The Spirit Seducer (The Echo Series Book 1) (23 page)

At least I had Zeke.

I shifted in my seat, fighting against another yawn. The bike’s vibrations crept up my legs, making me sleepy. As my eyes slid shut, we hit a pothole. I gritted my teeth as my leg bounced. The bone may not be broken, but the constant jarring hurt. The bike’s wheel bounced through another pothole, and I bit back a moan. I was beginning to hate traveling this way.

In case Zeke’s insane fighting capabilities weren’t enough—and they were—he could open portals between places on earth. Our previous mode of transport was fast and reliable. Useful, even. Well, until I broke the tablet. The cascading effect from the chaos I unleashed made magic transport unwise, and definitely unsafe, and we were left with mundane methods of travel.

Zeke changed highways, zipping up the I-40 with a casual recklessness I didn’t like. We were on a motorcycle. He needed to show respect for the lack of steel caging and air bags.

The familiar Albuquerque buildings slid past, nothing more than an eye-wateringly dizzy rainbow of earth-toned stucco. Zeke slowed his motorcycle, easing onto the exit ramp. He pulled into a gas station.

I released my one-handed grip on his waist and he slid from the bike with an enviable nonchalance. Thanks to my aching legs, I staggered off the bike like a drunken floozy. Zeke reached out and caught me beneath my elbow of my good arm, but the deep cut on one of my knees split open again. Huh. My body’s healing capabilities must have left the simple skinned knee for later, deciding the crushed bones were a more important issue.

Not that I disagreed with such logic.

Once assured my legs held my weight, Zeke flipped open the gas cap on his Thunderbird. He tipped his head toward the convenience store.

“Wanna grab us something to eat and drink? Easy stuff for the road.” He handed me a thick wad of bills. “Keep the rest. For emergencies.” He turned back to the pump, tension in both his face and those broad shoulders. He still wasn’t wearing his cotton-and-leather armor. A tattoo peeked out from the sleeve of his T-shirt. A wide leather cuff, tooled with intricate symbols—ancient runes, maybe?—circled his left arm.

He glanced back at his motorcycle, where his spear and sword were strapped in a hard case. He flicked his eyes toward me, frustration and something else bubbling up within their depths.

“We can’t hang around, Echo. There will be more.”

“Aren’t there always?” I asked. The noise he made was between a grunt and an exasperated sigh. He became grumpier after every fight.

Entering the bathroom, I gaped at the image in the scratched mirror. No one ever looked great in the bad lighting and cheap, distorted glass of a gas station restroom, but I wasn’t prepared for my reflection. Small cuts covered most of my exposed skin—and there was a lot of it. The top third of my right breast hung out of my tattered tank top, which, along with my ratty hair and jeans, made it look like I’d been through a battle. Because I had. Not that I planned to tell anyone else about my escapades last night. Who’d believe me?

One of the cuts disappeared as I watched, leaving fresh, dewy skin. Zeke had applied some miracle ointment earlier this morning, alleviating the worst of my problems—like fractured bones and a semi-crushed windpipe. But the ointment didn’t help the dirt clinging to my lashes and splashed across my nose. My bottom lip was cracked open and bloody, and my tangled, unruly hair was worse than my younger niece’s had gotten during her two-month combing moratorium. I took the sling off my arm and twisted my shoulder, flexing my wrist. Sweet! Full range of motion.

I washed my face, neck, and as much of me as possible, and did my best to flatten my hair. Straightening my shoulders, I opened the bathroom door and headed for the convenience shelves. Time to pull up my big Halfling panties and face whatever came at us next. The hours of travel between our current location, in the middle of New Mexico, and Arizona left a lot of miles for more demons to find us.

The one truism I’d learned this week: trust little and expect to die.

I pulled a couple of the liter bottles of water from the cooler lining the back wall of the store and headed down the aisles, scanning the shelves for something to eat that wouldn’t petrify my insides with preservatives. As weird as some of my mom’s meals were, I loved how eating whole, nourishing foods made my body feel. I didn’t want to dilute or poison my newfound powers with synthetic foodlike substances. I pulled a few packs of dusty nuts from the bottom rack. Around the next corner, I found a wrinkled apple and three unripe bananas. Eschewing the apple, I grabbed the bananas and piled my meager choices on the counter.

“How do, missy?” the attendant asked, drawing out the sibilance in the word.

My neck prickled, but I managed a weak smile and tried not to stare at the space where his front teeth should be. I failed. His tongue darted out to lick his lips as his smile widened to a leer.

Ew. Puh-lease. His tongue shot forward again, and I stared too long. Was it . . . no way . . .his tongue was forked.

I inhaled as quietly as possible as I began the ritual of gathering the magical energy deep in my mind. My pendant heated, and I resisted the urge to grab it.

“Nine forty-seven,” he said.

Yep, he definitely hissed the s’s. I placed the money on the counter, pleased my hands weren’t shaking. I shoved the rest of the bills in my pocket before grabbing my purchases. I kept tight rein on the white-hot center in my head.

“You forgot your change.”

“Keep it,” I said, almost to the door.

“No can do, daughter of Sotuk.”

I stopped, my breath locked in my chest. Zeke’s Thunderbird no longer sat near the closest gas pump. A large pile of dust blew across the dull, charcoal tarmac.

Good thing I’d pulled up my Halfling panties, because I was on my own.

D
ahlia

M
y wineglass slid
down my stiff fingers, dropping the last few inches to the scarred wooden table. No way. Peeking up from under my lashes, I drew a shaky breath. I’d wanted to listen to Simon play music, lose myself in a melody. I hadn’t planned on reliving this much of my past.

And I really wasn’t prepared to deal with Tristan Asher Smith.

My cheeks flamed as I slammed my mouth shut, hoping he hadn’t noticed me still acting like the lovesick girl I’d been all those years ago. His brown hair was longer than I remembered. Even from my vantage point across the bar, I could make out the cleft in his chin. Each time I’d seen his picture—or better, him in person—I wanted to lick that spot. I’d never had the chance.

Asher slid his aviators from his nose as the sunset shone through the glass doors behind him, hazing him in a soft glow like those old saint paintings.

Ignoring my trembling fingers, I raised my glass and filled my mouth with a large gulp of wine. I wished the tart taste could wash away my past that was hell-bent on catching up with me. It didn’t, but the bouquet bloomed in my mouth, and I closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation as the liquid slid down my throat.

“Mind sharing?”

I opened my eyes and looked into Asher’s smiling face. Up close, he was even more striking. His long brown lashes shielded his hazel eyes, but his lips quirked in typical Asher fashion. I shouldn’t know what that was—I barely knew him, really.

“My wine?” I asked, confused. “Isn’t that a little forward? Even for you?”

He grinned, showing straight, white teeth. “If you want to. But I meant the table. There aren’t any other seats open.”

“Oh. Sure. Good to see you, Asher.”

“You, too, Dahlia. It’s been a long time.”

I waited until he sat before I asked, “You here to listen or is this a special top-secret performance?”

“Just to listen.”

We shared a love of music. It had been my refuge for years. When Dad died, I played his old records, pretending they were his last hug. As Doug learned to play on that first, battered guitar, I’d sit, rapt for hours, feeling the vibration of the strings, daydreaming about our future together.

Much as I wanted to quit listening to music after Doug died, I hadn’t been able to. It was too much a part of me, a reminder of better days.

“I’ve heard good things about this guy,” Asher said.

“Simon will be thrilled you’ve heard of him.”

A waitress walked up and looked at Asher, her expression expectant but without a flare of recognition. His shoulders relaxed as he placed his forearms on the table. The sleeves of his dark button-down were rolled up, showing off his tanned skin. Light brown hairs glinted where they caught the light.

“Pike IPA on tap, if you have it.”

The girl nodded and headed back to the bar.

“You know Simon?” he asked. His gaze sharpened. “Oh. Dorsey. Related to Doug?”

I nodded.

“I should’ve known.”

I’d raised my glass to my lips for another gulp of liquid courage, so I shrugged. He waited for a real response. My heart pounded in my chest as if I’d danced the Samba. Silly as it was, the anxiety suffocated me.

Just a conversation. I had them every day with other people. I was fine. This was fine.

No, nothing about the situation was fine. Why did I have to run into Asher tonight? I cleared my throat. “Yeah. Simon’s my brother-in-law. I’m here for moral support.”

The song ended, and I clapped, adding a loud “woo-woo!” Simon glanced over and raised his beer. His eyes narrowed when he saw Asher sitting with me, but I waved back, smiling.

Simon got the message. I’d known my brother-in-law since he was a gawky thirteen-year-old; he wasn’t going to do something to piss me off when I had photographic proof of his late-90s hairstyles.

“You stayed involved in the music scene?” Asher asked, surprised. “I haven’t seen you around.” He’d leaned forward a little so I could hear him over the growing noise of the crowd.

“Not really. Doug quit playing about ten years ago.”

Again his gaze sharpened. “I heard about that.”

Asher sat back, letting the waitress set a napkin and his pint glass in front of him. He chewed on his lip. Would he get up and walk away?

“Where is Doug tonight?”

“Dead.” At Asher’s look, I continued, “It’s okay.” Abbi’s stricken face flashed through my mind, and I struggled to maintain a reasonable tone. “He passed away almost three years ago.”

I took another big sip of my wine. At least the panic had receded. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was comfortable with Asher or because of the wine I’d already consumed.

“This is the problem with touring so much.” Asher ran his fingers through his hair, causing it to flop against his brow. “I hadn’t heard.”

I turned my face toward Simon, who had just started the song he’d written with Doug for our wedding. We would have been married fifteen years in February. I tipped my glass and polished off the wine.

Asher shifted, as though he was getting ready to stand. I turned to look back at him, trying to banish the melancholy that lingered so often these days.

“Don’t leave. Please. It’s good to see you. Really.” I smiled. “If I’d known you’d be here, I would’ve worn my groupie shirt. I’m proud to say mine is from the first round of shirts you ever had made. From Cactus Arrow. It’s pretty tattered, but I like to wear it when I read.”

“You seriously have a shirt from that band? We were together for all of two months.” He shook his head. “Who came up with that name anyway?”

I laughed. “You did.”

He smiled and turned his attention back to the stage, his eyes intent on Simon’s fingers sliding up and down the guitar frets. He clapped when Simon finished the song.

“I can see why people are talking about him. Beautiful melody.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Asher’s gaze slid back to mine.

“I’m taking credit for that one,” I announced. “Simon wrote it for my wedding. It’s the oldest in his repertoire. He doesn’t play it often anymore. He asked if I’d like to hear it tonight.”

“You two are close.”

“Closer since Doug’s death. Before that, we were all leading our own lives.”

Simon slid into one of his newer, bluesier tunes. I tapped my foot and rolled my empty wineglass between my hands, shocked to realize the alcohol had bubbled into my head.

Hmm, it’d been a long time since I was buzzed. I’d missed this feeling. I’d also missed talking to an attractive man.

Asher had left Cactus Arrow within a few weeks of creating the band. Doug had never forgiven him for walking off the stage with his guitar in its case right after he sang the most beautiful song I’d ever heard. Chills rippled across my skin as I thought of how Asher had looked at me that night as he stood on the stage.

I’d willed him to look again, before he walked out of the venue. He didn’t. And . . . that had been a long, long time ago.

#

Asher clapped when Simon took his final bow nearly an hour later. I tapped the stem of my second glass of wine. The lights stayed dim, but female heads turned in our direction, the murmur of Asher’s appearance making the rounds.

“You’re going to be inundated now that they’ve figured out who you are.”

Asher rolled his eyes. He slammed back the last of his beer. I clasped my hand over his where it gripped the glass, surprising us both. I’d never been pushy or forward, preferring to let the situation come to me. I dropped my hand from his warm skin.

“I’ll play the knight-errant if you want me to,” I said.

His mouth turned down. “It’s been a shitty week. I’m done with people.”

A little grimace twisted my lips. “Okay. Well, good to see you.”

His eyes widened. “You’re not leaving me. You said you’d help me out.”

“I thought—”

“You still like to walk on the beach?”

I turned back. “I do.” I tried to keep my voice neutral, but I probably failed, because Asher smirked.

“Let’s go.”

“You don’t want to listen to the rest of the bands?” I asked.

“Simon was the only one I came to hear.”

I pulled out two twenties and laid them on the table.

“Thanks for buying my drink,” Asher said.

“Thanks for sitting at my table. If you want, I’ll introduce you to Simon. He’d like to meet you.”

“You sure? I don’t want to impose.” We both knew Doug had made some terrible comments about him when Asher left the band. He glanced around, his eyes darting too fast to catch anyone’s. Asher probably assumed Simon wasn’t his biggest fan.

“You’re not.” I hefted my bag onto my shoulder, took Asher’s hand, and led the way to Simon.

I wended my way through the tables, passing by a cute blonde two tables over. Had I ever been that young? My daughter Abigail was nearly the same age as the girls here tonight. I wasn’t ready for her to move away to college.

I had to swallow down the panic. Abbi was smart and capable. She’d proven that by taking on a counselor role on a trip with her aunt this week.

Simon finished buckling his guitar case, concern seeping into his eyes.

“Great job tonight,” I said. “Thanks for playing my song.”

I embraced my brother-in-law, needing a second to compose my emotions. Simon rubbed his hand up and down my back like he’d done each time he hugged me for nearly ten years, ever since Doug started showing symptoms. I pulled back and cleared my throat.

“This is Asher Smith. He sat with me for part of your set.”

Simon held out his hand, which Asher shook, but I caught the look Simon shot me from the corner of his eye. “Wow. Great to meet you. Lia gave me one of your albums when I was in high school. It’s amazing.” Simon always used my nickname, just like Doug had.

“Thanks. Always good to hear you appreciate the music. Makes it worth doing.”

Simon still had his other arm wrapped around my waist, an annoyingly protective gesture. Because of my dad’s stiff formality, I’d never been much for public affection. Except with Abbi.

I sidled away, pointing up toward the speakers. “Too loud,” I yelled as the next band started tuning their guitars.

“I’m planning to catch the next act,” Simon said as he moved toward the back of the club. “Sit with me.”

I frowned. “I’m good. I think Asher and I are going for a walk.”

The cute blonde I noticed earlier intercepted Asher as soon as Simon pulled me away. She clutched his arm. He smiled and nodded, but he shot me a look under his long bangs, his eyes begging me to save him. He took the pen from the blonde’s other hand and autographed the napkin she held out.

Four more people—three men and a woman, all in their late twenties—gathered around him. The woman was gorgeous, and Asher had a reputation as a lady’s man. One he’d built over the years after leaving Cactus Arrow. Much as I’d hated hearing about his exploits, I read about them all. Every single one.

Unlike Asher, Simon didn’t like dealing with the fans much. He knew it was part of the performer job, but he was in love with Ella. In. Love. The kind of love I used to write about.

The kind I thought I had with Doug back when I was young and naive. I locked that door, refusing to let the melancholy overcome my burgeoning good mood. Doug and I had made our choices. I had to live with the results.

“He’s married, Lia,” Simon scolded me, while Asher was occupied with his fans.

I turned back to Simon. “I’m not interested in an affair. Especially a sordid one with a famous married man. Key words there are ‘married’ and ‘sordid.’ In that order.”

I tossed my long auburn hair over my shoulder. The weight slid across my back, the ends nearly to my waist. Just one more piece of myself I hadn’t maintained. I wasn’t willing to go to the effort of being social even with my hairdresser.

Abbi was right. I’d been hiding. Not just from other people but also from my own needs.

“Doug didn’t like him, Lia. He was wild, and he writes about his affairs. Each album is chockfull of them. Even after he married.” Simon scowled at the growing crowd swarming around Asher, whose face was now as blank as his eyes.

“Maybe like you and me, he writes what his audience wants to hear, not necessarily what’s true. And Doug was jealous.”

Asher wasn’t enjoying the attention lavished on him, especially by the young women. Good. That meant he’d be happy when I rescued him in a few minutes.

“I’m not looking for anything romantic.” I turned back to Simon. “And I’m not into casual. You know that.”

Simon settled into a chair at the table I’d recently vacated. He tugged my wrist so that I was seated next to him, our knees touching.

“He’ll turn your relationship into a song when he leaves you.”

“I don’t plan to be anyone’s muse, Simon.”

“It’s been almost three years. You’ll want to go out again sometime.”

“Not yet. I need to focus on Abbi. She’s my priority.”

“And Ella and I applaud you for that,” Simon said, his voice careful. “But I want you to be happy. If that means finding someone . . .”

“What brought this on?” I asked.

“I want you to be safe. Asher Smith isn’t safe. He’s a time bomb waiting to explode all across your life. Don’t get me wrong. Meeting him is cool. I was always so mad Doug played with him for a while, and I didn’t get an intro.”

I smiled at Simon. “No need to worry. We’re old friends.”

Simon’s brown eyes were shadowed with worry. “He’ll hurt you, Lia. We’re just starting to see you emerge from wherever you’ve been hiding. Ella pointed out you’ve smiled on this trip. We haven’t seen you smile in years.”

I patted his hand. “I’m completely safe from doing anything that might come close to be called living.”

“That’s what worries me. What’s going to happen when you pop the grief bubble?”

I’d have to finish mourning the life I’d lost. I’d known those last years together would be hard, but I’d chosen to stay. While Huntington’s was a slow and painful descent, my relationship with Doug suffered many little deaths, some more painful than others.

Simon rubbed his hand over the fashionable jet-black stubble bristling his chin. He looked good in scruff. Doug’s beard had been patchy at best, making him look like a guy with a bad case of mange.