Rest For The Wicked(3)

He stared into the dark green eyes, watched in wonder as her image shimmered, and another face laid over hers, an opaque mask. Her green eyes became a silvery blue. The mask expanded, and color bled out of her black hair, replaced by a rich brown. It grew, long and waving, until it reached her waist. He followed the progress of the shimmering mask, the part of his mind not trapped by her screaming in horror. Her touch silenced it.

Looking up, he met the soft, silver blue eyes, the sculpted face framed by masses of hair that seemed to engulf her delicate figure.

“Find me, Eric. It is time for me to go home.”

Fingers slid over his face, burning the image of her into his mind. He sank into the waiting darkness, followed by a single word. A name.

Claire.





TWO




Eric walked into joyful chaos.

Some kind of festival filled the streets, hampering him. He wanted to snarl at every body that stepped in his way. The part of him that needed to find her kept his rage in check.

Asking proved useless; he kept getting sent in the wrong direction. His frustration built, faster, hotter, until he knew he had to get away from the crowds before he lashed out.

He pushed past a group of witches. Dressed in cheap velvet robes and pointy black hats, they looked like a convention of cut-rate spell casters. It almost made him smile.

And then he saw her. His body froze, his heart pounding so hard he expected it to burst apart against his ribs.

She stood outside a small store across the street, arms crossed, a smile on her face as she talked to a young couple.

Claire.

Just her name made Eric itch for the knife strapped to his calf. He didn’t remember where he got it; he only knew it would hurt her, kill her. And that was all he wanted. For Katelyn. He hoped that he would die in the process, because to live with the agony clenching his gut would be unbearable.

Yes, he would make sure her death cost his life.

His gaze moved past her, to the lettering on the store window. The Wiche’s Broom: catering to the dabbler and the devout.

God protect me—

He didn’t expect her to flaunt her power, to make her living on the pain of innocent people.

“Not for long. I promise you, bitch, it won’t be for long.”

“What was that, young man?” He jumped at the harsh voice that came from somewhere near his elbow. An ancient woman stared up at him, her dark brown eyes narrowed. “Who would you be swearing at?”

“Not you, ma’am.” He flashed her a smile. “You caught me. I came to see an old girlfriend, hoping she’d be miserable without me. Turns out I was wrong.”

“You don’t need to worry that handsome head.” Spindly fingers clutched his arm. He wanted to jerk away, to cross the street and bury his knife in the murdering bitch. “You just head over to The Wiche’s Broom, and Claire will set you up with a nice love spell. Your girl won’t stand a chance.” She winked at him, and it took every ounce of control he had not to recoil. “Don’t tell her I sent you. She likes to think she brings in business on her own.”

The woman finally let him go, and made her way to the bakery two doors down, screeching at anyone who got in her path. Eric lifted one hand and brushed hair off his forehead. He was sweating, his hand shaking, his control slipping.

He didn’t remember how he got to Santa Luna, this insignificant beach town. He found himself gripping a key, soaked in sweat and standing in the middle of a strange hotel room. Now all he wanted to do was kill the woman who smiled, who breathed, who lived when Katelyn was dead.

She waved to the couple and turned away from the street, stepping back into her store. Now. He could take her now—

A laughing group of teenage girls ran in front of him and straight into the store. Rage blinded him—until a car horn jerked him around. He stood in the street, and people stared at him. Lowering his head, he moved to the sidewalk, kept going until he was safely around the corner. He leaned against the stucco wall of a gallery, clenched his shaking hands.

He couldn’t draw attention to himself. He had to kill her quietly, get it over with before she—

Agony burst through his head, nearly doubled him. Clutching the wall, he inched himself up.

“Hey, man—you okay?” Strong hands grabbed his arm. He blinked his eyes clear, met the concerned gaze of a sixty-something hippie. “Thought you were gonna do a face plant right here.”

“Let me go.”

The man retreated from Eric’s raw fury. Eric felt the darkness that coiled in him, around him, fought to rein it in. That dark fury was meant for only one person.

“Hey.” The man raised his hands in the universal I’m-not-going-to-hurt-you gesture. “Just trying to be the good Samaritan, man.”