Rest For The Wicked(42)
On that cold winter night, the demon became Claire Wiche, twelve-year-old orphan, saved by a woman who had died in the effort.
“Claire.” Marcus’ quiet voice yanked her out of the past. “We are here.”
“I’m going in first. Alone. No argument—it’s what she expects, and I want to make sure Annie is all right before the cavalry rides in.”
She waited until both men nodded, clearly unhappy, and got out of the car.
Wind whipped at her, tossed hair around her until she gathered it in one hand. The other hand held the only weapon against Natasha that she dared to bring.
Ignoring the goose bumps on her arms, she moved across the grass, pausing when a keep away spell slapped at her. She took in a breath and pushed through it. The only retaliation was the sensation of icy fingers dragging across her skin. She considered herself lucky, and headed to the clump of trees near the cliff. The first thing she saw was Annie, tied to the closest tree and slumped over.
No—no no no—
She ran, and dropped to her knees beside Annie, the horrible déjà vu strangling her. Shaking fingers reached out—and Annie let out a harsh gasp when Claire touched her.
“Claire? Oh, God no—you have to get out of here—”
“Not without you.” She pulled the rope apart that secured Annie around the waist with her bare hands, looked up to meet the terrified brown eyes. “I’ll explain later. Can you walk?”
“I think—with help.”
“You’ve always got mine.” Laughter echoed in her head—mocking laughter, as her true self pushed at the mental barrier. “Marcus and Eric are waiting for you—they will get you out of—”
“Starting the party without me?” Natasha stepped out of the shadows. “I am crushed by your rudeness, Claire. Ahhh.” Her satisfied purr sent icy fingers down Claire’s spine. “So you did as promised. Now I get to meet the legend. The demon thrown out of Hell because she learned how to care.”
Annie stilled beside her. Closing her eyes briefly, Claire stood, faced Natasha.
“I still care.”
“And I counted on that.” Natasha strode to the edge of the cliff, the long hem of her green dress dragging through the grass. She yanked a black cloth off what Claire recognized all too well—the tools to summon a gate. A gate to Hell. All she needed was the talisman she held, and a silver knife coated with the blood of another greater demon. Claire’s blood. “Your little human friend is free to go. She has served her purpose.”
“Claire?” Annie’s strangled whisper tore at her heart. “Is that true?”
“Please go, Annie.” She kept her gaze on Natasha, couldn’t bear to see the revulsion in her friend’s eyes. Not now. “Go!”
She heard footsteps running away from her. When Natasha looked over one shoulder to watch Annie, Claire shifted her position, until she felt the wind at her back.
“Alone again, Claire.” Natasha taunted her, the nasty little voice she remembered grating over her patience. “It is for the best, since you are going home.”
“Not today.”
Claire popped open the silver flask of holy water and aimed for Natasha’s face. The water splashed over her, aided by the wind. Natasha screamed as the blessed water burned everywhere it touched. Blood and water dripped off her chin, her face not as lovely now, with burns streaking over the pale skin.
“You bitch!” She ran—not at Claire, but toward the impromptu altar. Claire’s heart jumped in her chest, and she went after Natasha. “I only planned to take you with me, but now I’m going to claim every damn soul I can touch! They are all on you, but they will be my gift to Azazel.” She grabbed a silver knife and swung around. Claire stopped, out of stabbing range. “And you will be the big, fat bow on top.”
With a furious scream she flew at Claire. The knife glanced off Claire’s upraised arm. Pain shot through her. She ducked under Natasha’s arms and drove one shoulder into her stomach. Breath whooshed out of Natasha’s lungs, and the momentum carried them both across the grass. Claire slammed her into the nearest tree, danced backward.
Natasha recovered faster than she expected. Another scream soundtracked her lunge forward. It changed from furious to frustrated when Claire evaded her. Claire’s arm throbbed, blood slicking her right hand. She shook off the pain, wiped her hand dry and circled Natasha, scenting her weakness—and found the talisman, hanging from a chain and tucked inside Natasha’s bodice. With the right spell, that talisman would attach its power to every soul in a mile radius and drag them to Hell.