What Doesn't Kill You(35)
Sighing, he rubbed his face, so far beyond exhausted he knew he would not sleep tonight. “You know me too well, witch. Look at me, and I will ask.”
She obeyed, such despair on her face it tore at him. “I will do my best to answer.”
Damn her, she expected an interrogation. Marcus closed his hands over hers, waited for her to stop. “I have only one question, Claire.” Swallowing, she nodded. “When are we setting the wedding date?”
“What?” She blinked at him, obviously taken by surprise. Marcus enjoyed the moment; he didn’t get the satisfaction all that often. “But—are you sure, even after what I—”
“You said yes, Claire. You will not rid yourself of me so easily.”
“Marcus.” She sounded calm, but he could feel the panic behind it. “I won’t force you to tie yourself to—”
“An uncertain future?”
She let out a frustrated breath. “A demon, you thick-headed, stubborn man.”
“There is no guarantee that we will have tomorrow. I want to face that uncertainty, that adventure, with you.” He brushed his fingers over her cheek. Claire closed her eyes. “I love you, sweet. Nothing will ever change that simple fact.”
“God above,” she whispered. Pulling one hand free, she touched the amethyst heart at her throat. Zach had put it back on her as soon as he could, after finding it in Simon’s pocket. Marcus knew it was a way for the boy to take control of an uncontrollable situation. “I need to put Simon to rest.” Tears edged her voice, and she let them fall, no longer ashamed to show her vulnerable side in front of him. The tears gave him hope. “Can you give me two weeks?”
“If I must.”
She hit his arm, some of the grief in her eyes easing. “You want to marry me, you foolish Jinn, you will have to give me two weeks. And don’t even think of trying any of your hocus pocus to shorten the time. There are plans to be made, even for a small wedding. Sweet heaven,” she whispered. “A wedding.”
Marcus kissed her, then swung his legs up on the bed and pulled her against his chest. “Get used to saying it, sweet. You said yes, so you are mine. Now and for good.”
ELEVEN
Claire walked into Billie’s Pub, scanning the dim interior for its owner. Spotting her at the far end of the bar, Claire moved through the lunch crowd. “Hi, Billie.”
“Claire!” Billie pulled her into a one-armed hug. “Glad to see you up and walking. You here for another one?”
“If you have time.”
“Come on back.”
She followed Billie into the shiny, antiseptic clean back rooms of her other business. A tattoo studio.
A long-dead artist had inked Claire’s first pentagram, more than eighty years before. But Billie did the triquetra on her wrist, and her delicate, fine line style was well known and wildly popular. She would work for Claire’s needs.
“I was so sorry to hear about Simon. He was a good man, with a big heart.” Billie helped her sit in the padded leather chair, adjusting it until Claire lay flat on her back. “I’d like to attend his funeral, if it’s okay with you.”
Swallowing past the tears in her throat, Claire nodded. “I will send over the information. Please feel free to post it. I won’t keep anyone who knew him from saying goodbye.”
“Okay.” Billie rubbed her shoulder, then moved into business mode. “You wanted this one on your right shoulder?”
“Yes.” Just like her first pentacle, she figured having it on her dominant side would be more effective.
She unbuttoned her shirt, slipped out of it, and turned herself over, wearing the thin chemise that could easily slip off if necessary. Billie sat on the padded stool next to her, eased the strap of the chemise down, and cleaned her skin. Closing her eyes, Claire felt the transfer press over her shoulder. She let herself drift, sorting through the events of the past couple of days.
James died in the fall. Marcus climbed down to the deserted beach to make certain of it. After Eric made an anonymous call from one of the only payphones left in Santa Luna, the police and the coroner took custody of him. A small article on page three of the local paper mentioned a tourist falling off the cliff. It happened often enough that the incident was quickly forgotten. Claire predicted another protest group would show up in front of the town hall, demanding railings on the cliff. Again.
Zach did as promised. With help from Marcus, he warded an old iron box he produced, no explanation. Claire watched from the other side of Annie’s living room as they warded the box, filled it with salt until it covered the knife. Zach buried it in holy ground, behind Simon’s church, dumping salt over the box for good measure. The site was close enough to keep an eye on it, but far enough away to make her feel safe from the iron and salt.