Mark of the Witch (7 page)

“I know. I know how crazy it sounds. And to tell you the truth,
I was pretty skeptical myself until I saw those marks on your back.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I gotta say they made an impression on me, too.” I
didn’t want to talk about that, though. My world had taken a turn for the
macabre, and I was trying to focus on the parts that went down a little easier.
Those phantom lashes from that phantom whip had left real wounds, and that
flat-out scared me too much to dwell on just yet. I’d get to it. But right now,
I thought, let’s stick to the easy stuff. Stuff about him and this so-called
demon of his.

“So how many priests are there on your…um…anti-demon
squad?”

“Two,” he said. “Me and the man who trained me, Father Dom. You
see, one priest from our sect—”

“The Leaders of the Pack.” That’s right, keep it light.

“The Keepers of the Pact,” he corrected. He gave me an odd
look, like he was amused but trying to figure me out at the same time. I liked
the way his eyes felt when they moved over my face, probably because I got the
feeling he liked what he saw.

Priest, Indy. Priest. Priest.
Priest.

“One of us is chosen from each generation as the Guardian of
the Portal. Dom chose me. Just as he was chosen by his predecessor.”

“And what was
his
name?” I asked.
“Father Dom’s predecessor?”

Tomas frowned. “You know, he never told me.”

“I bet it rhymed. Tom. Dom. Rom, maybe?”

The look he sent me this time was a searching frown, like he
was seeing through my plot. Yeah, I was using humor to keep this light, to try
to pretend nothing all that serious was happening. But I was also scared half to
death. And I was pretty sure it showed. I got the feeling there wasn’t much I
could hide from those perceptive brown eyes of his.

“When the current Guardian begins to age, he chooses and trains
his replacement. That tradition has continued since the time of ancient
Babylon.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I said, holding up a hand to
stop him. “Even I know ancient Babylon is BC, as in Before Christ.”

“Fifteen hundred and one BC, to be precise.”

“Pre-Christian, either way. Can’t have a Gnostic sect, no
matter how rare, prior to Christianity, can you?”

He smiled widely, nodding his head not in agreement but in
approval. “You’re smart. I like that.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m freakin’ Einstein. But you didn’t answer my
question. Nice dodge, though.”

“It was a compliment, not a dodge. And it was sincere.”

I gave him a thank-you nod and tried not to warm at the praise.
He hadn’t said I was a knockout, driving him mad with carnal lust. He’d said I
was smart. That’s all. Down, girl. I tried to focus on the city as he maneuvered
the relic through it, instead of on the intense awareness that there was only a
foot of space between us. That space, though, wasn’t empty. It was crackling and
snapping.

“Priests of numerous religions have been entrusted with the
mission. From the Cult of Marduk to the Egyptian followers of Ra to the earliest
Jews. The calling doesn’t end, it just converts. It’s only recently that Dom
realized the way the stars are lining up on Samhain this year makes it a
propitious time for the demon to come through. He probably should have seen it
sooner, but he’s getting a little…unfocused.”

He means senile, I thought. I nodded as if that made perfect
sense when it actually made none. “You talk about him a lot. Dom.”

I spotted the crease between his brows when I said that. Worry?
Something. I wanted to smooth it away with my finger, whatever it was.

“Dom took me in when I was a kid.”

“Took you in—”

“I was an orphan.”

“You were an orphan?” Wait a minute, did my voice just sound
like a cheerleader spotting a puppy?

“That’s really not on topic at all, though. You were asking why
we need to go to Ithaca.”

He was changing the subject. And just when I’d decided I was
far more interested in his sad childhood than I was in some moldy old Babylonian
legend. Even if I
was
somehow intrinsically involved
in its fulfillment.

“The Portal is somewhere in Ithaca, at least according to Dom’s
calculations. By going there, we can not only prevent the demon from coming
through this time but destroy him utterly.”

“Huh,” I said.

“What?” He looked at me, brows raised.

“Well, it’s just that—” I shrugged. “I mean, just playing
demon’s advocate here, but…the dude’s been in this underworld slammer for three
thousand five hundred years now. It seems a little harsh. A lot harsh when you
add ‘destroy him utterly’ to the equation. What did he do, anyway?”

Tomas tipped his head to one side. “I don’t know.”

“You never asked?”

He shrugged. “It seemed enough that he’s a demon.”

“Isn’t that what they said about witches during the hysteria? I
mean, can he even
help
being a demon?”

“You’re confusing the issue.”

“I don’t know that I am. Couldn’t he be a
good
demon? Couldn’t he have been rehabilitated by now? Open your
mind,
Padre.
Think outside the box.”

He looked at me as if I’d just sprouted horns and a forked
tail.

“There’s no such thing as a good demon.”

“That’s what the witch-hunters said about
us.
”

“What he did isn’t as important as what he will do, given the
chance.”

“And what’s that? What’s this big bad demon’s dastardly goal?
No, wait, wait, I remember.” I leaned forward, hands on my hips in a superhero
pose. “He wants to take over the world.”

“I can’t believe you’re making jokes about this, Indira.
Especially given what’s been happening to you.”

I only shrugged and looked away.

He pulled into the long line of traffic heading onto the
bridge, and took the opportunity to turn and stare intently into my eyes. “The
goal of every demon is the same. Destruction of all that’s good. Perversion of
the sacred. Power over the world of man. He could become the anti-Christ,
Indy.”

I just sat there staring at him, trying to determine whether he
actually believed his own words. I mean, he suddenly sounded like a
fire-and-brimstone pulpit thumper in a revival tent. I wondered if that was him
talking or if he was channeling his precious Dom, and I decided on the latter.
“Uh-huh. So we’re going to Ithaca to face and annihilate the anti-Christ.”

He sighed, lowered his head. “You don’t believe me, do
you?”

“Not so much, no.”

Traffic was at a standstill. His hands gripped the wheel,
bumping each other right on top, and I could tell he was squeezing hard.

“And none of it really seems to tie in with what’s been
happening to me. The dreams. The marks.” I touched his shoulder, and he picked
his head up fast. “Can you tie it together for me? ’Cause I’m kinda lost.”

He nodded. “You and your two sisters lived during the time when
he was cast into the Underworld. And you’re the only ones with the power to
destroy him.”

“So it’s past life stuff. Destiny stuff. That kind of
thing.”

He nodded.

I drew a deep breath, blew it out again. “This is scary as
hell, you know that?”

“I know.” He turned and looked me in the eyes, reaching out to
clasp my hands in his. I sucked in a breath and stared down at them. I knew he
was only trying to comfort me a little, but it felt like way more. And he felt
something, too, I knew he did. The way my hands fit inside his, the warmth of
them, and their size and shape and strength. The strangest feeling washed over
me as we sat there, facing each other in the comfy front seat of the old Volvo,
our eyes locked onto our joined hands as we both began to tremble. It was vivid.
Surreal. Dizzying. Like déjà vu.

“Tomas?” My voice emerged soft and raspy, and it didn’t help
matters. He looked up, into my eyes, and I knew he was as shaken as I was. What
was
this?

Behind us, an idiot laid on his horn, and we jerked apart.
Traffic had moved on without us. I blinked and sat back in my seat, looking
anywhere but at Tomas. He pulled the car back into motion, but it bucked and
stalled. So he was as flustered as I was. Then he quickly started it again and
got moving.

I wanted to change the subject—because really, no matter what
was happening to me, it wasn’t that big. It couldn’t be. I was just…me. Not some
soldier in a war between God and the Devil or whoever. “I never had breakfast
this morning,” I said. Damn, my voice had this funny little tremor underneath
it. “And I’m starved.”

“Okay.”

* * *

She was afraid, Tomas thought. Scared to death of the
horrors he was likely to reveal to her if they kept on talking, and putting off
that moment of revelation for as long as she possibly could.

She’s arguing for the demon’s side, and
probably trying to ensorcell you while she’s at it.

That was not his own inner voice. That was Dom, lecturing him
on the powers of the witch. And while he might have changed his mind about
disbelieving the rest of this, he was standing firm on that.

Food was an agreeable distraction, and when he located an IHOP
about an hour later and pulled in, he knew by the look of rapture in her eyes
that she hadn’t
only
been making excuses to end the
conversation. She was, by all appearances, ravenous.

And beautiful.

Difficult for him to believe she was one of the three witches
whose souls were allegedly bound to a demon. And that was only a small part of
what was unbelievable about all of this.

Dom had warned him repeatedly these chosen witches were cagey
and clever, and might or might not be aware of their mission, but that he must
always presume they were and guard against their tricks. They were powerful
women, all three of them. They would sense a man’s weakness and use it against
him.

Tomas had rolled his eyes at the notion. He’d never thought he
had any real weaknesses. Oh, he didn’t believe himself perfect by a long shot,
but he didn’t think he had any particularly lethal vulnerabilities.

Now, though, even
that
belief was
being challenged. Because he was attracted to this woman. Sexually attracted.
And while he was still a man, a fully functioning one, he hadn’t experienced
this level of temptation since—well…ever. It was growing stronger with every
second he spent in her company, and they were going to be together—alone
together—for the next week or so.

Was it a spell? Was she, as Father Dom had warned, perfectly
aware of her bond with the demon, ready and willing to help him, and using her
wiles to enchant and bewitch the priest sent to stop her?

Or was she as innocent as she seemed?

He didn’t suppose it mattered, honestly. He had to resist her,
had to stop her, and how much she knew or didn’t know was irrelevant. Moreover,
he had to convince her that her mission, her calling and her key to salvation
from the torments afflicting her, were all one and the same: to help him stop
the demon from crossing the Portal. When in truth, he was pretty sure her true
mission was just the opposite.

The three witches were foretold to be the demon’s consorts.
They were supposed to help him escape the Portal. But they were also the only
ones with the power to stop him.

He supposed he would have to tell her that part of it at some
point.

“I’m going to have an omelet,” she said as they got out of the
car. “A big fat three-egg omelet with a half pound of cheese and ham and
mushrooms and—no, wait.” She held up a hand, apparently deep in thought. As if
the choice was one of the most important of her life. Then she snapped her
fingers. “Belgian waffles, with butter melting down the sides and all that
whipped cream piled on top, and fruit, and maybe sausage on the side.”

She was walking as she was talking, absently rubbing her upper
arm. He wondered about that as he held the door open for her and she stepped
inside, inhaled, then closed her eyes as if smelling the sweetest perfume.
“Coffee,” she muttered. “Hail the Goddess Caffeinna.”

“That’s sort of blasphemous, you know.” He was only teasing. He
was starting to enjoy her use of sarcasm-laced humor to deflect the things she
called scary, even beginning to return it in kind.

“Oh, please, not to the Holy of Holies, Divine Creatrix of the
sacred coffee bean.” Her attention switched, quick as a heartbeat, to the
hostess who’d just appeared to greet them. “Two for breakfast, and a vat of
high-test, please. Death to decaf!”

The hostess smiled at her enthusiasm and led the way to a
booth.

Indira rubbed her arm again, only this time she pulled her hand
away quickly, as if the arm was sore to the touch. Frowning, Tomas looked at
her. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.” She dropped her hands to her sides.

He wished he could see her arm better, but she’d donned a brown
leather jacket with a fake fur collar that looked as if it ought to have a
matching helmet and goggles to go with it. Beneath that, she wore a T-shirt that
came just to the low-slung top of her skin-tight jeans, so he caught glimpses of
bare midriff every time she moved. The jeans were tucked inside a pair of
cowgirl-style boots, brown, with stitching and embossing in swirls, loops and
flowers, and impossibly high heels.

She looked as if she’d stepped off the cover of some urban
style guide. Her T-shirt read Born Again Pagan, and had a triple moon logo that
glittered when the light hit it at the right angle. She wore a pentacle, a
different one, suspended from a thin silver chain, its star formed in the shape
of a gleaming spider’s web, with the spider in the center. Its body was a
moonstone, its eyes tiny bits of ruby, its legs made of black tourmaline. She
had earrings that matched, each with a tiny pentacle web at the earlobe and a
thin chain dangling with the spider at the end of it. Same gemstones. Same
size.