Читать книгу Mark of the Witch - Maggie Shayne - Страница 10

Tomas had parked his Volvo across the street from Indira Simon’s apartment building, where he had a beautiful view of her windows, and spent the entire night there, trying to keep watch, hoping he would know if something went wrong. He saw other tenants come and go, and at one point, while out stretching his legs, he caught the door before it swung closed and jammed the latch, so he could get in if necessary.

Yes, he’d thought Father Dom was two-thirds of the way to insanity with his obsessive predictions about this demon and its witches. Until he’d seen that subway video. And met her. That woman was something else. He could feel it just by looking into her eyes. And when she’d swung her arm in anger, a burst of genuine power had erupted from her.

She’d been as surprised by that as he had.

And now everything he’d been so sure was just the outrageous exaggerations of an aging priest with delusions of grandeur seemed like it just might be real, after all. Which threw everything else he thought he’d known into question.

His crisis of faith, his decision to leave the church, all of that, he’d decided, had to be put aside until this was finished. Because if he’d been wrong—well, he couldn’t undo that. But he could carry out this mission for Dom, at least far enough to make sure it really was just part of an old man’s ramblings. Maybe generations of old men. The rest … the rest could wait.

He knew already that some things Dom had told him were utterly false. Things about her. She was not evil. No demon’s whore. Not that one. She hadn’t tried to seduce him or ensorcell him as Dom had predicted she would. She’d run from him instead.

But he’d followed. Because he had a feeling that just wouldn’t leave him alone. Clearly some of the things Dom had believed in for so long were true. Were, perhaps, unfolding as had been predicted. And the most important thing that meant to Tomas was that she might be in danger. So while this would be his final mission as a priest, it was still his mission—and he was still a priest. And he intended to do it right. Maybe that would assuage his guilt over leaving the collar behind, and for not believing in Dom’s obsession until now.

He had expected that he might catch a glimpse of Indy moving around behind her apartment windows, though the drapes were drawn. He had not expected to see her on the building’s rooftop just before dawn.

When he caught sight of her up there his heart almost stopped. She was standing near the brick safety wall, which reached almost to her bare shoulders, her hands along the top of it, the wind blowing through her hair. It looked as if she was getting ready to climb up.

“God, save her,” he whispered.

He was out of the car instantly, racing to the building’s door and yanking it open, glad he’d thought far enough ahead to disable the lock. He took the stairs two at a time all the way to the roof. Then he slid to a stop. She was standing on the wall now, completely naked. Wobbling dangerously, she held her arms behind her back as if they were tied there, even though they weren’t. It was still dark, but there was something staining her back—crisscrossing stripes with scarlet rivulets running from them. And something else, a tattoo on her lower back. Three rows of symbols.

Was that cuneiform?

God, what had happened to her? And what was he supposed to do?

Waking a sleepwalker was a bad idea—especially when they were standing seventy feet off the ground. But he couldn’t just let this play out and hope she didn’t plummet to her death.

Quietly, he approached from behind. She was standing still, her short hair riffled by the wind, her skin pebbling with goose bumps in the cold. She had to be freezing. It was the second of November, for crying out loud. As he crept slowly nearer, she leaned forward, arching her back. No more time. Tomas lunged, snapping his arms around her just above hip level, which was as high as he could reach. The momentum of her body tried to pull him over with her, but he braced one foot against the brick wall and jerked her backward, hard. He landed on his back on the rooftop with her butt on his chest and her lower back against his face. No sooner had he begun to release his pent-up breath in a sigh of relief than she was scrambling off him and onto her feet, turning to look down at him, stark accusation in her huge black eyes.

“Atta balata u anaku mut amât!” she shouted.

Then her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed straight down, as if her legs had dissolved beneath her.

Tomas got onto his feet. She’d bled on his clothes. On his face. Her back was cut to ribbons. Bending, he gathered her carefully into his arms, then turned to carry her back down to her apartment.

“Owwwww.”

I was facedown on my bed and hurting like hell, and when I tried to roll over, a strong male hand on my shoulder kept me lying where I was.

Who the hell is that, and what is he doing in my apartment?

I twisted my head to see. It was him. Of course it was him. Hunky Father Tomas was sitting on the edge of my bed. His face was twisted with what looked like worry, and his hands held gauze and a bottle of something aromatic.

“Father Tomas? What happened? Why are you here? And why the hell am I hurting so bad?” I craned my neck a little farther and got a nice clear view of my own bare ass. “I’m naked!” I tried to roll over again, but his hand held me still.

“It’s all right, I’m a priest.” He wasn’t trying to be funny. He tugged the bedsheet up a little to cover my cheeks. “Lie very still or it’ll hurt even more. If you’ll stop trying to roll, I’ll show you what’s hurting in the mirror.” The bed moved as he got up and walked to my dresser. I tried to remember whether I’d left anything embarrassing on it. Tampons, undies. I wasn’t exactly an immaculate housekeeper. He was back in seconds, holding my silver hand mirror at an angle that allowed me to see my back. And when I did, my stomach heaved and I closed my eyes. My back was covered with deep, long cuts. Stripes. Like a whip would leave behind if—

A whip.

“Shit.”

The nightmare or memory or hallucination or whatever the hell it was came back to me so hard and fast I had to jam my face into the pillow to muffle the sob that lurched inside my chest. I was pretty sure he heard it anyway.

“What happened last night?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” I turned far enough so my words could emerge unmuffled. “I was … I was trying to work a spell. You must have seen the living room.”

“I saw the circle. The candles. Figured that much out.”

Frowning, I twisted my head a little farther. “The circle. The candles … that’s all?” He hadn’t mentioned the shattered window, broken glass, toppled lamp, tangled curtains.

“Furniture piled in the kitchen?”

I blinked. “There was a storm. It smashed the window to hell and gone.”

He was staring at me, silent.

“Didn’t it?”

He shook his head slowly. “It must have been part of another nightmare,” he said. “I spotted you on the roof. You damn near went over the side, but …”

“But you saved me.” I no longer cared if he saw my tears. He’d seen my bare ass and my living nightmare. What were a few tears?

“I was across the street in my car. I saw you up there and—They’re going away.”

“What?” I was confused by the sudden change of subject.

“The wounds, they’re … they’re going away.” He held up the mirror again.

I ignored it. Pushing past him and his mirror to get to my feet, dragging the sheet with me and holding it in front of my body, I turned my back toward the large mirror on my dresser and looked over my shoulder at my reflection.

The stripes across my back were closing up, forming small pink lines, like battle scars, but then they started fading, too. There was a tattoo, as well, on my lower back, and I knew damn well I’d never had a tattoo in my life. Odd little symbols in neat rows. But they, too, were fading fast. Ten seconds, I stood there. Tomas came and stood right beside me, staring into that mirror. I didn’t even care that my ass was exposed again. Ten seconds, and at the end of them nothing remained of those ghastly wounds except for a few smears of blood Tomas must have missed in his ministrations.

I looked at the floor, belatedly pulling the sheet the rest of the way around me.

“This thing—it could have killed you tonight, Indira.”

It was true. I shivered with the knowledge that it was absolutely true.

“Next time I might not get to you in time.”

“What can you possibly do about it?”

“Take you with me to Ithaca. I’ll help you solve this thing. I’ll make it go away, I swear I will, if you will just help me keep the demon where he belongs in return. Please, Indy. Before he can hurt you any more.”

“Why Ithaca?”

“It’s where we need to be. I’ll explain more on the way. All right?”

I hated to admit that I was losing my skepticism. I hated to even think about believing any of this. But it was real. I’d seen it, right there in my own mirror. I’d seen it. I was still shaking, and it pissed me off. But I ignored that and nodded, a quick, jerky motion that was anything but graceful.

“All right,” I said. “You win.”

Tomas had told me to take the day to get ready, and to phone if I needed him. I didn’t. I made arrangements at work—I had five days’ vacation time coming, and if that wasn’t enough, I could tack on a few sick days. I didn’t need to tell them I was actually talking about my mental health. I packed up my things, enough to last a week, got some cash out of the bank and tried to call Rayne. She didn’t answer, so I had to settle for leaving her a snotty voice mail message asking if she’d lost her mind, sharing my most intimate confessions with a demon-fighting priest.

That night, I took an antihistamine along with cold medicine, and for once, I didn’t dream. Slept like a rock, in fact. And damn but I needed it.

Next morning I showered, dressed and met him out front as planned, even while wondering if I’d lost my freaking mind to be buying into any of this.

Of course, the bloodstains on my sheets said I wasn’t crazy at all. What was happening to me was completely insane, but I wasn’t imagining it or dreaming it or hallucinating it—it was real. And who the hell else was going to help me figure it out? Who else would even believe me?

Rayne, maybe. But I’d gone to Rayne. And she had basically handed me off to this priest. As angry as I was at her for that, I trusted her. She wouldn’t set some lunatic on my trail. She must believe he could help.

He pulled up right on time to take me off to Never-land in his sagging chariot.

Father Tomas’s car was an aging, once-white Volvo station wagon that looked as if it had been through a series of natural disasters. Its color had yellowed to a sort of dull cream that was flaking off in places. He stowed my gear in the back, like he was a gentleman and I was a helpless little female. I stood on the curb just staring at the car, sort of in awe that anything that ancient could still run.

He caught my expression and smiled. “It’s a classic. A 1967 Amazon.”

“Looks like you found it in the Amazon.”

His smile didn’t falter. “I’m restoring it myself. It’s a … hobby, I guess.”

“Heaven help me. My savior is not only a priest but a motor head.”

He opened a door that looked as if it weighed a ton and held it for me. “Trust me, she runs like a dream.”

“She looks like a nightmare.” Still, I got in and dutifully buckled up, surprised that the inside looked pretty nice. Definitely a lot better than I’d expected.

In seconds he was behind the wheel, turning the key, smiling at the sound of the engine. “Hear that?”

“Sounds like a car, all right. So it only looks like it’s going to fall apart on the road, then?”

He rolled his eyes. “Mechanics first, comfort second, cosmetics last of all. It’s the unwritten motor head code.”

It was comfortable, I had to give him that. There was enough room in the back to transport a small sofa. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but it was big. Despite the super-soft leather and the ultracozy seat, though, I still felt like shit, no matter how I sat.

“Your back?” he asked.

I sent him an almost irritated look, though I was secretly impressed and a little surprised by how much attention the guy was paying to me. “It doesn’t really hurt. It’s like a phantom pain, every time I remember—” I stopped there, because giving voice to anything more would only conjure it again. The brutal lashes of the whip. Oh, shit, too late. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

“You’re my calling, Indira. I’m not likely to miss a thing now that I’ve found you.”

“Hell, Tomas, if you weren’t wearing that collar, I’d think you were about to propose.”

He looked at me briefly, then pulled away from the curb. I could have sworn a hint of panic appeared on his face, but maybe I’d imagined it. And that was another reason I wasn’t worried about going off with the guy. He was a priest, and he hadn’t done a single thing out of line. I was the one having impure thoughts, not him.

I figured I’d give him a break and change the subject all the same. “So tell me about your demon fighting thing. You do it often?”

He smiled a little. “Never. And it’s just the one demon.”

“Does he have a name?”

“I’ve only heard him called ‘He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken.’”

“Are you shitting me? He doesn’t even have a name?” I looked at him, waiting for the punch line. But he only smiled and shook his head.

“I know. I know how crazy it sounds. And to tell you the truth, I was pretty skeptical myself until I saw those marks on your back.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I gotta say they made an impression on me, too.” I didn’t want to talk about that, though. My world had taken a turn for the macabre, and I was trying to focus on the parts that went down a little easier. Those phantom lashes from that phantom whip had left real wounds, and that flat-out scared me too much to dwell on just yet. I’d get to it. But right now, I thought, let’s stick to the easy stuff. Stuff about him and this so-called demon of his.

“So how many priests are there on your … um … anti-demon squad?”

“Two,” he said. “Me and the man who trained me, Father Dom. You see, one priest from our sect—”

“The Leaders of the Pack.” That’s right, keep it light.

“The Keepers of the Pact,” he corrected. He gave me an odd look, like he was amused but trying to figure me out at the same time. I liked the way his eyes felt when they moved over my face, probably because I got the feeling he liked what he saw.

Priest, Indy. Priest. Priest. Priest.

“One of us is chosen from each generation as the Guardian of the Portal. Dom chose me. Just as he was chosen by his predecessor.”

“And what was his name?” I asked. “Father Dom’s predecessor?”

Tomas frowned. “You know, he never told me.”

“I bet it rhymed. Tom. Dom. Rom, maybe?”

The look he sent me this time was a searching frown, like he was seeing through my plot. Yeah, I was using humor to keep this light, to try to pretend nothing all that serious was happening. But I was also scared half to death. And I was pretty sure it showed. I got the feeling there wasn’t much I could hide from those perceptive brown eyes of his.

“When the current Guardian begins to age, he chooses and trains his replacement. That tradition has continued since the time of ancient Babylon.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I said, holding up a hand to stop him. “Even I know ancient Babylon is BC, as in Before Christ.”

“Fifteen hundred and one BC, to be precise.”

“Pre-Christian, either way. Can’t have a Gnostic sect, no matter how rare, prior to Christianity, can you?”

He smiled widely, nodding his head not in agreement but in approval. “You’re smart. I like that.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m freakin’ Einstein. But you didn’t answer my question. Nice dodge, though.”

“It was a compliment, not a dodge. And it was sincere.”

I gave him a thank-you nod and tried not to warm at the praise. He hadn’t said I was a knockout, driving him mad with carnal lust. He’d said I was smart. That’s all. Down, girl. I tried to focus on the city as he maneuvered the relic through it, instead of on the intense awareness that there was only a foot of space between us. That space, though, wasn’t empty. It was crackling and snapping.

“Priests of numerous religions have been entrusted with the mission. From the Cult of Marduk to the Egyptian followers of Ra to the earliest Jews. The calling doesn’t end, it just converts. It’s only recently that Dom realized the way the stars are lining up on Samhain this year makes it a propitious time for the demon to come through. He probably should have seen it sooner, but he’s getting a little … unfocused.”

He means senile, I thought. I nodded as if that made perfect sense when it actually made none. “You talk about him a lot. Dom.”

I spotted the crease between his brows when I said that. Worry? Something. I wanted to smooth it away with my finger, whatever it was.

“Dom took me in when I was a kid.”

“Took you in—”

“I was an orphan.”

“You were an orphan?” Wait a minute, did my voice just sound like a cheerleader spotting a puppy?

“That’s really not on topic at all, though. You were asking why we need to go to Ithaca.”

He was changing the subject. And just when I’d decided I was far more interested in his sad childhood than I was in some moldy old Babylonian legend. Even if I was somehow intrinsically involved in its fulfillment.

“The Portal is somewhere in Ithaca, at least according to Dom’s calculations. By going there, we can not only prevent the demon from coming through this time but destroy him utterly.”

“Huh,” I said.

“What?” He looked at me, brows raised.

“Well, it’s just that—” I shrugged. “I mean, just playing demon’s advocate here, but … the dude’s been in this underworld slammer for three thousand five hundred years now. It seems a little harsh. A lot harsh when you add ‘destroy him utterly’ to the equation. What did he do, anyway?”

Tomas tipped his head to one side. “I don’t know.”

“You never asked?”

He shrugged. “It seemed enough that he’s a demon.”

“Isn’t that what they said about witches during the hysteria? I mean, can he even help being a demon?”

“You’re confusing the issue.”

“I don’t know that I am. Couldn’t he be a good demon? Couldn’t he have been rehabilitated by now? Open your mind, Padre. Think outside the box.”

He looked at me as if I’d just sprouted horns and a forked tail.

“There’s no such thing as a good demon.”

“That’s what the witch-hunters said about us.”

“What he did isn’t as important as what he will do, given the chance.”

“And what’s that? What’s this big bad demon’s dastardly goal? No, wait, wait, I remember.” I leaned forward, hands on my hips in a superhero pose. “He wants to take over the world.”

“I can’t believe you’re making jokes about this, Indira. Especially given what’s been happening to you.”

I only shrugged and looked away.

He pulled into the long line of traffic heading onto the bridge, and took the opportunity to turn and stare intently into my eyes. “The goal of every demon is the same. Destruction of all that’s good. Perversion of the sacred. Power over the world of man. He could become the anti-Christ, Indy.”

I just sat there staring at him, trying to determine whether he actually believed his own words. I mean, he suddenly sounded like a fire-and-brimstone pulpit thumper in a revival tent. I wondered if that was him talking or if he was channeling his precious Dom, and I decided on the latter. “Uh-huh. So we’re going to Ithaca to face and annihilate the anti-Christ.”

He sighed, lowered his head. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Not so much, no.”

Traffic was at a standstill. His hands gripped the wheel, bumping each other right on top, and I could tell he was squeezing hard.

“And none of it really seems to tie in with what’s been happening to me. The dreams. The marks.” I touched his shoulder, and he picked his head up fast. “Can you tie it together for me? ‘Cause I’m kinda lost.”

He nodded. “You and your two sisters lived during the time when he was cast into the Underworld. And you’re the only ones with the power to destroy him.”

“So it’s past life stuff. Destiny stuff. That kind of thing.”

He nodded.

I drew a deep breath, blew it out again. “This is scary as hell, you know that?”

“I know.” He turned and looked me in the eyes, reaching out to clasp my hands in his. I sucked in a breath and stared down at them. I knew he was only trying to comfort me a little, but it felt like way more. And he felt something, too, I knew he did. The way my hands fit inside his, the warmth of them, and their size and shape and strength. The strangest feeling washed over me as we sat there, facing each other in the comfy front seat of the old Volvo, our eyes locked onto our joined hands as we both began to tremble. It was vivid. Surreal. Dizzying. Like déjà vu.

“Tomas?” My voice emerged soft and raspy, and it didn’t help matters. He looked up, into my eyes, and I knew he was as shaken as I was. What was this?

Behind us, an idiot laid on his horn, and we jerked apart. Traffic had moved on without us. I blinked and sat back in my seat, looking anywhere but at Tomas. He pulled the car back into motion, but it bucked and stalled. So he was as flustered as I was. Then he quickly started it again and got moving.

I wanted to change the subject—because really, no matter what was happening to me, it wasn’t that big. It couldn’t be. I was just … me. Not some soldier in a war between God and the Devil or whoever. “I never had breakfast this morning,” I said. Damn, my voice had this funny little tremor underneath it. “And I’m starved.”

“Okay.”

She was afraid, Tomas thought. Scared to death of the horrors he was likely to reveal to her if they kept on talking, and putting off that moment of revelation for as long as she possibly could.

She’s arguing for the demon’s side, and probably trying to ensorcell you while she’s at it.

That was not his own inner voice. That was Dom, lecturing him on the powers of the witch. And while he might have changed his mind about disbelieving the rest of this, he was standing firm on that.

Food was an agreeable distraction, and when he located an IHOP about an hour later and pulled in, he knew by the look of rapture in her eyes that she hadn’t only been making excuses to end the conversation. She was, by all appearances, ravenous.

And beautiful.

Difficult for him to believe she was one of the three witches whose souls were allegedly bound to a demon. And that was only a small part of what was unbelievable about all of this.

Dom had warned him repeatedly these chosen witches were cagey and clever, and might or might not be aware of their mission, but that he must always presume they were and guard against their tricks. They were powerful women, all three of them. They would sense a man’s weakness and use it against him.

Tomas had rolled his eyes at the notion. He’d never thought he had any real weaknesses. Oh, he didn’t believe himself perfect by a long shot, but he didn’t think he had any particularly lethal vulnerabilities.

Now, though, even that belief was being challenged. Because he was attracted to this woman. Sexually attracted. And while he was still a man, a fully functioning one, he hadn’t experienced this level of temptation since—well … ever. It was growing stronger with every second he spent in her company, and they were going to be together—alone together—for the next week or so.

Was it a spell? Was she, as Father Dom had warned, perfectly aware of her bond with the demon, ready and willing to help him, and using her wiles to enchant and bewitch the priest sent to stop her?

Or was she as innocent as she seemed?

He didn’t suppose it mattered, honestly. He had to resist her, had to stop her, and how much she knew or didn’t know was irrelevant. Moreover, he had to convince her that her mission, her calling and her key to salvation from the torments afflicting her, were all one and the same: to help him stop the demon from crossing the Portal. When in truth, he was pretty sure her true mission was just the opposite.

The three witches were foretold to be the demon’s consorts. They were supposed to help him escape the Portal. But they were also the only ones with the power to stop him.

He supposed he would have to tell her that part of it at some point.

“I’m going to have an omelet,” she said as they got out of the car. “A big fat three-egg omelet with a half pound of cheese and ham and mushrooms and—no, wait.” She held up a hand, apparently deep in thought. As if the choice was one of the most important of her life. Then she snapped her fingers. “Belgian waffles, with butter melting down the sides and all that whipped cream piled on top, and fruit, and maybe sausage on the side.”

She was walking as she was talking, absently rubbing her upper arm. He wondered about that as he held the door open for her and she stepped inside, inhaled, then closed her eyes as if smelling the sweetest perfume. “Coffee,” she muttered. “Hail the Goddess Caffeinna.”

“That’s sort of blasphemous, you know.” He was only teasing. He was starting to enjoy her use of sarcasm-laced humor to deflect the things she called scary, even beginning to return it in kind.

“Oh, please, not to the Holy of Holies, Divine Creatrix of the sacred coffee bean.” Her attention switched, quick as a heartbeat, to the hostess who’d just appeared to greet them. “Two for breakfast, and a vat of high-test, please. Death to decaf!”

The hostess smiled at her enthusiasm and led the way to a booth.

Indira rubbed her arm again, only this time she pulled her hand away quickly, as if the arm was sore to the touch. Frowning, Tomas looked at her. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.” She dropped her hands to her sides.

He wished he could see her arm better, but she’d donned a brown leather jacket with a fake fur collar that looked as if it ought to have a matching helmet and goggles to go with it. Beneath that, she wore a T-shirt that came just to the low-slung top of her skin-tight jeans, so he caught glimpses of bare midriff every time she moved. The jeans were tucked inside a pair of cowgirl-style boots, brown, with stitching and embossing in swirls, loops and flowers, and impossibly high heels.

She looked as if she’d stepped off the cover of some urban style guide. Her T-shirt read Born Again Pagan, and had a triple moon logo that glittered when the light hit it at the right angle. She wore a pentacle, a different one, suspended from a thin silver chain, its star formed in the shape of a gleaming spider’s web, with the spider in the center. Its body was a moonstone, its eyes tiny bits of ruby, its legs made of black tourmaline. She had earrings that matched, each with a tiny pentacle web at the earlobe and a thin chain dangling with the spider at the end of it. Same gemstones. Same size.

She might as well have worn a flashing neon sign proclaiming herself a witch. It wasn’t a habit he’d noticed in her before, and it sort of belied her claim that she’d become an atheist. Maybe she just felt safer, wearing the symbols of her former faith.

The looks they were getting as they sat at their booth, she in her pentacles, he in his collar, were almost funny. A priest and a witch, having breakfast together. Indira ended up devouring a stack of Belgian waffles and an omelet, washing every other bite down with creamy coffee, and claiming she would quit caffeine again when life returned to normal. He only picked at his own pancakes.

He was too tense to eat, and not only because she was proving to be the biggest test his faith had ever undergone.

Of course, he’d been in a crisis of faith for a while now. And all of this was making him wonder if he’d made the right decision. Because if this was real, after all—if Dom’s obsession turned out to be true …

But this wasn’t the time to ponder those things. That would come later.

Right now, he was about to face a demon. Maybe the devil himself. With a witch as his only ally, a witch who didn’t know—or did she?—that she was that demon’s friend. Either way, that alliance made her Tomas’s enemy.

It seemed unnecessarily risky to take her so near the Portal, since allegedly the demon couldn’t pass through without her help. But Dom said it was worth the risk. That she had to be there to help Tomas destroy the demon for good.

He’d trained for this, he’d studied, he knew what had to be done, but that was all back when he thought the whole thing was just an old man’s crazy fantasy. But now it was here, real and present. And complicating things further, in all his thoughts on this very topic, he had never counted on liking the woman.

He looked up at her. Sipping her coffee, eyes closed, thick lashes resting on those high-boned cheeks, skin like a ripe peach. He was drawn to her and felt an unbelievable urge to touch her at every opportunity.

She burped, interrupting his thoughts. Her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes went huge. “Well, that was polite,” she said. “Excuse me.” Her cheeks were pink with embarrassment, her smile self-deprecating.

She was charming the socks off him, he thought.

He glanced at her plate. Empty. She ran her forefinger through the syrup on the edge and popped it into her mouth, and he clenched his jaw to keep from groaning out loud. “God, that was good,” she said.

“Glad you enjoyed it.”

“You eat like a bird, Father Tomas.”

“Not normally. Got a lot on my mind.”

“Ow!” She gripped her arm again, then frowned and lowered her hand.

“Are you going to let me take a look at that?”

“There’s nothing to look at.”

He tipped his head to one side. “Clearly, it hurts. You keep grabbing it, then quickly letting go.”

“And just as quickly putting it out of my mind. It only hurts if I think about it, so I wish you’d stop reminding me.”

“Sorry. It won’t happen again.” He picked up the check their waitress had dropped, and rose from his seat. “Are you ready?”

The bubbly mood she’d been emanating seemed to burst. Back to reality, he thought. She really was dreading what lay ahead. “Yes. All ready.” She got up, too, snatching her mug off the table and taking one last gulp before hurrying to the counter with him. She tugged on his sleeve and said, “Restroom” in a stage whisper. He nodded and tried not to watch her as she walked away.

The restroom was deserted. Perfect. I needed privacy, big-time. ‘Cause something was going on with my arm, despite my denials to Tomas.

God he was good-looking. And funny. And interesting. So okay, he believed in demons and a fairy tale grimmer than anything the Grimm Brothers could have come up with. And he’s a priest. Don’t forget that minor detail. But no one was perfect.

I pulled off my jacket, wincing as it peeled down over my right arm, then, turned my shoulder toward the big mirror.

My blood rushed straight to my feet, leaving me so damn dizzy I almost fell over. My arm looked as if it had been hacked by a mini-madman with a tiny blade. Little cuts crisscrossed my flesh like a road map, and blood had run everywhere. The inside of my favorite jacket must be soaked in it. Ruined.

Damn it all, Past Self, if you want me to bail on this whole harebrained road trip, you just keep fucking with me.

I looked up at my own face in the mirror, but someone else was looking back at me. Not a pale-faced dirty blonde with a killer sense of style, but a copper-skinned woman with thick black hair hanging long and wavy, heavy brows in desperate need of tweezing, and black, black eyes.

And behind her—no, behind me—stood another woman with similar coloring but a totally different face.

Lilia.

I ought to turn around, see if she’s really standing there. I really should.

Too bad I was too scared to move.

She stared at me in the mirror, then suddenly shouted, “Remember, Indira!”

After jumping out of my skin, I yelled right back at her. “Remember what, for cryin’ out loud!”

“I’ll make you remember!” I sort of heard her say inside my head. Then she lifted a big curved blade that glinted in the fluorescent restroom lights as she swung it down to carve me up some more.

That was enough to end my paralysis. I spun around, screaming at the top of my lungs. But there was no one behind me.

Before I could even sigh in relief, though, I heard the hissing sound of the invisible blade as it cut the air, and something slashed across my chest. I felt it slicing my flesh, saw the gaping cut opening up like a zipper, saw the blood flowing out of me as I sank to the floor in pain. In terror.