What Doesn't Kill You (4 page)

“What the hell were you thinking?” Mom screeched at Marcus. She never screeched. She hardly ever raised her voice. But now she looked like a maniac, pounding on Marcus like he took away her toy. “He was reading my future—and you are not part of it!”

She slapped him—so hard his head snapped sideways. He calmly took her by the wrists and held on. Zach realized what was different about her. A strange, silver light edged her normally soft blue eyes. Memory scratched at him, like he should know what that meant. Her struggle to free herself turned manic, and scared Zach more than the physical change.

“Mom?” His whisper stilled her. She turned her head, those silver blue eyes staring at him like she’d never seen him before.

Her upper lip curled, and she let out a low snarl. With a bone-breaking jerk she freed herself from Marcus and leapt at Zach.

He backpedaled, but not fast enough. They crashed to the floor, her clawed hands going straight for his eyes. He threw his left arm up to protect his face, and her nails dug into his forearm. Beyond the shock of pain he heard her low, harsh whisper.

“You turned your back on us, let us be exiled.” She spoke the Latin of the ancients, tearing at his skin with every word, wild and barely human. “I paid for my brother’s pride, paid in centuries of anguish. You have no right to judge me—no right to be here—”

Marcus yanked her off Zach, and to his horror, threw her at the far wall. Impact didn’t even faze her.

She came back at Marcus, shrieking. He backhanded her, knocking her off her feet. Before she could recover he trapped her against the floor. “Claire.” A whirlwind of sand appeared out of nowhere, wrapping around them.

Zach realized what it meant. Marcus was pulling out the big guns. Zach had read about the physical manifestation of a Jinn’s healing—but this was something else. Marcus used it to hold her, keep her from attacking. Zach watched her struggles become weaker. Leaning in, Marcus spoke to her, and she finally met his eyes, the rage on her face fading.

The whirlwind thinned, then disappeared, leaving behind the heat and scent of the desert.

Zach sat, cradling his torn arm. “Mom.”

She brushed wind-tangled reddish brown hair off her face, and looked at him. The silver in her eyes was gone, replaced by horror. “Zach—God—”

Marcus helped her stand, then stepped between them. “You will not go near him again until this has been sorted.” Nodding, she backed away, one hand covering her mouth. Marcus knelt, closed both hands over Zach’s arm. “I know this hurts you. I fear the healing of it may hurt you more.”

Zach didn’t understand, but he nodded, knowing Marcus waited for his permission. And Marcus was right; the normally soothing heat seared through his wounds. Sucking in his breath, he forced himself to hold still. As much as it hurt, it was still healing his arm.

Finally, the last gouge closed, scabbing over. “That’s good enough,” Zach whispered. He couldn’t stand any more. Marcus helped him stand, led him past Mom, and eased him to the chair. “What the hell just happened?”

“Zach—”

“No, Claire,” Marcus said. He pushed black, curly hair off his face, his fingers trembling. Sweat slicked his skin, and Zach saw fear skate across his eyes. “Lock the front door. I am taking you both home.”

Mom raised her eyebrows. “I am not—”

“Now.”
The deadly quiet command had her stomping through the shop. Marcus closed one hand over Zach’s shoulder. “I promise, this will be explained to you. But you must trust me for now, Zach, and let me do what I need for your mother.”

He knew it was a warning, and that this was far from over. Nodding, he stood, his legs still shaky. Mom came stalking back from the front of the shop, more angry than when she left.

“Orders carried out. Can I see to my son, now?”

“Once I know it is safe for him, yes.”

Mom stared at him, shock flaring in her eyes. “I would never . . .” Her protest faded, and she seemed to shrink right in front of him. “Zach, I—”

With a startled cry her legs buckled.

Zach didn’t think, he just grabbed her—and heat flared in his amethyst. She clutched his shirt, her head lowered. But he knew, without seeing her face he knew what was wrong with her. He could feel it.

“How long have you been hiding the aftereffects of the spell, Mom?”

She fought to stand, and he held on to her until she won. “Since we came back.” She looked at him. “I didn’t want to worry any of you, not when there was nothing you could do.” She glanced over at Marcus, who stood with his arms crossed, looking as deadly as a sandstorm. Her hand inched up, cradled Zach’s cheek. “I didn’t want you to know, sweetheart. Not when you already hurt so much.”

He swallowed, his throat tight. Nodding, he kept one arm around Mom’s waist and led her to the back door, ignoring Marcus. “Let’s get you home. We’ll figure everything out there. Together.”

*

C
laire let Zach guide her down the alley at the back of the shop, heading for home. She heard Marcus, walking behind them. He spoke to Annie on his cell, asking her to look after the shop until he could return. With his usual evasive charm, he avoided answering any of the questions Claire was certain Annie fired at him.

He moved up to Zach’s side, tucking his phone in the pocket of his black jeans. Tall, lean, and furious, he kept pace with them, though Claire knew he wanted to stalk, to stretch out those long legs and walk off his furious.

Instead he acted as bodyguard for Zach. From her.

If Claire hadn’t been so mortified she would have been offended.

Blood stained the rolled up sleeve of Zach’s shirt, the scabbed-over wounds on his left forearm evidence of her attack. She didn’t remember much of it—or much of anything after the customer walked in. The one with the tarot deck.

What she did remember left her terrified for her future. She recalled the reason for going after Zach; he was an angel, and she was a demon, a fallen. He deserved to suffer, as she suffered, to feel the anguish and isolation of exile—

She cut off the memory.

Zach must have felt her tremble. His arm tightened around her waist, and he cupped her elbow as he helped her climb the two steps leading to the back door. Without asking, he kept moving until he had her settled on the sofa in the living room, then headed into the kitchen. Claire heard him rummaging in the cupboards.

“Tell me what you remember.” Marcus stood across the room, next to the hallway leading to the bedrooms, jade green eyes unreadable. “There is no need to be gentle, Claire.”

She let out her breath, understanding. He already knew; he just wanted confirmation.

“A man came in, wanting a tarot lesson. I led him to the table in back, and—” She swallowed, horror and despair fighting for a grip on her heart. “I felt—invincible.”

“Damn it, Claire.” He stalked forward, grabbed her shoulders. His fingers dug in, hard enough to leave bruises. “Say it out loud.”

“I felt the demon. God above, Marcus.” She met his eyes. “I thought that part of me was gone. I had no control,” she whispered, reliving the cruel pleasure she felt when she attacked Zach. “I knew what I was doing, but I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to—” Her voice cut off when she saw Zach in the kitchen doorway, blue eyes wide. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

He swallowed, moved to the sofa, setting the water bottles and bag of chips on the coffee table. “Finish it,” he said. “What did you want to do to me?”

Claire shook her head, hands clutching the edge of the sofa so tightly her arms trembled. “It wasn’t me—”

“Yeah, it was. And if it’s coming back, we have to deal. Now tell me.”

She stared at her son. He sounded like a man. The soft, wide-eyed boy she brought home was gone, and her heart ached for that loss. She took in a breath, kept her eyes focused on him. “I saw the angel you had been. I wanted you to suffer, to know what it meant to be lost, to be so alone every breath you take in feels like torture. I wanted you to die.”

“Okay, then.” He scrubbed his face—and to her surprise dropped on the sofa next to her. “You’re the big Kahuna here, Marcus. How do you think it happened?”

Claire bit her lip, fighting a smile. Marcus looked equally offended and flattered. “I felt power such as I have never touched swirling around you. Felt it across town.” He crossed the room, lowering himself to the coffee table. Reaching out, he enveloped her hands. His warmth seeped into her skin. “I could not get here fast enough.”

The terror started to fade, along with the fear that she would be rejected. Both of her men flanked her, offering the support and love she’d never had when she first hid the demon behind a pentacle tattoo and a false history.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Both of you.” She freed one hand and reached out to Zach. He took her hand, no hesitation. That told her more than words that the rift between them was closing. She cleared her throat. “I felt fine . . . until I took his tarot deck.” The revelation all but smacked her.

Marcus frowned, letting go of her hand. “Why would a simple deck of cards draw out—”

“Because of its heritage,” she said. Memory snapped in, now that the influence of the deck had dissipated. “The last time I saw the deck, it wasn’t so strong. I was in London.” Zach and Marcus both opened their mouths to ask, so she answered before they could. “I spent some time there, in 1920, during the spiritualism craze. I even met Harry Houdini at a séance. Charming man, and quite obsessed about revealing mediums who were frauds.”

“Wow.” Zach stared at her, his eyes wide. “How many people have you met? I mean, historic dead people?”

She smiled, fighting the laughter that threatened. “Oh, my share. I wasn’t always on the run from other demons. There were times I lived peacefully—though my host probably had a less pleasant experience.”

“Right.” Zach’s rapt interest cracked, and she saw fear flash in his eyes at the mention of her demon past.

Marcus touched her cheek, pulling her attention away from Zach, and her need to explain what she couldn’t defend. “Why did the deck have such an effect on you?”

“I bet it’s a cursed object,” Zach said. He ignored Marcus’ annoyed glance. Claire rubbed her nose, hiding the smile that threatened. “I’ve been reading about them in my, um, research.”

Claire raised her eyebrows. “Research?”

He looked uncomfortable, and suddenly more like the boy who invaded her life, made it whole. “Yeah. I had questions. About things.” He let her go and squared his shoulders, a much more impressive stance now that he had muscle definition. “Questions I didn’t feel comfortable asking anyone. So I hit the library, a few times, and hunted around online. Anyway—I found a really active site on cursed objects, and how they can give someone with no natural power a way to channel the power in the object. It never ends well, according to people who ‘knew someone’ with an object. Was it old?”

“When I saw the deck the first time it was already old, and had power that could make your hand vibrate. Now it packs the kind of punch that woke what I thought had been cast out. Zach,” Claire looked at him, ready for his reaction. “I don’t expect your forgiveness—”

“Too late—you already got it.” He cleared his throat, picking at the fresh hole in the knee of his cargo pants. “So, if this is a cursed object, we have to get it away from him. The longer he holds on to it, the more it will corrupt him. At least, according to the ‘experts’ on the site.”

Letting out her breath, Claire mentally thanked him for the subject change. “It sounds like you’re less than impressed with them.”

“Inconsistent, contradictory. And they argue back and forth like an old married couple, over the dumbest things. I learned enough to find some legitimate sources. I think one of the solutions can work here.”

“And what is that?” Marcus let her go and crossed his arms, telling Claire he did not enjoy being second hat in this conversation.

“Separate him from the object, and secure it in a warded box. Kind of like the one that trapped the elemental.” He said it without flinching. Claire couldn’t have been more proud. His experience in England could have scarred him; instead, he wanted to help someone else under a similar influence. “He may have to go through a sort of detox, but if he hasn’t really bonded with the deck, we should be able to help him.”

“And why would we help this man?” Marcus stood, the annoyance turning into anger. “He clearly means to do harm. I will not have Claire near him again. Not after the damage caused by such brief contact with this cursed object.” He all but sneered when he said the last two words, clearly discounting Zach’s explanation.

“It will kill him.” Zach spoke quietly, but anger edged his voice. “Can you live with that? I know I can’t. He isn’t the one doing harm—it’s the tarot deck. He may not even know—”

“He knows,” Claire said. Just the way James used the deck as an ‘in’ told her he understood there was something different about it. “He may not realize how dangerous it is, but he knows what he carries holds power. Power he can manipulate.” She stood, heading for the kitchen. “We are going to eat, and take advantage of Annie covering the shop, and then we are going to figure out how to separate James from the deck, and keep him alive while we do it.”

FIVE

A
nnie thumbed through the baby magazine, bored and uncomfortable. Shifting on the high stool, she closed the magazine, slid it down the granite counter so she could lay her forehead on the cool stone.

She loved knowing the child she and Eric had created grew inside her. But she hated being pregnant. She didn’t get that beautiful new mommy glow, or float around in quiet joy. No—she got sick at the smell of certain foods, lumbered around like a clumsy elephant, and felt useless.

Eric did all the cooking, since she didn’t know what would trigger her nausea. Eric did all the driving, because he didn’t trust her holding to the speed limit. Eric did—damn, he took over everything, until she felt like a visitor in her own home. Only Zach’s presence the last few months kept her from going completely off the deep end.