Rest For The Wicked(40)
“You are the only one who can. I’m so sorry—but you are the only one who can help me save Annie.” Still holding on to him, she turned to Marcus. “What did you find?”
He dumped his supplies on the desk, picked up a small tool.
“This was the only iron with a point I could find.” He held what looked like a screwdriver with a long, narrow point. “It is an awl, and not very sharp. I am sorry, Claire.”
“It will do.” She touched the coil of grease-stained rope. “You can tie me to the desk with this. Let’s get it done.”
Marcus grabbed her wrist. “I will not tie you down like an animal—”
“I will be the closest thing to it. Eighty years is a long time to bury my true nature.” She let go of Eric, laid her hand on Marcus’s chest. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, not until I can get it under control. Please do this for me.”
Marcus rubbed one hand over his face, nodded. “Eric, I will need you here.”
Fear jumped in his gut. He stared at them, wanting to believe they were the same people who saved him from Natasha’s influence, when he knew now they weren’t even human—
“Eric?” Claire’s quiet voice jerked him out of his runaway thoughts. “We’re running out of time.”
For Annie. He nodded, kept her in the front of his mind, and moved to the desk.
“What do I have to do?”
*
Eric’s hand shook as he gripped the awl. Claire got her way; she lay across the desk, her shirt open and pulled up out of the way, the rope looped underneath to tie off her hands and feet. Filtered light from the only window streaked across her bare torso. Eric had to keep reminding himself to breathe, flashbacks of Katelyn threatening to seize him up.
Claire’s jeans were already open, exposing the tattoo on her right hipbone: a pentacle, the circle created by stylized red and gold flames. Words etched each side of the gold pentagram, in a language he didn’t recognize.
Marcus laid his hand over her wrist. “Ready?”
She took in a shaky breath, swallowing as she looked up at him. “No. But it has to be done. Eric.” Her gaze moved to him. “I need you to shut out everything but your goal. You have to cut across the tattoo completely, one unbroken line. And you’ll have to cut deep; I had the pentagram re-inked every few years.” She gave him wry smile. “I’ll try to keep the screaming to a minimum.”
He let out a hoarse laugh, then rubbed one hand over his mouth. “Claire—will you—” He cleared his throat. “Will you—”
“Change into some monster?” He nodded, hating himself for the horror movie images that flashed into his mind. “Not externally. I will look like me, but the demon who spent thousands of years in Hell will be doing the talking.”
“Thousands—God—”
“Won’t be helping me with this. Now, Eric, before I lose my nerve.” The quiet plea in her voice pulled at him.
Nodding, he stepped to the edge of the desk, laid his left hand on her right thigh. She sucked in her breath when the tip of the awl touched her skin. Horror gripped him when that skin started to sizzle.
Claire jerked under his hand, and he snatched the tip away.
“No—” She took in a gasping breath. “Don’t stop—I can only go through this once.”
Eric looked at her, then up to Marcus. The anguish in the man’s green eyes smacked him. He let out his breath, tightened his grip on the wood handle, and leaned over her again.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. And dug the tip into her skin.
Claire screamed, tried to recoil. There was nowhere for her to go. Jaw clenched, Eric dragged the tip across her tattoo, cutting slow—too slow—through the sun flames. The acrid smell of burning skin clogged his nose; her gasping screams scraped his nerves.
He focused on moving as fast as he could. The fact that the iron burned her made it easier to move the otherwise useless tool. It also kept the bleeding down, but enough charred blood leaked out of the blackened skin to make him want to gag.
The screams died down to panting gasps. And she started to whisper in a language that sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. Sweat slipped down his forehead, stinging his eyes. He blinked to clear his vision, clenched his shaking fingers, and kept digging his way across the tattoo.
He hit the edge of the flames on the opposite side—and with a single flick of her finger Claire sent him flying across the office and out the open doorway. He hit the floor hard and slid until he smacked up against a steel pillar. Impact knocked the breath out of him. Fighting to get it back, afraid to leave Marcus alone with whatever he set free, Eric forced himself to move, surprised to find the awl still gripped in his hand. He decided hanging on to it was a good idea.