Rest For The Wicked(15)
She halted in front of The Witch’s Way, took a deep, steadying breath, forced down her temper, and knocked on the door.
Madame Serena—whose real name was Agatha Mosheim—glared at her through the glass, her bulky frame draped in a purple robe that matched her turban. When Claire calmly met the glare, she unlocked the door and jerked it open. Anger snapped in her brown eyes.
“I thought I told you I no longer wanted you in my store.”
“I wouldn’t be here, Agatha, if it weren’t important.” The woman flinched at her name, then crossed her arms. “Please.” After a long, uncomfortable silence, Agatha waved her in, locking the door behind her. Claire followed her to the velvet draped reading table. “You sold this candle to a friend of mine.” Claire removed the wrapped candle from the tote bag, careful not to touch the bottom. She laid it on the table, unwrapped it, and turned the bottom toward Agatha. “Can you tell me how that mark ended up on a love candle?”
Her nostrils flaring, Agatha bent over and looked at the candle—and all the color drained out of her face.
“What the—I did not mark that candle.” She stumbled back, one hand clutching the pendant around her neck. “I swear to you, Claire. I may enhance my readings, but I don’t mess with dem—with them. Period. Please get that tainted thing out of my store.”
Claire flinched, then rewrapped the candle and slipped it into her tote.
“Did you see anyone, sense anyone, who may have done this? I narrowly prevented what could have been a fatal spell because of this mark.”
“There have been so many people in here, with the festival—I didn’t see anything suspicious.”
“We need to check the rest of them.”
“Goddess protect us—yes. I shudder to think that I may have sold one to an unsuspecting—what is it?” Claire halted feet from the candle display. She could smell the marks from here, the stench of sulfur and hate. “Claire?”
“You’ll find a mark on all of them. Please put them in a bag for me, Agatha. I will pay you for them and get rid of them myself. Don’t touch the lower half of the candle.”
White-faced, her fingers shaking, Agatha did as she requested.
“This is my entire stock. Goddess, I can’t believe someone came in my store with such evil intent.”
“I have extras I can give you, so you aren’t caught short.”
Surprise crossed Agatha’s face. “Thank you—I appreciate that. Do you—did you recognize the mark on the candles?”
Claire paused at the door, looked over at Agatha, dread clawing her.
“Yes, I did. And I will not speak its name. If you look up the symbol, take the same precaution. A door has already been cracked, and even the name itself has power to widen that crack. Thank you, Agatha. I will have the replacement candles sent over.”
Claire shut the door behind her, then leaned against the nearest wall, trembling so badly the candles clunked against each other.
Who could have done this? And did they know her, recognize her behind the walls she spent decades building?
Shoving the despair, the dread into the back of her mind, she headed to her shop. She would melt down the candles, use every protection ritual she could think of, then destroy the wax. No one would touch the evil they held. Not again.
*
Eric watched her walk down the street and fought to control the fury roaring through him. She only had hours left to live, and he needed to be patient. Under cover of darkness, after the festival was over, he would take her. And she would die, slow, agonizing, with Katelyn’s name on her lips.
He headed back to the beach, the sound of the ocean calming him. Lowering himself to a bench on the boardwalk, he watched the waves curling in, let the smell of the ocean, the cool breeze soothe his battered soul. Here he felt almost normal again, his mind, his heart letting go of revenge, anger, bitterness. Here he could unclench without the rage consuming him.
Closing his eyes, he let thoughts of Katelyn fill his mind. Days spent horseback riding or splashing in the lake outside the small California city where they grew up. Her smile flashing every time she beat him at a challenge, her quiet voice proud when she told her friends about—
He jerked awake, clutched the bench as he tried to find his balance. It took a long moment before he felt the presence behind him. Turning his head, he looked into narrowed green eyes. The man leaned against one of the trees that lined the twisting path behind the boardwalk, dressed in black, arms crossed. He didn’t look away when Eric met his eyes—instead he raised one eyebrow and smiled.
Dread swept through Eric, hot and chilling. He whipped his head around, knowing the man as an enemy, an obstacle that would have to be broken, if necessary. When he turned back, the man was gone.