Rest For The Wicked (8 page)

“Not a thing. Except put me off when I tried to help him.” She handed them each a plate, then started her own. “Anyway, here’s my idea, because now I
can
help him. You siphon off my power.”

“Absolutely—”

“—not.” Marcus finished Claire’s protest. “You have no idea what you are offering—”

“I’m not talking to you,” Annie said. “Ever.”

“Annie.” Claire took her hand. “You can’t be part of this.”

“Here’s a question: how are you going to exorcise whatever nasty he’s got crawling in his soul when you can’t even stand up on your own?”

Marcus touched Claire’s shoulder. “She has a point.”

Annie glared at him. “I wasn’t talking to—”

“Get used to talking to him, Annie.” Claire let out a sigh, then scrubbed at her face. “As much as I don’t like the idea, he’s part of this. And I really don’t like it, but so are you.”

*

T
hey ended up tying him to Claire’s bed—and all of them had their share of bruises for the effort. He fought like a madman, lunging at Claire every chance he got, until Marcus cursed in a language Claire had not heard for longer than she cared to count, and punched the man.

Looking down at him now, Claire could see the shadow of the spell surrounding him. It coated him like tar, thick and ugly. She didn’t know if they had the strength left to remove it. And she did not want to use Annie to do so.

It seemed, at this point, she had no choice.

“Annie.” She turned to her friend. “Pull up two chairs, and take off your jewelry.”

Claire sat in the first chair, took off her bloodstained sweater, gripped her amethyst pendant in one hand, then held out her other to Annie. Fingers linked, they stared at each other.

“I can’t—” Claire took a shaky breath. “I don’t want you to do this.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Annie tightened her grip. “I’m a screw up when it comes to my own spells, but I know I have enough in here to help you help him. He’s in pain, isn’t he?”

“More than even he realizes. But he’ll feel it, once the barrier is gone. You ready?”

Swallowing, Annie nodded. Claire squeezed her hand, then focused on her pendant, let the heat from it flow through her. Annie’s hand jerked when the heat touched her, then slid in, past the flimsy defense her mind had thrown up.
I have to give her better protection
. She put it on her mental list and kept inching forward.

Annie tensed, gasping when Claire’s power found her center. With a hoarse cry she yanked free. Claire reeled, pain tearing through her at the sudden severing.

“I’ve got you, now.” Marcus caught her before she toppled to the floor, brushed sweat soaked hair off her cheek. “You are more drained than you let on, witch. Give this task to me—”

“I’m the one he tried to kill—”

“Which means he will be most resistant to you.”

“Damn.” Claire met his eyes, her own exhaustion mirrored in the jade green depths. “You don’t have much more left yourself.”

“Ah, but I am more skilled at taking the power of others.” His smile lightened the exhaustion. “Sit this one out, Claire. You can tend to him while we try and break the spell.”

Nodding, she made her way around the bed, sat next to the unconscious man. Marcus lowered himself to the chair, ignored Annie’s snap of temper and took her hands. She opened her mouth—then slumped forward, her face shock pale.

Claire pushed off the bed. “Annie—”

“She is fine,” Marcus said. He eased her to the floor, cradled her cheek for a moment, then took her hand, resting his free hand on the man’s leg. “Dark magic—gods.” He lowered his head, his hand shaking. “This is an ugly spell. Stand away from him, Claire—this is going to be quick and dirty, and I don’t know if I can contain it before it finally dies.”

She slid along the wall, watching the shadow that lay over the man flinch away from the deep gold light surrounding Marcus’ fingers. Then the shadow attacked.

“Marcus!”

“Stay back—” His voice cut off as the shadow spun up and engulfed him.

Claire leapt forward, grabbing his hand just as it slipped free of Annie’s fingers. Agony clawed her. Fighting it, she laid her hand over Annie’s and opened herself.

Power swept through her, chasing the darkness. It burst free, coiling around the shadow like a gold rope. A high-pitched scream split the air. Fury drove into her. She doubled, the pain of it an icy knife in her gut. Shaking, she kept the link intact, the side of the bed holding her up as she watched Marcus wrangle in the shadow.

It fought, clawed, shrieked—but inch by agonizing inch it shrank away from the coils of gold until they circled it in a net of power. He closed his fist, and the net became a solid ball. A final scream tore out of the shadow before it pulled into itself and winked out.

Marcus collapsed, cradling his right hand. Easing Annie’s power back to the source, Claire crawled over to him.

“Let me see.”

“There is nothing—gods—”

Claire cupped her hand around his, pried his fingers open.

“Oh, Marcus.” Every inch of skin on his palm was scorched black. “Look at me.”

After a long moment, he obeyed. She searched his eyes for the gold that would tell her he still had power. It had been swallowed by the green, and the green was layered with shadows.

“I had to—draw in more than I planned.” Pain scoured his low voice. “You will not even try, Claire. I can neutralize what remains of the spell.”

“Your hand—”

“Will wait. He is coming around.” Marcus pulled away, using the bed to help him stand. “Welcome back.”

“Where—” Clear blue eyes blinked up at Marcus, the rage that was in them gone. “Who the hell—God, my head is killing me.”

“It should,” Claire said, easing herself up. She moved past Marcus, ignoring his warning growl, and sat next to her attacker. Sweat streaked his dark blonde hair, plastered it to his forehead. Every injury from their brief, desperate battle had been healed. “You’ve been under a spell for days. A nasty spell.” She laid one hand on his bound wrist. “It is the reason you are tied to my bed.”

“A—what?” He stared at them like they had just rolled off the crazy truck. “I’ve been sick. My sister—” Grief darkened his eyes, clawed through his voice. “My sister died recently, and—” He closed his eyes. “I don’t remember much of it. Except you.” He looked up at Claire, an echo of the rage crossing his face. The wrist under her hand jerked against the rope. “I was looking for you.”

“And you found me.” She closed her hand over his, felt him let go. “What is your name?”

“Eric. Eric Malone.”

“Welcome to my home, Eric. I’m Claire—and I’m afraid you’ve fallen down the rabbit hole.”

*

A
nnie cornered Claire in the kitchen, furious that she would even think of feeding the man who nearly killed her.

“He had no say, Annie.” Claire calmly put together a tray of cheese, fruit and crackers, but Annie saw how her fingers shook. “And we have a chance to find out who did this to him before they can trap another victim.”

“You need to sit down.” Annie nudged her aside, finished loading the tray. “I’d be happier if you took something and checked out for a couple of days.”

“Look that bad, do I?”

Annie gripped the counter, her own exhaustion shredding her already frayed patience.

“You almost died, Claire. If I hadn’t run into that lying bastard out there, you would have. No question. And don’t you dare contradict me.” She let out a ragged breath and hauled Claire into her arms. “Don’t you dare.”

“Annie.”

Claire wrapped both arms around her, her touch soothing, calming Annie even though she wanted to stay mad. Resting her cheek against Claire’s hair, she simply held on. Claire felt so fragile, so delicate—even that iron core of power that always awed Annie felt cracked. And all the worry she’d kept to herself the past few months tumbled out.

“I’m not leaving tonight until you tell me what’s wrong with you—no.” She gripped Claire’s arms when she tried to pull away. “You’ve dodged and avoided long enough. You know what it is and you’re going to spill—after we take care of your would-be assassin and the asshole.”

“Annie—” Claire sputtered, then burst out laughing. It felt damn good to hear that. “You have to stop. Eric had no control, and Marcus—”

“Played me—”

“Because I asked him to.” She looked Annie straight in the eye, no flinching. “I didn’t want you anywhere near him, not with you so susceptible to his—charm.”

Annie let her go, crossed her arms.

“Okay—what is he?”

Surprise flared in Claire’s eyes, just long enough for Annie to catch it. And that scared her as much as what Claire was hiding from her. The woman
never
revealed her emotions unless she wanted someone to see them.

“He is a man I prefer you steer clear of, Annie. I don’t want you hurt when he drifts off to the next town. He seems to be the type that doesn’t stick, to a place or a person.”

“For such a low opinion, you sure trust him.” This time Claire was flustered. “And he did something, was part of breaking that spell. I saw his hand.”

“He was—”

“A conduit,” Marcus said. He stood in the doorway, that dark hair a wild tangle of curls brushing his wide shoulders—
Stop it. Just stop it.
“Claire needed my help, just as she needed yours, Annie.”

“I didn’t say I was talking to you, ass—”

“Enough.” Claire picked up the tray, pausing in the doorway next to Marcus. “Come to a truce or don’t talk to each other. I don’t care which, but do it now. Eric needs our help, and I don’t want you two sniping in front of him.”

She strode out of sight, leaving Annie alone with Marcus. Crossing her arms, she glared at him.

“You make the apology sweet, pal, and I’ll think about not chopping your hair off while you sleep.”

Marcus brushed one hand through his hair, clearly unsettled. “I can never change what happened between us, Annie. But I can offer amends, if you will give me the chance to make them.”

His words deflated her anger. How could she smack out at him when he was so humble? He took all the fun out of tormenting him.

“Yeah, we can work it out later.” She stepped up to him, almost at his eye level with her three inch heels. “Marcus? You so much as blink wrong at Claire and I’ll cut you into tiny pieces.”

E
ric leaned his head back on the sofa cushion. It throbbed, even when he blinked, and moving just made him want to throw up.

Claire came in with a tray of food. After setting it on the coffee table, she moved to him, lowered herself to the sofa. The light movement of the cushion had him swallowing the bile in his throat.

“Don’t try and remember, Eric. It’s hurting you. I believe it was her intention that you not survive after you—completed your task.”

“Who the hell are you?” He lifted his head, ignoring the vicious throb that resulted. “I didn’t agree to do any—” He cut himself off and grabbed his head, pain slicing through it. “God—”

“Hold still.” Gentle fingers slid into his hair, and warmth radiated from them. He could almost see it, breaking through his pain, smoothing away the ragged edges. When she freed him he finally took his first easy breath. “Better?”

“Much—thank you. Now I’m going to ask you again: who the hell are you?”

She smiled. It lit the unusual silver blue eyes, calmed his anger.

“Even if you haven’t admitted it to yourself yet, Eric, your mind already knows. I am a witch.”

“Right.” He wanted to run, panic building in his chest. “So where’s your broom?”

“In my shop, with my cauldron and my crystal ball.” Amusement wove through her voice. “You don’t remember that, either, do you? Being in my shop—”

“The Wiche’s Broom.” His head still throbbed, but nothing like before. “Your last name? That or you’re a lousy speller.”

Her laughter washed over him.

“My name. I like you, Eric, and if you let me, I can help you.” She laid her hand on his chest, and his panic eased. “You are safe here. I promise you.”

The panic accelerated again when a man and another woman walked out of the kitchen. Shock jolted him as he recognized the woman. Annie, the gorgeous blonde from—he couldn’t remember the where, just her. The man with her was tall, angry. And familiar.

Claire touched his hand, brought his attention back to her. “Who did this to you?”

“I don’t—” Images scraped at the edge of his mind. Ugly images. He stood and backed across the room, away from her influence. Claire followed, one hand held out. He knew if she touched him again he’d remember—everything. “Stay back—I don’t want to hurt—God—”

“Eric—” She caught him when his knees buckled. He tried to recoil—instead his body convulsed. “I’ve got you, Eric. You’re safe here. Whoever did this can’t touch—”

With a pained gasp she let him go. The man leapt forward, halting when she shook her head. She sank to the floor, her face shock white against the rich brown hair.