Brighid's Mark (6 page)

Callie shook her head. “Eva, actually. Donny loved this girl. Worshiped her. Only her Da didn’t approve. So Donny turned his life around, studied for years to be worthy of her. Then the demon came and Donal tried to vanquish it. When Eva showed up it was too late. In repayment, the
Tuatha Du Dannaan
made him a deal of service that he would come to the
Tír
when he dies. But I don’t think Donny ever forgave Eva, not truly.”

“And Chase?”

“I found him and his sister in the streets of Dallas back when most of Texas got wiped back to the dark ages during the Seven-Year War. That was when demonic activity first became prevalent, and there are demons well-versed in either taking human form or possessing one. After all, a lot of lesser demons used to be human once. They generally remember how it goes, and Lucifer’s a shining example of how it’s done.”

“And they got Chase’s family.”

“They got the whole bleeding neighborhood over the age of eighteen or so, masquerading as relief workers. I’d spent weeks tracking them. Chase and his sister were travelling the streets, trying get money and food enough to reach a church compound in Corpus Christi. I took them. When Chase was old enough he joined the Texan militia, then tracked me down when the war ended. He wanted to hunt demons.”

“He was in love with you.” Puzzle pieces snapped into place: Chase rarely spoke to Liam directly, and never with anything other than a surly tone. But the hunter watched Callie and Liam’s interactions with searching observation bordering on—what was the word Callie had used? Possession. Chase had a knack for finding the two of them alone, which was then usually followed by something like what Liam referred to as the Wet Towel Incident.

Callie smiled. “Infatuated, more like. He was very endearing. It took time and experience, but he eventually came to the conclusion I’d been trying to convince him of—human relationships aren’t a good idea with someone like me. If he lived to be a hundred, I would still look the same as I do now, as when I ascended the first time over a century ago. I would have to hunt when he couldn’t. I would still have to fight in the End of Days, with the possibility of humanity falling, if Keepers fail.” She pressed the heel of her hand against one of her eyes, as though seeking to relieve a nagging pressure there. “I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into the middle of this.”

“I’m not.”

“What, not in the middle?”

“Not sorry. The way I see it, everything happens for a reason, even if we don’t see it immediately. I’m sorry about Eva. I’m sorry you’ve been betrayed. But I’m not sorry I met you.”

His hand inched toward hers on the table. His heart dropped a bit when she moved away from him. She pulled a corner of map around with her and bent to study it. “How did you know her?” she asked.

“Her? Her who?” Then Liam knew. He let out a breath that was almost, but not quite, a low laugh. “Eva.”

Callie leaned on her elbows, hands cradling her smiling-sad face. “You said she was a colleague.”

“She was here when I arrived—a friend of Sulie’s. We met a few times over the years, being in essentially the same business, always over trouble. The La Laurie mess. Another involving the entire opium den household of a Turkish Sultan’s brother—that one was a jinn.” He paused to consider the words brought on by memory. “I guess something finally got her, after all this time.” He shook himself free of reverie. “I never knew what she was, exactly. She just always seemed to be wherever there was that kind of trouble, and biding her time for something.”

“That was Eva,” Callie murmured. She looked out the window, eyes distant. “I wonder if it was her that sent you that dream.”

That was a possibility he hadn’t considered. “Is that something that you—Keepers, I mean—can do?”

“We’re all a little different.” She shrugged. “If she had a tap into the Loa here, anything’s possible. Maybe she used the last of herself, what remained of her light, to reach you.”

“I guess we’ll never know.”

“Maybe not.” Callie planted her palm flat on the map, motioning him over with her free hand. “I’m having an idea.”

He joined her, ginger spice immediately filling his senses. He wondered if she tasted as spicy sweet as she smelled. A faint, not-quite remembered memory tingled on his lips and tongue. His mouth watered as he looked over her shoulder. “Jackson Square?”

“Would it be possible to get in there at night?”

“Sure. It’ll be deserted.” He thought it through. Jackson Square during the day was a local trading post and flea market in conjunction with the French Market. But a mandatory curfew emptied the place at nine at night on the dot when everyone moved on to the larger space offered by the old convention center. “But can we summon a demon so close to a cathedral?”

“Voodoo itself is a meeting of the Crossroads between church and the belief systems of dozens of African-based cultures,” she pointed out. “This city is a seething hotbed of Crossroads activity, and Jackson Square is at its heart.” She reached for the radio. “Chase?”

The Texan’s drawl came through a heavy blanket of static. “Yeah?”

“Can you check out Jackson Square for me?” Another burst of static suspiciously resembled a litany of creative cursing. “I heard that.”

“Color me crazy,” he answered, “but isn’t that smack in the middle of civilization?”

“Not at night. Just go with me on this.”

“If you say so.” He didn’t sound enthusiastic. “Call you when I get there.”

Callie set the radio aside. “Now we wait.”

“There was a Great Fire there back in the mid-late eighteenth century.” Liam warmed to the idea. “Do you really think it will work?”

“I honestly have no idea,” she said cheerfully.

A humid breeze from the open window brushed a curl of her wild hair against the side of his face. It tickled. Without thinking, he tucked the errant strand behind her ear.

Her smile faded as she took a step away. “Liam—”

A gentleman of his era would never have considered what he did next.

Well, no, it would have been considered—in exquisite and loving detail, in a never ending loop. But he never would have done it.

She braced a hand on his chest to stop him, his heart beating against her palm. He felt the strength in her, and the fear. “This isn’t a good idea,” she warned.

 
He smiled, forehead an inch away from hers. “You don’t consider yourself human, do you?”

“I was born, and grew up, and had life and love and a world of possibility before me,” she said softly, not looking at him. “And then I became something else, and ‘normal’ ended in unmitigated disaster.”

“Strange,” he said, smoothing more hair from her face with both hands, thumbs pausing at the corners of her mouth as he tilted her face up. He had to know. “You feel like a real girl to me.”

She tasted like spiced wine, mulled to a turn on a chilly autumn night. She held herself back from him at first, spine straight and hand still keeping him at a distance.

There was a breathless moment when he thought she might soften. But then she tried to pull away. In response he sank his long fingers into her mass of hodgepodge curls and kissed her, deeper and deeper, until her hand on his chest clenched in his shirt and she half-melted against him.

His arms wrapped unrelenting around her. Paper and cold coffee erupted in a flurry as they landed on the library table. The radio skittered over the edge and hit the floor with a dull, accusatory thud.

Liam’s heart hammered painfully against his ribs. A gentleman would never have mindlessly lifted Callie’s Jane Russell figure onto the library table. Would never have pressed her into letting him kiss her with the fervor of a starving man.
 

Would never have smoothed a hand up her warm, muscular thigh until her knee hooked over his hip and the hem of her bright dress cascaded back. He cradled his weight against her. Lost, completely and delightfully lost.

He never stopped kissing her, because stopping would bring her to her senses.

The hem of his shirt had ridden up, baring his lower back. The tentative touch of her fingers nearly electrified him out of his skin. He pulled away from her luscious mouth as her hand crawled an exploratory path up his spine by inches, then hesitated. “Don’t,” he breathed.

 
Her eyes fluttered open in surprise. “What?”

“Don’t stop doing that.” His tone was part moan, part growl.

Their breath mingled as she gave a low laugh. “This is a really bad idea.” But she drew experimental fingers up the curving line of his spine. She leaned forward and pressed her lips against the hollow of his throat. A small but telling concession.

The last string he had on control snapped. He would have acted very ungentlemanly indeed, his hand curling around the strap of her outrageous dress to pull it down, if Chase’s unwelcome, static-ridden voice hadn’t emitted from the tumbled radio like an unpinned grenade in their midst.

“Callie? You there, girl?”

Callie scrambled from beneath Liam’s solid weight. “Chase,” she gasped, snatching up the radio and opening the channel in one movement.

“How’d you know?”

“What are you talking about? Where are you?”

“Jackson Square. There’s already a summoning area set up.”

“What?”

“I found a ring of obsidian. The staging area’s ready to go. The power building around here is unbelievable. Maeve wasn’t kidding when she said this was a trap.”

“Alive or dead?” she demanded. Liam’s heart felt as though it were about to take flight.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“The obsidian—alive or dead? Has it been drained?”

“No, it’s definitely alive.” Static filled the speaker with a high, momentary whine before his voice came through again. “Donny? What are you—”

The line went dead.

Callie and Liam stared at one another, questions flooding the small space between them until an unbridgeable abyss yawned. The radio fell from Callie’s nerveless fingers. “Chase.”

Chapter Four

Callie and Liam entered Jackson Square by the southern entrance. Callie adjusted the strap of the baldric over her shoulder and buried her hands in her jacket pockets. She stood, outwardly composed, eyes on the triple spires of St. Louis Cathedral as she toyed with Liam’s ring in her pocket.

The cathedral resembled a ghost ship in the thick, humid mist brought on by the Louisiana rain. Trees rustled a sticky drizzle in a warning wind, so the rain must have just stopped. No wonder Chase had been so annoyed. His van enjoyed wet weather about as much a cat when caught in it.

She tried not to think about Chase and Donny as she waited for Liam to relock the gate behind them. She was even less successful in forgetting Liam’s body cradled against hers, his kiss making the blood pound in her veins. He didn’t kiss like Legba—it had been so, so much better. The breath was still tight in her chest, heat pooled her gut, held in curling, lazy abeyance. There had been so much unexpected heat in him, driven to get out, to bleed itself into her like the sun after a tremendous storm. She wanted to bask in him.

His footsteps crunched along the gravel path until he stood beside her, close but not hovering, simply giving her the space she needed to focus.

“Chase was right. This place is thrumming with power.”

“It’s always like this,” Liam told her. “Something to do with the proximity of the cathedral.”

“Good. We’re going to need it.” She moved forward.

The path had once been well maintained. One storm too many, a war and the constant tread of shuffling feet had seen to the Square’s trim geometry.

The four paths of the Square were bisected by one large circular path and a smaller one at its center. At the larger ring, she paused, stooped to run her fingers through cool, damp grass. After a moment, she extracted a large hunk of rock, hefting it thoughtfully. Unlike the dead obsidian she’d found in Chicago, which had been charcoal gray and porous with drained life, this palm-sized specimen was glossy black with orange striations like veins. With a humorless smile, she replaced the hunk of obsidian and wiped her glove on the side of her jacket. The rock’s living energy tried to seep its way to her bare skin, nipping like insects.

Callie and Liam continued to the smaller ring, where a crumbling stone block bravely upheld the remains of a bronze statue gone green with age and crawling moss. She could just make out the rearing horse; more prominent was the headless horseman waving its hat, like a friendlier version of Sleepy Hollow’s well-known demon. There, nestled in Spanish moss, lay the thirteenth piece of obsidian. Callie watched it warily. It was about the same shape and size of a human heart. She imagined it pulsing with life.

“No Chase, no Donal,” Liam observed.

“No.”

“So why isn’t the obsidian drained?”

Callie didn’t look away from the keystone as she removed her left glove. “Because one of them betrayed us and the other is a hostage. I’m supposed to do the summoning to come after them. Trap.” She unwound the bandage from her left hand.

“How?”

“How else? Maeve. We gave her a way in.”

“So maybe it wasn’t either of them.”