Rest For The Wicked (7 page)

Claire reached in past her pain, hoping she could stop him with her depleted power. Stop him without hurting him—

His head snapped around—and he rushed her, long legs propelling him over the counter and into her.

They slammed against the wall. Claire let out a sharp cry and punched one fist up. It glanced off his jaw. Pain exploded in her hand. He grabbed her around the waist, lifted her off her feet and tossed her at the front window. If the glass had not been so thick she would have gone straight through it.

Instead it cracked on impact and she slid to the floor, her right shoulder on fire. He stood over her, trapping her against the wall.

“She’s dead because of you.” Rage poured off him, but his voice sounded detached, as if someone were saying the words for him. Heaven help her—it was a control spell. And a powerful one. “Now it’s your turn to die.”

Light flashed off the edge of a knife. Claire smelled the iron in it—and understood why she didn’t see the spell right away. If that blade touched her— He slashed at her arm. She gathered everything she had and flung a barrier up. The knife bounced off it and he let out a furious scream.

Pain ate at her, weakened the barrier. She scrambled to her feet and ran through the shop. He tackled her when she reached the back room. They slid across the wood floor, crashing into the back door.

Claire recovered first. Pushing him off her, she crawled toward the umbrella stand. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she realized she had no choice. Using her left hand she pulled out the bat she kept tucked in among the umbrellas—and swung it up when she felt him behind her.

The bat caught his hand and the knife flew, landing out of his reach. Snarling, he yanked the bat out of her grip.

“This works just fine.”

The bat came at her before she could stop it and cracked against her right thigh. Claire screamed, her bone breaking under the vicious blow. He muffled her scream with one hand, then hauled her up and cradled her against his chest.

“Hush. We’ll finish this somewhere more private. I’m not supposed to kill you.” His eyes cleared for a moment—but not long enough. His grip tightened on her, and he lifted her off her feet, opening the back door. “I already know where home is.” He walked quickly, his gaze skating around him every few steps.

She closed her eyes, swallowed a scream as her broken leg shifted. There had to be a way to get through the spell, to the man trapped inside it. She would have to find that way, find the strength to get through, or she was going to die, slowly, and in agonizing pain.

A
nnie kept glancing at the front door of Billie’s every time it opened, expecting Claire to appear. She knew Claire was keeping the store open later, but she should have been here by now—

A hand touched her shoulder and she spun, losing her balance.

Strong fingers caught her outflung arm, pulled her up. Gold-edged green eyes captured her attention.

“Where is Claire, Annie?”

“How—do I know you?” Anger simmered, along with another emotion that made her want to punch him in the groin. And her memory burst through the haze. “It was you—son of a bitch!”

He grabbed both wrists.

“We can deal with my lack of manners later. Where is Claire?”

“She should be here—we always meet Sunday nights after work for a drink.”

“What time?” He shook her when she didn’t answer right away. “What time were you to meet her?”

“She was going to close at eight—”

“Stay here. If I don’t return with her in fifteen minutes, phone the police.
Annie
.”

Dread shot through her.

“I will—go!”

She watched him move to the door, dark hair flying around his shoulders. A sudden snap of wind burst over her, left behind the smell of desert and heat. He scared her in a way she didn’t understand. But the thought of Claire in danger scared her more—and she understood now that he had power, power that could save her.

If he got there in time.

*

C
laire’s captor used her key to open the door.

She clutched his shoulder with her right hand, waited until he closed the door, until his attention was divided. And elbowed him in the gut.

He grunted, his breath shooting out. Claire took advantage and jerked out of his loosened grip, dropping to the floor. She let out a harsh gasp, rolled away from him, toward the cabinet that held her tools. Her hand closed over the latch just as he recovered.

With a furious shout he grabbed a handful of hair and yanked her across the floor. Pain roared through her leg, across her scalp. One hand clamped over her mouth, smothered her scream.

“The more you fight, bitch, the longer I take.” The vicious edge in his voice stilled her. “I just want to know one thing—why Katelyn?”

His grief blasted her, laid hairline cracks in the wall of power surrounding him.

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

“Wrong answer.” His fingers closed around her throat, incredibly strong, and started to squeeze. She clawed at his hand, his arm. He let her go, and she dropped to the floor, gasping for breath. His figure loomed over her in the darkness. “There was no reason for her to die.”

Claire closed her eyes, tears sliding back into her hair. Nausea twisted her stomach, her leg on fire, her shoulder almost as bad.

His ragged breath washed over her. She braced herself for more violence—it radiated from him, so strong he shook with it. Forming a desperate and probably fatal plan, Claire inched her left hand across the floor until she felt the heat from him on her skin.

Swallowing, she gathered the shards of her power and slapped her hand on his leg. He shouted as a shock of heat slammed into him.

Claire rolled when he jerked away. She found the wall, tried to sit, her right arm numb. The pain in her leg made her want to throw up, and sweat slipped down her face with the effort.

Before she could get herself upright he was on her.

Both hands closed around her throat. Claire lashed out, dragged her nails down his cheek. He reared back, his face bloody. His weight shifted off her and she freed herself, crawled across the floor. He came after her. Kicking out at him with her good leg, she crabbed backward. He caught her ankle, yanked her toward him.

“No—”

“You’re going to die—even if it kills me. I want it to kill me.” She clawed the back of his hand. He slapped her so hard her head bounced off the wood floor. “Tell me why it had to be Katelyn and I’ll end you fast.”

“I don’t—” She bit back a cry when he grabbed a handful of hair and jerked her up. “Please—give me a minute. I can’t think.”

He propped her against the wall. Her heart skipped when he pulled a second knife out of his coat pocket. A switchblade. He flipped it open, angling the thin blade until it bit into the skin at the base of her throat. Blood slid down her chest.

“Minute’s up. You killed her with a single thrust.” The knife moved, fast, stopping an inch from her ribcage. “I’ll give you the same gift. If you tell me why.”

The grief in his voice tore at her. Claire took in a shallow breath, all too aware of the blade, and took a chance.

“I did not kill her.”

His hand shook, fury pouring off him. Claire expected the knife to stab in. But something stayed his hand. She might have a chance, if she could reach the part of him that hesitated.

“Liar.” The tip pressed into her. Claire grabbed his wrist, agony robbing her breath. “She said you’d lie, to save yourself. I’m not supposed to kill you—she wants you alive . . .” His hand shook. “I can’t let you live—she wants you alive—”

He let out an anguished scream and gripped the knife with both hands.

The front door burst open.

A tall blur slammed into her attacker. They slid across the floor, struggling for the knife. The new intruder punched her attacker, yanked the blade out of his grip and moved to Claire’s side.

“Hold still.”

“Marcus—” She arched away from his hand, pain blinding her. He leaned over her, careful not to make contact.

“I am going to see to your guest. Don’t go anywhere.”

Claire forced her muscles to unclench—not an easy task, when every one felt like it was on fire. She spread her good hand on the cool wood of the floor, let it seep in. It didn’t ease the fire, but it did give her something to focus on.

She felt Marcus crouch beside her, and knew what was coming. “I have to—”

“Do it. Just—ignore the screaming.”

He moved fast, scooping her up. She managed to stay conscious, a raw cry escaping when he tightened his grip.

“I am sorry, sweet. Nearly there. Nearly there now.” He settled her to the bed and sat beside her. “I can only do this one way, Claire. It is going to hurt you, and I am sorry for that.”

Leaning over, he folded himself around her. Wind snatched at her hair, bringing heat—and bone-cracking agony. She couldn’t take enough breath in to scream, couldn’t open her eyes, couldn’t move. Panic shot through her—then hands reached in to connect, to soothe, to draw out. She tried to protect herself from him, but the pain burrowed too deep, and he touched her, the part she buried behind time and wards, to reach it.

The heat changed, and beyond it she felt his suffering, his sacrifice as he healed her.

She reached for him—and found that she could, the pain no longer debilitating.

“Marcus,” she whispered. Fingers caught her wrist before she could touch him.

“Almost—there.”

“Enough. Marcus—stop.”

Shuddering against her, he let go.

The wind died, taking the heat with it. Marcus rolled off the bed. Gathering herself, Claire crawled to the edge, found him huddled on the rug, shock white and shaking.

“No, Claire.” His sand raw voice halted her mid-reach. “I need—time.”

“I can give you that.” She slid off the bed, flinching when her knees made contact with the rug. Every nerve jumped, over sensitized. “How about some water to go with it?”

“Appreciated.”

Using the bed, she pulled herself up, put weight on her right leg with care, numb and tingling at the same time. Halfway down the hall, she remembered who waited in her living room. Pausing, she took in a pain free breath, stepped into his sight.

He surged forward, fighting against the heavy curtain ties Marcus used to lash him to the pillar near her front door. Rage smacked her, along with the spell that still held him.

“Don’t go near him, Claire.”

She turned, found Marcus hanging on to the corner of the hallway wall.

“What are you doing? Stubborn Jinn.” She led him to the sofa—on the opposite side of the room from her uninvited guest—and sat with him, her legs shaking.

“He must be freed.”

With a sigh, Claire looked up at Marcus. Just the thought of yanking that dark spell out of the man exhausted her.

“Water first. Then we’ll figure out how to pull it out of him with as little damage as possible.”

“Does Annie know about you?”

Claire’s heart stilled, then jerked painfully in her chest.

“No—and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Pushing herself up, she waited until her right leg felt stable, then shuffled toward the kitchen. For the second time her front door burst open.

“Claire!” Annie rushed in, sidestepping when she saw the man tied up in the foyer. Eyes wide, she searched the still dark house. When she found Claire, she ran to her. “Are you—God, you look like hell.”

“Thank you, Annie.” She kept moving toward the kitchen—and her leg decided it was done for the day.

“I’ve got you.” Annie caught her around the waist, picked her up, settled her back on the sofa next to Marcus. “Now stay put—both of you. You look like you’ve gone to war, and I’m not sure who won.”

She sailed out of the room.

“Your Annie does know how to take charge.”

Claire tried not to smile, since it hurt. Who was she kidding?
Breathing
hurt.

“It comes in handy when I’ve just been smacked down.” Carefully, she leaned back, her nerves still on high alert. “Any ideas on our current problem?”

“I have one,” Annie said. She set a tray loaded with leftovers from the fridge and several bottles of water on the coffee table, then sat next to it, handing them each a bottle before she started piling food on two plates. “You’re talking about possessed boy, am I right? I met him the other day, at Billie’s.”

Claire almost jumped off the sofa. “When? Did he—”

“The first day of the festival, and he didn’t do a thing. He was so drunk I had to pour him into a cab. I could tell he was hurting over something. Gut hurting. He was at your store, too. God—yesterday. I forgot, with everything else going on.” This time Claire stood. Annie waved her off, kept calmly loading food on a plate. “Sit down, before I have to pick you up off the floor. He just showed up, looked like someone punched him in the gut, and ran out. I went after him.”

“Did he—”