Rest For The Wicked (15 page)

Marcus rubbed one hand over his face, nodded. “Eric, I will need you here.”

Fear jumped in his gut. He stared at them, wanting to believe they were the same people who saved him from Natasha’s influence, when he knew now they weren’t even human—

“Eric?” Claire’s quiet voice jerked him out of his runaway thoughts. “We’re running out of time.”

For Annie.
He nodded, kept her in the front of his mind, and moved to the desk.

“What do I have to do?”

*

E
ric’s hand shook as he gripped the awl. Claire got her way; she lay across the desk, her shirt open and pulled up out of the way, the rope looped underneath to tie off her hands and feet. Filtered light from the only window streaked across her bare torso. Eric had to keep reminding himself to breathe, flashbacks of Katelyn threatening to seize him up.

Claire’s jeans were already open, exposing the tattoo on her right hipbone: a pentacle, the circle created by stylized red and gold flames. Words etched each side of the gold pentagram, in a language he didn’t recognize.

Marcus laid his hand over her wrist. “Ready?”

She took in a shaky breath, swallowing as she looked up at him. “No. But it has to be done. Eric.” Her gaze moved to him. “I need you to shut out everything but your goal. You have to cut across the tattoo completely, one unbroken line. And you’ll have to cut deep; I had the pentagram re-inked every few years.” She gave him wry smile. “I’ll try to keep the screaming to a minimum.”

He let out a hoarse laugh, then rubbed one hand over his mouth. “Claire—will you—” He cleared his throat. “Will you—”

“Change into some monster?” He nodded, hating himself for the horror movie images that flashed into his mind. “Not externally. I will look like me, but the demon who spent thousands of years in Hell will be doing the talking.”

“Thousands—God—”

“Won’t be helping me with this. Now, Eric, before I lose my nerve.” The quiet plea in her voice pulled at him.

Nodding, he stepped to the edge of the desk, laid his left hand on her right thigh. She sucked in her breath when the tip of the awl touched her skin. Horror gripped him when that skin started to sizzle.

Claire jerked under his hand, and he snatched the tip away.

“No—” She took in a gasping breath. “Don’t stop—I can only go through this once.”

Eric looked at her, then up to Marcus. The anguish in the man’s green eyes smacked him. He let out his breath, tightened his grip on the wood handle, and leaned over her again.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. And dug the tip into her skin.

Claire screamed, tried to recoil. There was nowhere for her to go. Jaw clenched, Eric dragged the tip across her tattoo, cutting slow—too slow—through the sun flames. The acrid smell of burning skin clogged his nose; her gasping screams scraped his nerves.

He focused on moving as fast as he could. The fact that the iron burned her made it easier to move the otherwise useless tool. It also kept the bleeding down, but enough charred blood leaked out of the blackened skin to make him want to gag.

The screams died down to panting gasps. And she started to whisper in a language that sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. Sweat slipped down his forehead, stinging his eyes. He blinked to clear his vision, clenched his shaking fingers, and kept digging his way across the tattoo.

He hit the edge of the flames on the opposite side—and with a single flick of her finger Claire sent him flying across the office and out the open doorway. He hit the floor hard and slid until he smacked up against a steel pillar. Impact knocked the breath out of him. Fighting to get it back, afraid to leave Marcus alone with whatever he set free, Eric forced himself to move, surprised to find the awl still gripped in his hand. He decided hanging on to it was a good idea.

Using the pillar as a support, he stood, his ribs aching from their collision with the steel. He stumbled to the office door—just in time to see Claire break the rope like it was paper and slide off the desk with the same deadly grace he remembered from Natasha.

“Free.” She laughed. The sound of it raised the hairs on the back of his neck. “How could I have locked myself away like that—over a moment of guilt? Move one more inch, Jinn, and I will return you to the smoke and sand you came from.”

Marcus froze behind her, a small wrench clutched in one hand. Eric guessed it was iron.

“Claire.” Marcus didn’t flinch when she spun to face him. The same cold power emanated from her that Eric saw surrounding Natasha. “Remember why you have done this.”

The hand she raised to hurl some torment at him stilled. Then it started to shake.

“Annie,” she whispered. “How could I—drop the iron, Eric, before I drop you.” Claire glanced over her shoulder—and Eric jerked. Her eyes were silver, the blue swallowed by the almost pulsing color. “I need what strength I can keep, after you freed me with that damned thing. Now drop it.”

He let it slip out of his hand. The awl clattered against the cement, and Claire stepped back as it bounced toward her. Marcus wrapped both arms around her, pinned her arms to her sides and lifted her off her feet.

She screamed, kicked back, her heel smacking his leg. Marcus winced, but he kept moving until he trapped her against the glass wall. Eric saw the small iron wrench in his back pocket, which explained why he had any control over her. He must have slipped it there when Eric had her attention.

“From this moment, demon, you will squelch you desire for violence, and torture, and control, and focus on the reason you are putting yourself through this. Until we reach Natasha you will behave, or I will use whatever means necessary to do it for you.”

“I got it, Jinn. Let go of me—the iron in your pocket is making my injury throb like a bad tooth.” She took in a deep breath, and her next words sounded like the Claire Eric knew—before. “Please, Marcus. We are running out of time. And my strength is not what it was.”

He freed her, one hand on the wrench as he backed away. Claire turned, slowly, and Eric flinched when he saw the blood staining the front of her still opened jeans. She zipped them, gasping as the fabric brushed against the ragged wound. When she looked up, the blue had returned to her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice raw. “Thank you for believing, when you could have just as easily tied me up and dragged me to Natasha.”

Marcus smiled. “It would have been easier.”

“I do have one more favor to ask of you.”

Marcus leaned in when she whispered, and both eyebrows rose. “We can take the time for that. It will be a surprise for Natasha, and an unpleasant one.”

“That’s the idea.” Her laugh sounded rusty. “Let’s go. It’s time to get Annie back, free my cousin, and send the demon riding her back to Hell.”

C
laire sat in the backseat of Marcus’ Jaguar, swallowing a scream when her jeans shifted over the gash on her hip. It took every ounce of control she had not to let her true nature take over.

The freedom, the
power
that flooded her when her barrier had been breached almost turned her back into that grasping creature. Into the demon who spent hundreds of years taking out the pain of banishment on humans who could not defend against her.

Until Claire—the real Claire—crashed into the demon’s existence. The child who fought for her life in a river, trapped in a sinking car while her parents died before her eyes. The child who became a demon’s salvation.

The demon that innocent child saved was hiding in a cave not far from the accident, licking her wounds after facing off with another demon who decided she would be the one to open the way home for him.

The body she rode was dying, and would finish the job the moment she left it. She was about to shed that body when she heard the screaming.

It took the last of the strength in her borrowed body, but the demon pulled a young girl out of the car that was nearly submerged in the deep, icy river. She couldn’t save the girl, but she couldn’t leave her to die, not alone. The compassion of the woman she possessed helped her remember her own, buried under centuries of hate and despair. The demon had been one of the blessed once, created and cherished by a beloved Father, before she gave away all that she was in a moment of rebellion. In the end she joined her brother Lucifer, and became one of the fallen.

When the girl Claire died in her arms, the demon made a vow to bury her true nature forever. To do what she could to make amends, by living as human, helping where she could. To do that, she needed a body.

On that cold winter night, the demon became Claire Wiche, twelve-year-old orphan, saved by a woman who had died in the effort.

“Claire.” Marcus’ quiet voice yanked her out of the past. “We are here.”

“I’m going in first. Alone. No argument—it’s what she expects, and I want to make sure Annie is all right before the cavalry rides in.”

She waited until both men nodded, clearly unhappy, and got out of the car.

Wind whipped at her, tossed hair around her until she gathered it in one hand. The other hand held the only weapon against Natasha that she dared to bring.

Ignoring the goose bumps on her arms, she moved across the grass, pausing when a keep away spell slapped at her. She took in a breath and pushed through it. The only retaliation was the sensation of icy fingers dragging across her skin. She considered herself lucky, and headed to the clump of trees near the cliff. The first thing she saw was Annie, tied to the closest tree and slumped over.

No—no no no—

She ran, and dropped to her knees beside Annie, the horrible déjà vu strangling her. Shaking fingers reached out—and Annie let out a harsh gasp when Claire touched her.

“Claire? Oh, God no—you have to get out of here—”

“Not without you.” She pulled the rope apart that secured Annie around the waist with her bare hands, looked up to meet the terrified brown eyes. “I’ll explain later. Can you walk?”

“I think—with help.”

“You’ve always got mine.” Laughter echoed in her head—mocking laughter, as her true self pushed at the mental barrier. “Marcus and Eric are waiting for you—they will get you out of—”

“Starting the party without me?” Natasha stepped out of the shadows. “I am crushed by your rudeness, Claire. Ahhh.” Her satisfied purr sent icy fingers down Claire’s spine. “So you did as promised. Now I get to meet the legend. The demon thrown out of Hell because she learned how to care.”

Annie stilled beside her. Closing her eyes briefly, Claire stood, faced Natasha.

“I still care.”

“And I counted on that.” Natasha strode to the edge of the cliff, the long hem of her green dress dragging through the grass. She yanked a black cloth off what Claire recognized all too well—the tools to summon a gate. A gate to Hell. All she needed was the talisman she held, and a silver knife coated with the blood of another greater demon. Claire’s blood. “Your little human friend is free to go. She has served her purpose.”

“Claire?” Annie’s strangled whisper tore at her heart. “Is that true?”

“Please go, Annie.” She kept her gaze on Natasha, couldn’t bear to see the revulsion in her friend’s eyes. Not now. “Go!”

She heard footsteps running away from her. When Natasha looked over one shoulder to watch Annie, Claire shifted her position, until she felt the wind at her back.

“Alone again, Claire.” Natasha taunted her, the nasty little voice she remembered grating over her patience. “It is for the best, since you are going home.”

“Not today.”

Claire popped open the silver flask of holy water and aimed for Natasha’s face. The water splashed over her, aided by the wind. Natasha screamed as the blessed water burned everywhere it touched. Blood and water dripped off her chin, her face not as lovely now, with burns streaking over the pale skin.

“You bitch!” She ran—not at Claire, but toward the impromptu altar. Claire’s heart jumped in her chest, and she went after Natasha. “I only planned to take you with me, but now I’m going to claim every damn soul I can touch! They are all on you, but they will be my gift to Azazel.” She grabbed a silver knife and swung around. Claire stopped, out of stabbing range. “And you will be the big, fat bow on top.”

With a furious scream she flew at Claire. The knife glanced off Claire’s upraised arm. Pain shot through her. She ducked under Natasha’s arms and drove one shoulder into her stomach. Breath whooshed out of Natasha’s lungs, and the momentum carried them both across the grass. Claire slammed her into the nearest tree, danced backward.

Natasha recovered faster than she expected. Another scream soundtracked her lunge forward. It changed from furious to frustrated when Claire evaded her. Claire’s arm throbbed, blood slicking her right hand. She shook off the pain, wiped her hand dry and circled Natasha, scenting her weakness—and found the talisman, hanging from a chain and tucked inside Natasha’s bodice. With the right spell, that talisman would attach its power to every soul in a mile radius and drag them to Hell.

If it cost her life, she would destroy that talisman.

She leapt forward and punched Natasha, hitting the water burned cheek with her fist. As Natasha crumpled with an agonized scream, Claire grabbed for the chain. The protective ward she expected burned her palm. Sucking in a harsh breath, she yanked hard. The chain broke, the talisman sliding off it and bouncing in the grass.