me.
Gently, he pushes my shirt up and then brushes his fingertips across my rib cage. The sensation is white-hot and tingling, creating goose bumps. I open my mouth to speak but can’t. He cocks an eyebrow and grins. Then he tears his eyes from mine and dips his head, gently kissing my bruised ribs. Soft kisses flutter across my skin, and I hold my breath. Lightning. His kisses feel like snippets of lightning stabbing me. It’s painful and pleasing at the same time, and my body arches up to meet his lips.
Dante growls and rips away his shirt. He slides an arm around me, into the small of my back, and holds my stomach against his scorching mouth. His kisses burn and devour a path across my skin. His naked chest is pressed against my side, searing me with his heat. I moan, aching for this. Everything inside me is craving to touch him, to feel his weight on me again. I wrestle my arms free of the invisible weight and lower them. I drive my fingers through his hair. Yes! Please! I rake my nails over his shoulders, trying to pull him up. I want to feel his mouth on mine again. I need to feel him! There is a familiar craving in me that only he can satisfy.
“Dante, please!” I beg, and then hear him groan.
He slides on top of me and buries his face in my neck. “Yes, Lovaria, yes.”
My eyes fly open and I stare at the ceiling. I’m panting and flushed. There is a weight on my chest, and I realize what’s happening. “Dante! Stop!” I push against him until he lifts his head. His hair is tousled and sexy, and his eyes are glowing green. For a moment, I think he’s just as shocked as I am.
Then he frowns and withdraws to lie next to me. He sits up on his elbow, his shoulder muscles flexing beneath the red lines my fingernails have left. He catches me staring, and I grow flustered.
“Who the hell is Lovaria?” I snap.
Dante sighs and closes his eyes because I am the annoying voice of reality. He takes a moment and then opens them. “You tell me,” he whispers. His voice is sad with longing, and my anger slowly dissipates. I hate to make Dante angry but I hate it worse to make him sad. Dante’s sadness goes so devastatingly deep, as though he carries all the sorrow of the world within him.
“She was the one you loved? The one you lost?” I smile tentatively, hoping he will see that I have empathy for his loss. Although I’m not convinced that I’m the one he wants me to be, I’m not without compassion. I hate to see him suffer.
To my surprise, he laughs lightly. “It is a strange thing to hear you speak of yourself in the past tense, cara.” His eyes crinkle with delight, and then his face falls and becomes somber again. He snuggles closer and caresses my cheek with the back of his fingers. “But I know you are in there, somewhere. You have a very old soul … and it belongs to me. So many lives to sift through but when you return, all will be perfect again. In the meantime, I will continue to be patient.”
“You call this being patient?” I ask. He smiles and wiggles his eyebrows but I’m not being playful. I haven’t forgotten the night. I clear my throat and sharpen my voice like a blade. “Dante, I want you out. Now. I’ll never forgive what you did tonight.”
“Forgive me?” He sounds genuinely confused. “For what, now, may I ask?”
“For the death of Colin Firth.”
Ah, now he remembers.
“Poor choice of words, I should think. I did not kill nor cause the death of Mr. Firth. Remember, he was already dead.” He fakes a pout and runs the tip of his finger down my throat.
“But you set him up to be Taken. And that’s almost the same thing.”
“Actually, you should be thanking me.”
I scoff and push his hand away. His heat is distracting and I’m still mad. “How do you figure that?”
“Earlier tonight, Santiago and I came upon Degan, who had cornered a lost soul outside your high school. Apparently, Mr. Firth came to Haven Hurst in search of some mysterious girl who claimed she might be able to help him cross over.” He gives me a stern look like I’ve been caught telling fibs. “Being the soul seeker that he is, Degan had Firth dead to rights, so to speak. But I had the brilliant idea to give the old man a fighting chance. So I sent Degan and Santi to find you while I summoned Teriza.”
“So, you thought I could save Colin?”
He shrugged. “I thought you would want to try. Am I wrong? Did you not want to try to save him?”
The tables have turned. And here I thought Dante had been cruel and vindictive when all he wanted was to help me. Sure, he said he wanted to help me “out” of becoming a spirit walker, but at least he was giving Colin a fighting chance, sort of.
“Then why summon a reaper? Why not let me fight Degan for Colin’s soul? It seems to me that soul seekers are far less skilled and lethal than reapers.”
“This is true. But Degan refused to fight you. Apparently, he is infatuated with you. You haven’t been leading on poor, unassuming soul seekers, now have you, cara mia?” He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me closer. I scoff and roll my eyes.
“So you call in a skilled reaper and I get my ass kicked. That sounds completely fair.”
“I knew she would not hurt you.”
“How did you know?”
“Because I would not have allowed it.”
We fall silent and stare.
“But she did, Dante. She threw me around like a rag doll.”
“Well, you did strike her in the face, Sophia. Shocked the hell out of her, too.” He smiles affectionately, and I squint at him.
“I think you really enjoyed my debut beat down, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what that means, but if you’re asking if I enjoyed seeing you get hurt, then no. I did not enjoy it at all.” He slides his hands over my rib cage while he stares at me. He’s making some point but I don’t—
I push him away and sit up. I touch my ribs and then my lip. There is no pain, no swelling. My knuckles have completely healed, too. I fall back against the headboard, shocked.
“You healed me,” I say, almost accusingly. “That’s why you came here tonight. To heal me.”
Dante rolls onto my legs, bracing his arms on either side of me. I’m pinned all over again, and he hugs me close, pressing his hot naked chest against my bare legs. This feels far too intimate but there is nothing I can do.
He pouts up at me. “Please do not break my fool heart and say you believed I would let you suffer.”
I won’t admit that he’s exactly right. He looks too happy, and I’m more curious than mad. “How did you do it? How did you heal me?”
“A perquisite of being a demon.” He grins and then bites his lip as he looks me over. He is a kid in a candy store, contemplating the right place to sink his teeth in. It’s moments like this that I have to remind myself of reality; that for all of Dante’s beauty and charm and smoldering sex appeal, he wants to end my life. He wants nothing more than to kill me, again, and Take me to Hell. Preferably without further interruptions.
How can he be so determined? How can he be so sure?
I want to demand answers but then I notice something on his forearm. I roll it sideways and reveal an exquisite-looking dagger tattoo. It’s both ancient and futuristic, and I’m astounded that he would have something like this on his arm. Dante seems so traditional, so formal and proper. This is deviant art for sure. He catches me staring and then reveals his other arm.
“Two? Seriously? This is kinda badass for you, isn’t it?”
He looks at them with keen interest and then shrugs. “They serve a purpose.”
“What do you mean? They’re just tattoos.”
He doesn’t answer but grins and lays his head in m
y lap. He’s making himself right at home, seemingly satisfied just to be where he is.
My eyes trail over the long, sculpted muscles of his back and shoulders. Dante is truly stunning, a real work of art that is tempting to touch. But this artwork is damaged with a lifetime of scars.
“Oh, Dante,” I murmur, brushing my fingers over the whipping lines across his back; they have regenerated since I saw him last but have not completely vanished. They are long and twisted and some more than an inch wide. Smooth and hot, they pulsate beneath my fingertips, and I know they’re still tender. Such angry scars; such pain he endured for … me?
How can he put himself through so much suffering? How can he be so sure I’m the one? And how can I be so sure that he’s wrong when he’s willing to risk so much to find me?
I close my eyes. I’m on the verge of crying, of completely losing it. It’s been such an emotional night.
With great effort, I repeat my mantra word in a slow, meditating rhythm until I’ve calmed my emotions. After a moment, I open my eyes. They fall on the strange, green chain tattoo wrapped around his bicep. My fingers glide over the firm roundness of his shoulders and along the tattoo. Unlike the dagger tattoo, the chain hisses when I touch it, and I pull back in pain. It’s like touching a hot stove.
“Dante, what is this?” I whisper in frightened awe. He snuggles his head against my stomach and mumbles,
“Not for you to worry about.”
It’s bad. He would tell me if it wasn’t bad. Another torture he was forced to endure because of me?
The likelihood is too much and I’m overwhelmed. Everything rushes to the surface again, and I cover my face and cry. My cheeks burn, like the rest of my body. Dante lifts his head and then sits up next to me. I feel a draft of coldness as he takes his heat with him. I shiver, so he pulls the blankets over me.
“Hush, cara mia. I cannot bear it. You are breaking my heart.” He gathers me against him, cradling my head into his neck. He strokes my hair while I sniffle.
