Darknight (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 2) (2 page)

I didn’t lose myself so much that I allowed myself to linger, however, and it was probably only about ten minutes later that I shut off the water and reached out to the rack for a towel. The one closest to me felt damp, which meant that Connor must have used it earlier that morning. I lifted my hand quickly and grabbed the other towel, which was big and brown and fluffy. A fast dry-off, and then I wrapped it around my hair and got out, and just as hastily put on the underwear and the tank top and the jeans. At least now if Connor decided to burst in on me, I was covered up.

But there was no sign of him as I blotted my hair, and then refolded the towel and put it back on the rack. A quick glance of the toiletries under the sink showed nothing that I could really use. Then I remembered the small bag of odds and ends in the duffle, the one Connor had mentioned.

So I went back to the guest room and rummaged around, locating a nice little care packet with a toothbrush still in its package, some deodorant, a comb and brush, and a minimal amount of makeup: blush, mascara, rose-colored lip gloss. There was also some kind of leave-in spray for my hair that promised “beachy waves,” the sort of thing Sydney had always urged me to try, although I couldn’t really be bothered to spend money on something that I was pretty sure wouldn’t do much to tame my unruly locks.

Still, what the hell.

I took the care package with me back to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, applied deodorant, and then put on some makeup, mostly because I was annoyed that Connor had seen me this morning with bedhead and the smudged remains of the cosmetics I’d worn out the night before. Might as well put on a good front.

The spray I scrunched into my hair and then left it to air-dry. Normally I wouldn’t have gone around with wet hair, not in the depths of December, but Connor’s apartment seemed fairly snug and warm for a building so old. It definitely wasn’t as drafty as the big Victorian I’d left behind in Jerome.

Feeling a little more human — actually, I was surprised I wasn’t hung over, considering how much I’d had to drink the night before, but maybe all the shocks had knocked the alcohol right out of my system — I returned to the guest room and placed my supplies back in the duffle bag. There was a zippered pocket at one end, and I shoved yesterday’s underwear in there. No way was I going to allow that to mingle with Connor’s dirty clothes in the wicker laundry hamper I’d spied in the bathroom.

One of the sweaters I’d picked out at Nordstrom Rack was folded neatly in the bag, so I pulled it out and put it on, glad of the soft cashmere against my skin. After that it was just socks and boots, and the turquoise jewelry I’d worn the night before when I’d gone out with Adam.

Adam.

Connor had said he was all right. I had to believe that. I had no faith in Damon Wilcox’s inherent humanity, but I did believe that even he wouldn’t do something that might risk intervention by the “civilian” authorities. But just because Adam was alive didn’t mean he might not still have been hurt in some way. How long had he lain there in my bedroom — the bedroom we’d planned to share — before help had come?

I didn’t want to think about that. If I did, then I’d start thinking about Aunt Rachel and Tobias and everyone else realizing I was gone, realizing that the Wilcoxes had finally succeeded in stealing the McAllister
prima
.

My throat tightened, and I blinked. Crying wasn’t going to solve a damn thing. I was trapped here for now, and I’d have to figure out how to deal with that. Yes, I’d sent an email to Sydney to let Aunt Rachel know what was going on, and I’d said she’d know what to do, but would she? No one in our clan had ever faced a situation like this before.

As far as I knew, no one in
any
clan had ever faced a situation like this before.

I made the bed, and folded my pajamas and put them back in the duffle bag. Still there was no sign of Connor. I glanced at the clock, noted that it was now almost eleven, and shook my head. Then I wanted to shake it again, only this time at myself. What, was I
disappointed
that he’d left me alone for so long?

Well, he’d said there was food downstairs, so I figured I might as well go and check it out. Now that I was clean and reasonably put together, my stomach was telling me it really needed a little bit more put in it than just a cup of coffee.

Besides, it couldn’t hurt to do a bit more exploring while Connor was still out of the apartment.

As soon as I stepped out of the room and shut the door behind me, I froze. Standing in front of me was a woman maybe ten years or so older than I. A frightened little squeak formed in my throat, then disappeared as I took in her clothes and hair. Plain drop-waisted dress, Mary Jane–style shoes with chunky heels. Auburn hair carefully finger-waved around her head.

This was no girlfriend left behind, or a stray relative.

This was a ghost.

She looked me up and down, then remarked, “You’re new.”

I found my voice. “I am?”

“Yes. I haven’t seen you here before.”

My brain started to add things up. “Um…does Connor have a lot of girls here?”

Her head tilted to one side as she appeared to consider my question. “He did. That is, I suppose I haven’t seen anyone here lately. That’s why I was surprised to see you.”

All right, so maybe Connor wasn’t a total man-whore. That knowledge shouldn’t be enough to justify the wave of relief that went over me. To cover my irritation at myself, I asked, “How long has it been since someone else…another girl, I mean…was here?”

“I’m not sure.” Her brow puckered. She was very pretty, in a sort of porcelain-doll way, with her thin penciled brows and Cupid’s bow of a mouth covered in dark red lipstick. “I don’t pay much attention to time, I’m afraid.”

I’d heard that sort of thing before, from Maisie. Just because ghosts hung around in our world didn’t mean they were tuned into the ebb and flow of days, weeks, months. Judging by her dress, the woman before me must have been haunting this building for at least eighty years, maybe more. Differences in a few months or even a few years might not have registered much with her.

“What’s your name?” I asked. Generally, I liked to be more personal with ghosts, if they allowed it.

“Mary Mullen,” she replied. “I lived here once…such a lovely apartment. My husband made it real nice for me, with furniture shipped all the way from Chicago. But then the girls caught diphtheria, and so did I. They went first, and when it was my turn, I thought I should stay here, to make sure my husband was all right.” She frowned again. “But then he went, too, and I was still here. Have you seen any of them?”

I shook my head. I wanted to tell her that they must have moved on, that there was no reason for her to remain here, but I wasn’t sure she was ready to hear that…even after eighty years. Maybe later, if I had a chance to speak with her again. Not that I really wanted to have the opportunity, since that would mean I’d be stuck here for a lot longer than I wanted to be.

She didn’t appear upset, only resigned. “I thought I should ask, since you’re the first person I’ve been able to talk to since…well,
since
. And you have a kind face.”

That was the first time anyone had ever said anything like that to me. “Um…thank you. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more.”

“It’s all right. You take care…and take care of that boy, too. He’s lost, that one.” And she disappeared then, just as Maisie always did. Here one second, gone the next.

I waited for a moment, just in case she decided to come back, but she seemed to have left this plane for the time being.

A frown of my own etched my brow as I continued downstairs.

What did she mean, Connor was lost?

I
didn’t know
about “lost,” but Connor definitely seemed to be MIA. After I wandered into the kitchen, I found a bag of bagels in the refrigerator as promised, then extracted one and cut it in half using a knife and a cutting board I found sitting on the counter. A few crumbs indicated that Connor had apparently used it for this same purpose earlier that morning.

That kitchen was the sort of room I’d dreamed about while poring over catalogues in preparation for updating Great-Aunt Ruby’s house. Stainless-steel appliances, warm-toned granite countertops, floor of red Spanish tile. Someone had poured a lot of money into this place, and recently, judging by the style of the fixtures.

The toaster oven
ding
ed, indicating my bagel was ready. I pulled it out and buttered it. Luckily, the butter had also been sitting out, so it was soft and spreadable. I’d just taken a bite when the front door opened and Connor came in, carrying a white paper bag and wearing an exasperated expression on his face.

Looking at him, at the clean lines of his jaw only partly obscured by stubble, at the glint of those green eyes from between the heavy dark lashes, I could feel another of those unwelcome waves of heat pass over my body. I tensed, then forced myself to glance away, to stare down at the bagel in my hand as if it were the most important thing in the world.

Maybe it was, if it could keep me from launching myself directly at him and tearing his clothes off.

“How was work, dear?” I asked, and his eyes narrowed.

“I got tied up,” he said shortly.

“Sounds like fun,” I replied. Okay, where the hell had
that
come from? I wasn’t supposed to be bantering with him — I was supposed to be demanding that he let me go.

“Looks as if you’ve gotten settled all right,” he said, ignoring my remark and moving past me to deposit the bag he held on the counter. “I brought us some sandwiches — if you’ll still have room after eating that bagel.”

“Oh, I will. You’ll probably go broke feeding me. I eat like a horse.”

“I somehow doubt that.”

“What, that you’ll go broke, or that I eat like a horse?”

“Both.” He opened the refrigerator and pulled out some bottled water. Just watching him do something so simple, seeing the width of his shoulders and the way his biceps strained against the dark sweater he wore, was enough to set my body throbbing. Goddess, if I couldn’t handle standing a few feet away from him, I was doomed.

I cleared my throat and forced my mind toward something that had nothing to do with having him take me right there on the kitchen floor. “Did you know this place was haunted?”

At that question he shut the refrigerator door abruptly and turned back toward me, eyebrows raised. “What?”

“It’s haunted by a ghost named Mary Mullen. Died of diphtheria, sounds like. She’s been hanging around here, trying to find her husband and her children. You’ve never seen her?”

Connor was staring at me as if he’d never seen me before. Maybe he hadn’t. Not really. “How do you know that?”

“It’s my talent. I’m surprised your spies didn’t tell you that.”

“He didn’t — I mean, no one ever mentioned it.”

I was sure the “he” in that sentence had to be his brother Damon, but I let it slide. At least Connor hadn’t bothered to deny that the Wilcoxes had been collecting information on me.

“So you talk to dead people?” he asked.

“Yes, I communicate with earthbound spirits, if that’s what you mean by ghosts,” I said primly.

Once again, he didn’t rise to the bait. “That’s interesting. And no, to answer your previous question, I’ve never seen her. No cold spots, no personal items moved around, no nothing. Not that my talent is conversing with the spirit world.”

“And what
is
your talent, Connor?”

A cloud seemed to pass over his face, but then he replied, his tone casual, “Nothing so spectacular, I assure you.”

“Well, it has to be pretty good, to be able to hide the fact that you’re a warlock.” It was something that had been troubling me ever since I realized he’d managed to hide his true identity from me so well. Normally, I should have sensed that he was a member of a witch clan from the very moment I met him, even if I couldn’t have known he was a Wilcox. But I’d felt nothing. He’d seemed like a civilian to me…up until the moment he bent down to give me the consort’s kiss.

Voice even, he replied, “That wasn’t me. That was Damon’s spell.”

“Damon’s quite the multi-tasker, isn’t he? Any other little tricks I should know about?”

He gave a humorless laugh. “A few. But I don’t think we need to talk about that now.”

“Fine,” I said. I could tell from his expression, the tight set to his jaw, that he wouldn’t appreciate any prodding on that subject from me. “But we do need to talk, don’t you think? I mean, last night you said we would ‘hash this over in the morning.’ Well, it’s almost noon, and you haven’t said much of anything except to tell me where the bagels are.”

Surprisingly, he said, “You’re right. Take these” —and he handed the white paper bag holding the sandwiches to me— “and I’ll get some plates and water and stuff.”

The first floor of the apartment was pretty much open-plan in style, except a few closed doors that might be a guest bath and a coat closet. The dining area sat just on the other side of the bar of granite that acted as a sort of separator from the kitchen, so I went there and settled myself in one of the heavy wooden chairs. Like the table, they were simple, almost rustic in appearance, but that didn’t fool me. I’d spent too much time shopping for furniture recently not to know that they, like almost everything else in the apartment, had not been cheap.

Connor came out of the kitchen carrying a couple of glasses and a bottle of Evian water, along with some brown earthenware plates. He set everything down at the table, then seated himself across from me. Probably just as well that he didn’t sit directly beside me; one brush of his knee against mine under the table, and I would’ve been in serious trouble.

After he sat, he busied himself with pulling the paper napkins and the sandwiches out of the bag, not really looking at me as he set a sandwich wrapped in white paper down on my plate. “I didn’t know what you’d eat, so I got you smoked turkey with provolone. Hope that’s okay.”

“It’s fine,” I said. The bagel notwithstanding, I was ravenous. Probably my body trying to make up for all the energy it had lost last night through stress and sleep deprivation.

He poured some water into my glass, then did the same with his. After that there wasn’t much left for him to do except eat. He began to unwrap his sandwich.

“Eat first, then talk?” I asked. It was pretty obvious that he really didn’t want to have this conversation.

Something that was almost but not quite a sigh escaped his lips before he set the sandwich back down on his plate. “I just want you to know that none of this was my idea.”

“I had a feeling,” I said wryly, “considering you can barely even make yourself look at me.”

This time he did glance up, and I had to hold myself steady as the eyes I had dreamed of so often met mine, and held. The muscles in his jaw visibly tightened. “I
want
to look at you,” he said. “It’s just…dangerous.”

So he was feeling it, too. I’d begun to wonder. “It’s all right. We’re both adults. We can control ourselves, right?”

His hesitation was obvious. At length he said, “Right. Anyway, I know how bad all this looks. Believe me. And you have every right to think the worst of me. Only…”

“Only what?”

“Did you ever stop to think that all those times you dreamed of me, I might have been dreaming of you?”

His tone wasn’t exactly pleading. Not quite. But I could sense something in him was begging me to listen to what he had to say.

“No, I didn’t,” I replied. “So…why do your brother’s dirty work for him? Why not tell him the truth?”

“I think he knew it, deep down, but didn’t want to acknowledge it. My dreams became…distorted…these past few months. I think he was trying to interfere.”

“Doing a pretty good job of it, too.”

Connor frowned then, the straight dark brows pulling together. “He was in your dreams?”

“Yes,” I said shortly. I didn’t want to go into any more detail than that.

“Well….” He reached out and drank some water, then set his glass back down. “I didn’t interfere, because I knew he wouldn’t be successful in trying to bind you to him. And then once you were here, he’d be so desperate to make sure you were at least bound to a Wilcox that he’d have me try to make the binding.”

Maybe that made some sense, but I still didn’t like it very much. I unwrapped my sandwich and forced myself to take a bite, although my appetite seemed to have deserted me. After I had sipped at my own water, I said, “But you knew I…liked…you. Why not kiss me at the Halloween dance, or down in Sedona when we met at the Day of the Dead festival?”

“We weren’t in Wilcox territory.”

Anger flared then, hot as the desire I still felt for him. Another tradition, another ritual. One might think that a
prima
should travel to meet her prospective consorts, rather than make so many men come to her, but I’d always been told the binding must happen on her clan’s land, so that her powers might remain within her domain. By sealing me to Connor here, in the heart of Wilcox territory, it meant that my loyalties were now supposed to lie with them, rather than with the family I had left behind.

So Connor might profess distaste for his brother’s methods, for the way I’d been brought here by force, but in the end he’d still gone along with Damon’s plan, compelling me to join myself with the Wilcox clan. Well, almost. Connor and I had made the consort bond, but it wouldn’t be complete until we slept together, and as far as I was concerned, it would be a cold day in hell before that happened.

“You’re just as bad as your brother,” I snapped, and pushed my chair back and stood. There was no place for me to go except that cramped little guest room, but I’d rather stay in there for the next ten years than spend another minute in Connor’s company.

“Angela, please — ” He reached out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist.

Warmth surged through me.
Yes, let him touch you…let him take you….

“No!” I cried out loud, and wrenched my arm away.

He let go at once, wide-eyed, as if shocked himself by the reaction he must have felt within his own body. “I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to — ”

I didn’t want to hear his excuses. Ignoring his pleading look and the barely eaten food on my plate, I turned and hurried up the stairs, running for the guest room and then locking the door behind me. A whispered spell put an extra binding on the lock, but I had no idea whether it would be effective. I didn’t know what to think, here in the heart of enemy territory.

A long silence, and then I heard slow, heavy steps outside in the hallway. Connor said, sounding close enough that he must be right on the other side of the door, “I’ll leave your sandwich and water here if you want it.”

There was a faint
clink
, as if from setting the plate and glass down on the wooden floor. Immediately afterward, he moved away again. A minute later came the soft
thud
of the front door shutting.

Good. We needed some distance between us. Miles, preferably.

Why, then, did I feel so abandoned?

H
e’d been gone almost half
an hour before I cracked the door open and cautiously peered outside. No one, not even Mary Mullen the ghost. I snagged the plate and water, and then closed the door again. Instead of going to the table to eat, however, I stayed where I was, back against the door as I ate the sandwich bite by deliberate bite. It was good, too, rich and plain, with just a bit of an interesting spread — aioli? — to keep it from being too bland. I figured if nothing else, I needed to keep my strength up.

I’d need that strength to keep myself from having flashbacks to the way Connor’s hand had wrapped around my wrist, the heat of his flesh against mine, the way I had wanted to give in. It was the worst ache I’d ever felt, that need for him.

And it didn’t seem as if it was going away any time soon. If ever.

Time ticked by. The clock on the table told me it was now past one. Connor probably had enough to keep him busy, I supposed. After all, it was only four days until Christmas. Outside, people were probably navigating the icy streets looking for those last-minute gifts, or getting together with friends, or shopping for their holiday meals, or any one of a number of things people did while getting ready for the big day.

Dimly, I realized it was my birthday.

No, you will not cry
, I told myself.
It’s just a day, one out of three hundred and sixty-five. No big deal.

Easy to say, I supposed. But the more I tried not to think about it, the more my thoughts kept tugging themselves back to the plans Sydney and I had made. I was going to meet her in Cottonwood for some girl time and manicures, and then that night we’d go with Adam and Anthony to the Hoppy Grape Lounge in Sedona for drinks and appetizers. It would have been safe; I would have been with Adam by then, no longer a target for Damon Wilcox’s plotting.

Instead, here I sat.

I bit my lip. Hard. Not enough to draw blood, but it began to ache as soon as my teeth let go. But at least the pain kept me from giving in to the tears that threatened to fall.

Below me, I heard the door bang open, followed by a heavy stomping of feet on the stairs. “Connor!” Damon’s voice bellowed.

Oh, shit.
I scrambled to my feet and backed away from the door, grabbing the empty plate and glass as I did so. Frantically I looked around, but of course there was nowhere I could go. Even if I’d wanted to climb out the window, there was no way I could do that, spelled as it was.

“
Connor!
”

More than any other time in my life I wished my McAllister blood had given me a power stronger than speaking with the dead. Teleportation sounded pretty damn good right about now.

The doorknob rattled, then again, stronger this time. Out in the hallway I could hear Damon curse, and the next thing I knew there was a blast of searing light and a burst of acrid-smelling smoke, and the door swung inward. The Wilcox clan leader stood in the frame and glared at me, and I had to force myself to stay where I was, to not take a step backward. That would only be an admission of weakness.