When she caught Dante observing her over the top of Esquire magazine, she rolled her eyes. After browsing the women’s health aisle two days ago? Lose the fancy clothes and the espresso cup, and he didn’t strike her as someone who read anything without short sentences and colorful pictures. So what was this guy’s deal?
To make matters worse, she struggled to avoid picking at the skin on her arms, the compulsion driving her out of her mind. Normally, remaining calm was one of her better skills, but right now, focusing on anything was a difficult task.
Scott’s going to get an earful when I’m home tonight.
Alcohol and meth? What was he thinking? What was she thinking taking on all that crap? She should’ve let Scott suffer. Maybe he’d learn a lesson. Doubtful. She always bailed him out. And for good reason. He had the trump card to guilt her into helping him: Philly and Ray.
Damn Scott and his stupid experiments.
If Scott was going to do stupid stuff like this, she couldn’t help him again. Had they reached the breaking point? The point where she needed to leave him to fend for himself? She was close. But he was still her brother. She had to believe that he’d get over whatever was going on with him. How much time should she give him to get over this phase, to handle his bizarre behavior? What about the drug use? Sometimes, she simply hated her life. Hated the rotten hand she’d been dealt. Hated that she couldn’t see a way out of this situation.
Just one break, that’s all I need to get out of this hole. What if I got a wealthy boyfriend? She glanced over at one prime example sitting in her bookstore and then dumped that thought as fast as it appeared. No. Not only would he not want her baggage, she was not the kind of person to use someone. No way.
To make matters worse, she would never stop worrying that a vindictive Ray could still hunt her down. After that hellish evening four years ago, she and Scott had called the cops and gotten Ray thrown in jail. But their reprieve lasted as long as it took for him to post bail. In the space of time between exiting the jail and going to trial, Ray had done more than the unspeakable. His sick retribution had taught Hannah and Scott a valuable lesson. They would never rely on anyone else to stay safe, ever again. To escape Ray, they’d committed lesser crimes in the process, and she and Scott ran, or rather, limped, away.
Even with a new identity, new documents, she never felt safe. At least she still had Scott. Well, sort of.
One day, I don’t know how, but I’ll be totally free. No more worrying about Ray. I can’t wait. She shuddered at a twinge deep in her belly. What a sick bastard.
A tickle of imagined spider’s feet on her neck tormented her, and she curled a hand into a fist to keep from scratching. The ghost insect would drive her insane. Hoping no one watched, she ran her hand over her neck. There, no spider.
At a second prickle, she saw Dante staring at her.
Ray.
Dante.
No way. His presence couldn’t be related to Ray, could it? Was he luring her in with flirtatiousness and attention for the kill or worse, or had her meth-infused paranoia taken hold of her mind?
In a sick and logical fashion, it made sense, didn’t it? Why else would a guy like Dante be interested in someone like her? Oh, God, if he was linked to Ray, then this whole situation had just gone nuclear.
Every muscle tensed, ready to run out of the shop.
Stop. Think. She planted her feet in place.
How could he have anything to do with Ray? If so, then surely Dante would’ve acted by now. Why continue coming back to the shop? To toy with her? No, that theory made no sense. Ray would have employed a search and destroy method.
Her heart rate calmed down—if Ray were involved in any way, she and Scott would be dead by now. Period.
Dante glanced up again, and Hannah straightened her ankle-length navy skirt and knit top before she could stop herself. His simple presence here rankled. Hell, even the soft fabric of her skirt irritated her today. She tried to brush away the loose threads on the worn fabric as a wave of frustration beat against her. So maybe she didn’t have fine clothing like Mr. GQ, but this was one of her better Salvation Army finds. Each item for a buck. Bet ol’ Fancypants there never shopped at the thrift store. Ever. Probably wiped his hard butt with dollar bills.
Turning to ring up a customer, she forced her protesting muscles to cooperate. Oh man, it hurt to look at the register. She ran the customer’s credit card and afterward placed her palms flat on the countertop—anything to anchor her spinning vision and throbbing head.
She startled when the front door jingled. Geez, calm down.
Mildred, one of the regular customers, entered the store. Her gnarled hand wrapped around a cane as she shuffled her stooped frame to the front desk.
“Hello, dear, how are you today?”
Mildred’s silver hair had been curled and sprayed into a neat nimbus. A sharp acetone and thick rose perfume scent wafted over Hannah. Mildred must’ve come from her weekly hair appointment.
Hannah forced her lips to turn up. “A little tired. You?”
“You know, my usual aches and pains.”
The lady’s stiff, swollen fingers deviated away from the thumbs, her knuckles red and puffy. Shame flooded Hannah’s chest like a warm, ugly puddle of nasty mud. How dare she feel sorry for herself when folks like Mildred were still struggling to enjoy life on a daily basis?
Mildred reached back and patted herself awkwardly on the shoulder. “And my ol’ hump back here is giving me fits today, my dear. Maybe the weather is changing.”
“Are you taking the pills to help your pain?”
“Most of the time, but since Ralph died, I don’t always remember. He always reminded me.” The loose skin on her chin quivered. “And I have trouble opening the bottles myself.” She waved her clawed hands. “Ralph used to help me ...”
Ashamed to blow off the sweet lady, Hannah simply didn’t have the energy to ask for more details, although Mildred looked like she wanted to talk about her beloved husband, deceased now a year. Mildred and Ralph used to come in together, leaning on each other for support as they strolled into the shop. Sadness now creased the woman’s lined features.
Hannah wanted to kick herself for being so selfish. “May I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? A magazine?”
“Yes, dear, I would love some Earl Grey if you have it. With sugar.”
The lady fished out a few dollars and change and doddered over to a seat near the espresso machine. Thankfully, she sat on the other side of the room from Dante, and she chose a seat a good distance away from the ten or so customers present. When Hannah took the tea over, she furtively snuck a glance. Dante’s aristocratic nose was buried in the depths of the Wall Street Journal. The Journal? Whatever. But good. He was distracted.
“Now let me see your poor hands,” Hannah said.
The lady obliged, and Hannah gingerly knelt before her, rubbing her fingertips over the ropey veins and swollen joints. Bones jutted from beneath tissue-thin skin. Mildred made an oooh of discomfort when she tried to curl her fingers.
Hannah cringed. Should she do this? Could she take more pain on top of what Scott had transferred to her? But how could she not try? Mildred was hurting today. It’s not like when Hannah had tried healing her Aunt Linda’s terminal illness. Mildred only had arthritis. How bad would it be?
Gingerly, Hannah dropped the mental barrier and opened herself to the connection. Despite her caution, the gift didn’t know moderation. She clenched her jaw as Mildred’s arthritis pain slammed into her own hands. Hannah’s hands contracted into stiff claws as the fingers bent in awkward angles. Shooting pains into the smallest finger joints brought her to tears. Even Hannah’s knees, hips, and shoulders began to swell and grind in the sockets. She had to stop. No more for today, or she wouldn’t be able to function.
Mildred stretched and wiggled her suddenly nimble fingers. “My dear, my hands are better! How did you ...?”
Hannah shot a glance around. No interested stares fro
m the half-filled seating area. No one noticed the transfer. Half of the patrons remained buried in a magazine or a book, and the other half were busy watching Dante. Fine by her.
“Sh. It’s just the nice, warm tea. It soothes the joints.”
“But I haven’t—”
“Let me know if you need anything else.”
Hannah stood, stifling a cry when her back and hips popped, and shuffled away. Ducking into an aisle of books, she brushed the tears away with a swollen knuckle. The pain of transfer would last only a few days, but boy, did it hurt now. At least the aches distracted from her suffering from the hangover mixed with meth. Now there was some good news.
When she returned to the counter, Dante awaited her there, his ever-present smile now pissing her off. The man oozed self-assurance, like nothing kept him down for long. Apparently, he hadn’t gotten the hint from the failed salvo yesterday.
Hannah groaned. Come on, not today, Mr. Esquire.
“Lovely to see you again.”
Darn his chiseled jaw, but she had no energy or desire for his advances. “Yes?” she said between gritted teeth. She forced her mouth to relax into a smile. Even hapless meatheads didn’t deserve for her to be mean to them.
Another wave of skin ripples hit her. Don’t itch. Resist the urge.
When he grinned, his white, even teeth were as big and perfect as the rest of him. Figures.
“I don’t believe I got your name yesterday.”
He leaned over the counter. If he weren’t so handsome, and her skin weren’t crawling with invisible maggots, she might have welcomed intrusion into her personal space. For the love of Pete, he even smelled amazing. A mixture of leather, a hint of expensive cologne, and a hint of wildness like mountains. She inhaled deeply, an olfactory vacation from her daily life.
“Madam? Your name?”
She stopped herself mid-sniff. Busted.
“I didn’t give it to you.”
His ice-blue eyes appraised her much too closely for her comfort. Could he tell what she’d done? The transfer? No way.
“Perhaps you should reconsider.”
What was this guy’s deal? She studied his sincere face. Good grief, he was one persistent fellow.
What would it be like to run her fingers over his strong jaw?
Come on, are you serious? Get a grip.
She held her breath. Was he in cahoots with Ray or not?
Crap, his open face gave no hint of deception. Could she trust herself to judge his character?
Apparently so. “Hannah.”
“Hannah,” he said. “Beautiful name.”
His bass voice sent chills up her spine, and she rubbed her arms. He stared at her more intently than was appropriate or comfortable.
“I don’t think I properly asked yesterday, but may I take you out sometime?”
“Like on a date?” she blurted out. Dating this man—any man—was beyond a horrible idea.
He smiled.
Her heart thudded, not in excitement but panic. She resisted the need to flee.
“Of course,” he said.
What the heck? Had he not gotten the hint from yesterday?
Her reasons for avoiding men were beyond solid. First, who would look twice at her when she worked so hard to be bland and unremarkable? Second, after her twisted initiation into the arts of intimacy by Ray, she didn’t plan on dating anyone anytime soon. Sure, she had more confidence now, after having rebuilt her entire life from ashes, but what Ray had done to her had torn out a piece of her soul. A piece that might never return.
“Ah, no thank you again. I’m not ... not interested.”
“Boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Oh, then, maybe you’re more into women?”
He drummed his thick, square fingers on the counter. Da-da-da-dum. Da-da-da-dum. This situation had moved into awkward territory. Her skull pounded in time to his tapping fingertips.
When he stepped back, she had an unobstructed view of his broad chest and shoulders. She swallowed as her vision split into two parts. Logic saw a handsome man. Sheer, unadulterated terror viewed a snarling Ray looming over her all over again. Damn it, she couldn’t breathe.
She forced her mouth to form words over a panic-dried tongue. “No, I’m not—Look, Mr. Dante, is there something related to the bookstore I can help you with?”
He cleared his throat, his jaw set. “Yes, well, I need to pay for the paper.”
She rang up his order, and when he handed her the money, his finger brushed hers, sending a strange, adherent zing through her hand. She jerked the hand away as a burst of her own healing power shot into her finger.
As though it came from him. What?
If he noticed a similar sensation, he gave no indication.
After several attempts with her swollen fingers to pick up the coin that had dropped on the counter, she gave up, and mortified, an embarrassed heat spread up her neck again.
Dante slid the coin into his palm and pocketed the money. He raised a thick, blond eyebrow. “Quick question, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes.” Her eyes widened.
“Are you from back east by any chance?”
“What?” Her vision blurred, and she gripped the counter to remain upright. “Pardon?”
“Just curious. You remind me of someone. Never mind.”
She opened and closed her mouth without a sound. Her heart pounded in her chest.
“Well, you have a nice day ... Hannah.”
“You, too,” she whispered to his retreating back.
That pause. Did he know her real name? Did he know about her history? Was he involved with Ray? Had he come for her? Oh God, she needed to leave, but she needed to make a plan. Had to convince Scott to leave as well. Panic constrained her breaths until she saw stars. She stared at her swollen hands resting on the counter.
Breathe. Relax.
She frowned. There was something more.
When she rubbed the finger that had contacted him, it no longer hurt.
Chapter 5
The crippled octogenarian, “Mildred,” had motored around the bookstore like a spry fifty-year-old, ever since Hannah held the woman’s hands. And what about Hannah’s fingers and knuckles when she tried to pick up the coin? She had become positively geriatric in the space of minutes.
Even though she obviously didn’t feel well, she had still been polite to all of the customers, including his persistent self. He didn’t miss the flashes of pain in those gold-flecked brown eyes that the glasses didn’t hide. For a split second when their hands brushed, he’d gotten a brief sensation of pain in his finger. But the feeling was gone before he could examine it. Curious.
At first, he’d figured Hannah to be a meek, demure mouse of a woman, but there was steel beneath her fragile form. She was a walking contradiction. Her appearance said “hands off,” but the kindness with her customers revealed a warmer side. She had rebuffed him, but the cracks in her tough façade fascinated him. He wanted to find out more.
Needing some distance from this woman so he could think, Dante strolled to a nearby café. While he wasn’t exactly inconspicuous, he could at least watch the entrance of the bookstore without encroaching on Hannah. Had she truly taken away the old lady’s arthritis pain? How was that possible? Did she have abilities, too?
Allie, his friend Peter’s wife, could see death when she touched people. It stood to reason there would be other people like Allie, maybe with all sorts of different talents.
As an Indebted, Dante healed quickly, his personal self-repair a side effect of his eternal contract, which made sense. Jerahmeel, his boss, wouldn’t want his employees to die of mortal causes. Fragile contracted killers made for bad investments. Dante had found out about the fast-healing ability when he broke his leg during the French Revolution. Fifteen minutes later, he had been back on his feet again, in pain but leg intact, swinging away with his fellow citizens.
The Sami people who inhabited the territory abo
ve the Arctic Circle in his native Sweden had been renowned for their healing abilities, so he’d heard of mysterious healers as far back as when he was a boy. If the stories were true, the Sami could make it snow on command and bring in the giant herds of reindeer, so what was truth and what was legend? Things happened in this world that no one understood. Hell, Dante was living proof of that fact.
What about that nasty Raymond Jackson guy? Dante gripped the metal café table until the rim bent as rage rumbled up and threatened to break over him like a tidal wave. It would’ve satisfied Dante more if Jackson’s death had lasted much longer than it had. The knife on Dante’s lower leg pulsed, as he recalled the satisfaction as the knife entered Jackson’s chest cavity, the almost orgasmic relief as that evil soul poured its last drops into the knife until the blade had been sated. Another criminal out of the way.
Knowing that Jackson had apologized for hurting his children, was there any doubt why Hannah was terrified of Dante? Of her own shadow? Dante still needed to tell her about Jackson’s demise. This woman had to be Jessica Miller, now called Hannah. The way she reacted hid nothing. Maybe Hannah would be so relieved at the news of Jackson’s death that she would run into Dante’s open arms. He would be a hero. Utmarkt. Excellent.
Mission accomplished.
But unfortunately, killing Jackson did not satisfy the big mission, the Meaningful Kill, as evidenced by the fact that Dante remained an Indebted. Maybe soon, like Peter, Dante might break his contract and be free of the eternal curse.
Didn’t he like his eternally powerful life? When had that changed?
Before he examined his change of heart, a new hunger swelled. It had been nearly two weeks since he’d performed his last kill, and the impulse usually built until he couldn’t think of anything else. Normally, two weeks was right at the limit of his control before the urge consumed him. With effort, he pushed the desire to kill aside. He needed to focus on Hannah for a while longer.
Relentless Flame (Hell to Pay) Page 4
