What Doesn't Kill You(11)

“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?”