The Taking (37 page)

And saw that Moira’s monkey was sitting on her bed again, his jaunty smile leering at her. She had always thought of the stuffed animal as comforting, but now, it triggered a shiver. There was something ominous about his presence in her still bedroom, like he was patiently waiting for her to return.

It wasn’t Moira moving it, that was what made it disturbing. If it had been her sister, that would be different, but this was Beau or Camille manipulating her possessions, her emotions, her peace of mind.

Not sure what to do now that she was standing in her bedroom, Regan dumped her handbag with Camille’s journal on the foot of the bed. “I want to help you,” she told the empty room, hoping Camille would somehow hear her. “I don’t want him to own you anymore either. He’s a terrible, bad man, and I want to help you find a way to get away from him and back to your family.”

The sense of urgency was pressing on Regan, and she turned in a circle, searching every corner of the room for something, anything, that would indicate Camille was there, that she existed. Maybe Camille was inside Regan for all she knew. Maybe she was lurking inside her body, her soul, her mind, waiting for the right moment to take over.

To own her.

Like Beau owned Felix. Like Camille owned Felix through his guilt. Like the past owned all of them.

The tick of the clock on her nightstand grew louder in the stillness and Regan spun around, sure she’d heard footsteps, but there was nothing.

Just her furniture, the smell of her scented candles, and the dance of dust motes across the sun streak from the doors. The hulking chest of drawers stood at attention and the monkey grinned.

And Moira walked out from behind the silk drapes.

Regan froze, tears springing to her eyes. It was her sister, her big sister, an eternal six years old, wearing her yellow satin Easter dress, white gloves on her delicate hands. Her caramel brown hair was carefully curled, and her lips had the gleam of the lipstick their mother had allowed them to wear that day twenty-plus years ago.

Moira was definitely there, solid, yet something about her shimmered at the edges, a fluidity to her form and movement that said she wasn’t real, wasn’t of this human world.

“Moira,” Regan whispered. “Do you know who I am?”

Her sister nodded, a smile on her soft face. She was Moira before she’d gotten sick, and the tip of her finger came up in her white glove and she pointed. Her lips formed the words, though no sound came out of her mouth.
Baby
Re-Re.

Regan caught the sob before it could escape. She had forgotten Moira’s nickname for her, but now she could hear it, a whisper of long ago, the teasing, lilting voice of her sister calling her Baby Re-Re. Making a song out of it, dancing with her, squeezing her so that she couldn’t breathe, but Regan feeling happy, always happy, because her big sister loved her.

She nodded. “Yes, it’s me. Are you okay, Moira?”

Her sister’s head tilted, like the question made no sense to her. She nodded again, and her face and eyes lit up in the most beautiful, angelic smile Regan had ever seen, and she knew that wherever her sister was, it was a place of contentment.

Moira moved forward, her white shoes not quite touching the hardwood. She pointed to Regan’s bed, to the handbag lying there.

“My handbag?” Regan asked stupidly, not sure what her sister was telling her. “The bed?” Then she remembered the monkey. “Patrick? Do you want him?”

Moira shook her head. She pointed to the handbag again.

Regan grabbed the bag and dumped the contents out, no idea what she was supposed to do or say, and panicking, knowing she had very little time. Moira was fading, her body transparent.

Her wallet and the journal spilled out. Camille’s journal.

“The journal?” she asked, grabbing it off the bed and spinning around to face her sister.

But Moira was gone, and Regan stood in her room, acutely aware of how alone she was, and with no idea what to do.

The French doors squeaked, drawing her attention, moving slightly in the wind.

A snake slithered in from the balcony.

Felix went into the courtyard behind his shop, retrieving a shovel from the shed along the way. With hard, angry kicks onto the metal, he drove the shovel into the ground and displaced enough dirt for a three by three hole.

Then he dropped his binding ring into the hole. Regan’s followed suit, making a faint tinny clink as it knocked against his. Regan’s ring was worth fifty thousand dollars, but he couldn’t in good conscience sell it and potentially release its power on another woman.

It was beautiful and expensive and it represented the ultimate greed—owning another person.

So it belonged in the hole.

Felix pulled a small bag out of his pocket and dumped its contents on the rings. Graveyard dirt. For severing connections. For endings.

Then he refilled the hole with the original dirt, stamped on it with his boot, and tossed the shovel aside.

It was time to confront the demon and send him back to hell.

Regan stood frozen watching the snake. Was it real? Probably not. It was probably just her fear springing it to life. Maybe Moira hadn’t really been there either.

But it looked real, so real that no matter how much she told herself it wasn’t, she remained paralyzed, standing stock still in front of her bed, clutching the journal.

She could hear her own ragged breathing, feel the clamminess of her palms, and while it occurred to her that she would ruin the binding of the journal by sweating on it, she couldn’t move enough to set it back down. Besides, even the small book felt like a barrier between her and the reptile.

It slithered toward the chest of drawers, the very one where she had found the journal. Regan sucked in a breath when she realized there was a glass of wine on the dresser. That hadn’t been there before, when she had first entered the room. She was sure of it.

The scented candles on her nightstand and chest of drawers were suddenly burning. Right before her eyes they had flickered to life, as if a switch had been thrown to ignite them. Regan blinked, glancing over her shoulder, wanting to bolt, but unable to make her feet move.

The beat of a drum started from the corner of the room. There was no drum there, no drummer, but she could hear it, a slow, steady, erotic rhythm rising and swelling in the room, around her, over her. Maybe it was in her.

It was then she realized this was the setting of Camille’s final night among the living. All it wanted was Felix.

Panic started to set in, her eyes darting around, following the snake, watching for Camille, her heart racing. She touched her face, over and over, reassuring herself she was still Regan. But the urge to walk over and drink the wine was strong, and her foot had started tapping to the music.

She tried to still it, but her foot kept moving, up, down, up, down. The music was calling her, the wine was pleading with her, and despite her fear, she had the desire to reach out and snatch that snake off her floor and dance with it.

It was happening. She could feel it. She was going to live out Camille’s last night...

And die.

Desperate, Regan flicked open the journal, flying through the pages to find the last entry.

 

 

Bile rose in her mouth. Regan dropped the journal on the bed and dug in her purse. She called Felix, but he didn’t answer. Then she rooted around for a pen.

She was going to write the final entry in Camille’s journal.

Alcroft had agreed to meet him in Regan’s courtyard, and Felix knew he would be prompt. He also knew the lock on the gate wouldn’t matter to Alcroft, so Felix had very little time. Drawing a circle with a stick over the stones where Camille had landed, he traced a
veve,
or magic diagram, in the center.

He stepped back, into the shadows, when he heard the gate creaking open.

At the same time, he suddenly heard the beat of drums from the interior of the house, sweeping out the windows of the second floor and washing over him.

What the hell...

Was Regan in the house?

That had never even occurred to him. She was supposed to be with Chris.

Maybe it wasn’t her, but Camille.

There was no time to check or send Regan to safety because Alcroft was entering the courtyard, a smirk on his face.

“So the servant calls the master? I hope this is an apology for releasing yourself from prison before I gave you permission. You can start by groveling at my feet.”

Felix moved forward, slowly, holding Alcroft’s gaze so he wouldn’t glance down at the ground and see the circle. “I’m not going to grovel. I’m going to ask you man-to-man to release Regan. She doesn’t belong to you.”

Alcroft took a few steps in his direction, his stance confident, his expression mocking. “Oh, because she belongs to you?”

“No.” He shook his head. “She doesn’t belong to anyone. She’s her own person.”

“Well, that’s very New Age of you.” Alcroft rolled his eyes. “Everyone is bound to someone in a relationship. It’s where two become one and all that bullshit. Haven’t you heard of a wedding ceremony?”

“It’s a partnership, not losing yourself in someone else or in your relationship.” It had taken him a hundred years to recognize that, to understand the seemingly subtle difference. Regan didn’t want to have Felix or to own him or to change him, but she wanted his companionship, plain and simple. He wanted the same.

“I have partners in the law firm. I want a wife that belongs to me. And I can take her, own her, use her, and throw her away.” Alcroft stepped into the circle. “And you can’t do anything about it.”

Felix moved, hitting Alcroft in the gut with his fist to catch him off guard. As the demon doubled over with an expulsion of air from his lungs, Felix chanted, adrenaline giving him the strength as he moved around Alcroft, binding him to the circle.

But the demon reacted quickly, levitating off the ground several feet. Felix grabbed his leg and landed another punch on his kneecap, which earned him a howl of pain from Alcroft and a kick in his own thigh. Felix ignored the pain from the blow and continued chanting, words so ancient that he didn’t even know their meaning. The words of his mother, of the priests and priestesses of his childhood, of all the practitioners who had passed from this life to the next and who united with him to fight the evil.

He believed in them, in himself, in Regan. “I call on the power of Madame Erzulih, all the mysteries, and all the Saints,” he said, pulling a vial from his pocket and tossing alcohol over Alcroft’s legs and stomach.

Alcroft hissed. “You’re an idiot. This won’t work.”

Yet he was clearly fighting to stay afloat, his amber eyes glowing in the dusky courtyard. Felix hit him in the kidney with every ounce of strength he had, and Alcroft dropped to the ground.