What Doesn't Kill You (6 page)

Mom’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “Eric is meeting us at the house. I need you there, Marcus, in case—”

“I will not let harm come to her, or the baby. I promise you, sweet.” He framed Mom’s face, kissed her forehead. Zach gave them as much privacy as he could.

“Zach.” Moving to him, she reached out, took his hand. “I want you to—”

“I’m going.” She raised one eyebrow, and gave him her I know what’s best for you look.

“We don’t know what we’re dealing with. I want you out of the line of fire until we do.”

“What if I can help?”

“Then I will call you on the cell phone you are never without. We are only a few blocks away, and I need someone to watch the shop while—”

“Fine.” He let out along-suffering sigh, made her smile. “Just keep me in the loop, okay?”

“You got it. I’ll stop by Lily’s, have her send you over a couple of her roast beef sandwiches.”

“Ah, bribery,” he said. She let out a burst of laughter. “I’ll take it.”

“Oh, I love you.” She cradled the back of his head, pulled him down for a kiss on the cheek. She really was short. “And I’ve missed you.”

“Me, too.” Before he could embarrass himself in front of Marcus he eased out of her grip and walked around the counter. “Can I get an extra-large sweet tea to go with those? Maybe some chips, a piece of carrot cake?”

“Why don’t you call in your bribe order?” Mom shook her head, still smiling. “Tell Lily I’ll be right there to pay the damages.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

She reached over the counter and patted his cheek. “Anytime, my son.”

He felt heat flare across his face. Ducking his head, he fiddled with the new shipment of incense until Mom and Marcus left the shop. With a sigh, he pulled out his cell and called in his order, then plopped on the stool, hunched his shoulders, and tried to figure out how to get over to Annie’s and still have the shop covered. He was smart—he’d figure a way—

The door opened; without the bell to announce, Zach moved into sight to greet whoever came in. It was too soon for the delivery—

He skidded to a halt when he recognized James.

“Son of a bitch!”

James didn’t even flinch. “Hello, Zachariah. I am here for my tarot lesson.”

“I’ll show you what to do with your damn cursed deck—”

Surprise flashed across James’ face just before Zach tackled him.

They slid across the floor, slamming up against the front wall. Zach punched him, the sharp pain that tore across his knuckles oddly satisfying. He swung his fist back for another blow, and froze, his rage switching off so fast he had to clutch the floor.

“What—” He shook his head, trying to remember why he lost his temper. His left hand curled around the tarot deck, the cards fitting themselves perfectly into his palm. His desire to do a spread, just a quick one, made his hand shake. “Table,” he muttered, getting to his feet. “No—counter will do. Closer.”

Like an addict holding his fix, he clutched the cards and moved to the granite counter. Heat pulsed off the deck, spreading up his arm. And with that heat came the memories. Of power. Of his absolute superiority over mere humans. He was an angel—God protect him, why did he give that up? To be a mortal, live a small, petty life?

Now he had the chance to change that, become what he was meant to be. A power among mortals, a power to be respected. To be feared. To be worshipped.

With the fever of need, he slapped down a three card spread, touching each card, tracing the outline of the figures that foretold his new path. His greater path.

“You understand now, Zachariah.” James moved to his side, laid one hand on his shoulder. The touch of an accent skimmed under his voice, familiar. Zach didn’t care enough to pursue it. All he wanted now were the cards. “They can give you back what you were, what you threw away. All you have to do is ask for it, believe it is possible.”

“Yes,” he whispered. The pain of being human, of feeling all the time, had become such a burden. Zach didn’t want this anymore. The small part of his mind screaming at him that it was all a lie was smothered by a hot, deep need. “I want it back. All of it.”

James smiled, took his hand. “Then it is yours, my friend.”

Fire seared Zach, burning along the scars on his back, where his wings had been. With a ragged scream he dropped to the floor, his hand sweeping the cards off the counter and down with him. One hand crabbed across the floor, clutched at them, the relief when he made contact—overwhelming. He’d almost lost his chance to be whole again.

SIX

“
A
nnie?” Eric closed the front door, heading for the kitchen. He figured if his wife was anywhere, it would be there, drinking some of the chamomile tea she despised, and treating herself with a cookie or five. Claire had tried to hide her concern, but even through the phone Eric heard it, and it put him on edge. Annie didn’t need another struggle; this pregnancy had been difficult enough already. “Annie, are you here?”

“Can you give me five seconds to answer before you start harping on me?” Annie stalked into the living room, her anger so palpable he could almost see it. “Damn it—can’t you all just leave me alone?”

He did see the sparks flying off her wedding ring. Red sparks. He went on high alert. “You know all you have to do is ask, sweetheart.” He kept his voice quiet, neutral. “You want me to leave, I’m gone. Or I’ll stay. It’s up to you.”

“You’re leaving me?!” Obviously he said the wrong thing. She pointed at him, those red sparks shooting over her hand, massing at the end of her finger. “Over your dead body, mister. Take one step out of this room and I’ll—Eric?” Between one second and the next, Annie changed from harpy to—Annie. The red sparks winked out, leaving her hand raw. “Oh, God—my head is killing me.”

She started to wobble, headed for the floor. Eric lunged forward, catching her.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart.” Carefully, he eased her to the carpet, afraid she might topple if he tried getting her to the sofa. “Just hang on to me. I’m not going anywhere.”

“What are you talking about?” She looked at him, those vibrant, warm brown eyes dull. “You just got here—ouch—what the hell?” Clutching her wrist, she looked at her left hand. “What did I do?”

Before he could answer the front door burst open. Claire pushed past Marcus, dropped to her knees. “Oh, sweetheart.” Her fingers hovered over Annie’s raw, blistering hand. “Marcus felt your temper blocks away.”

Marcus eased Claire to one side, cradled Annie’s hand. “What caused this?”

“I don’t—”

“Red sparks,” Eric said. He sat on the coffee table before his legs gave out. Claire sat next to him, took his hand. “Coming from her ring. Right after she started accusing me of leaving her.”

“I—what?” She shook her head, her good hand spread over her swollen stomach. “I know you’d never leave us.” His throat tightened at the plural. “I’d kill you first.” She smiled. “Slowly.”

“There’s my Annie.”
Thank God.
He didn’t recognize the crazy woman who was seconds away from blasting him with magic. Annie never used her power against an innocent. And Eric damn well wanted to know what had happened to push her that far. “Now, let Marcus take care of your hand. I’ll make you some tea.”

Her shout followed him into the kitchen. “Not chamomile!”

He smiled. It faded the second he was out of sight. Shaking, he laid his hands on the island, lowered his head. Gentle fingers closed over one hand. “She scared you.”

“I didn’t recognize her, Claire.” Turning, he leaned against the island, ran one hand through his hair. “What is going on?”

She rubbed his arm, her touch soothing. He’d always admired that about her. Even when he didn’t deserve it, after trying to kill her, she gave him only care and kindness. “Let me catch you up.”

*

S
imon walked along Forest Avenue, breathing in the salt-tinged air.

He had missed the smell, the cool touch of that ocean breeze brushing over his skin. He planned on enjoying it while he was here. Stopping, he turned, admired the tree lined street, the beach just beyond it. Another thing he would enjoy were moments like these. He’d learned not to take anything for granted when he traveled through Asia.

And at this moment, he planned to enjoy Claire’s company. He had missed her as well, more than he expected. More than he wanted to admit.

The Wiche’s Broom came into sight, and he took a deep breath. It had been more than six months, without even a letter from him. His welcome home might be less than welcoming.

A kid ran across the street, familiar brown bags in both hands. “Hey!” He waved one big bag at Simon. “You know Zach, right?” Simon opened his mouth to answer; the kid never gave him a chance. “Can you take this? I’m already behind and Lily’s gonna dump all over me if I don’t finish these.”

He shoved the bag in Simon’s hand and took off.

Shaking his head, Simon smiled, hefting the bag. It was for Zach, all right. And it gave him a legitimate reason to be here.

“Time to face the music.” Bracing himself, he pushed the door open.

The power blasted him.

“Claire!” Simon dropped the bag and sprinted through the long, narrow shop, wishing to God he had a weapon. The dark power coated the air, angry at his presence. It flinched away from him, flying back to the source. Simon followed it, pulling his crucifix out from under his t-shirt. And halted when he reached the back of the shop. “Sweet Jesus—”

Zach snapped his head up, his clear blue eyes glowing. Just like the rest of him. The rich dark blue that was his power as an angel surrounded him—the same glow Simon hadn’t seen since the night Claire helped Zach fall. His tattoo stood out on his right wrist, the wings and flaming sword outlined with an almost blinding white light.

“Simon—what are you . . .” Zach’s voice faded, his hands scrabbling over a pile of what looked like hand painted cards. “You can’t have them.” Clutching the cards to his chest, he stood, backing away. “They will give me what I want—”

“You have what you want, Zach.” Simon kept his voice even, his movements slow. That glow screamed power, and he had no protection on him. Not that any would stop it. He’d been walloped with Zach’s temper, and didn’t want to enjoy the experience again. “Where is your mother?”

Panic flared through the glow, dimming it. “She can’t know! You can’t tell her—”

“What, Zach? Are you ashamed of what you’re doing?” Simon took a step toward him; Zach leapt back, slamming into the wall, trapping himself. Just what Simon intended. “Where did you get the cards?”

“From me.” The low voice spun Simon around. Here was the source. Darkness coiled around the short bald man who stood between him and the back door. To Simon’s horror, he realized that darkness was feeding off Zach’s power, drinking it in as fast as Zach could pump it out. “You know.” The man spit the words out, fear and rage flickering through the dark coils. “How can you—”

“It’s a gift.” Simon punched the shorter man in the nose, watched him topple backward with a pained scream. Shaking out his hand, he turned around and headed for Zach. “Drop the cards, son.”

“No—don’t touch me, you can’t have them!” Zach slid along the wall, the blue glow pulsing. Not a good sign.

Simon did the only thing he could think of—he yanked off his crucifix and threw it at Zach.

The boy’s agonized scream pierced him. Simon lunged forward and caught Zach as he dropped, braced for whatever that power would throw. By the time he grabbed Zach the glow faded to almost nothing, leaving a hum over Simon’s skin. He wrapped his arms around Zach, wanting to get him the hell out before their mystery guest recovered. And froze when the cards leapt up from the floor, a whirlwind of color and sharp edges.

Simon put himself between Zach and the cards, waiting from them to surge forward and attack. Instead they shuffled together, shot over to the waiting hand of the bald man. Zach moaned against his back, fists clutching his shirt.

“You can’t keep yourself in front of him forever, priest.” The man let the cards dance over his hand, like a slow motion film of a magician flipping his deck. His other hand pinched his still bleeding nose, his voice muffled and thick. Simon set out to break it—looked like he succeeded. “I will have him. I will have all of them, before this is done. And you, with your special talent, and all your skills—you will only be able to stand and watch me take them. I look forward to the day, as payment for this interruption.”

He snapped his fingers and the cards dropped into his open palm. Frowning, he watched them sift and shudder, before they finally settled.

“I will see you again soon, Zach.” Flat, cold brown eyes met Simon’s. “Stand between us again, priest, and it will take more than your fist to stop me.”

He pulled the back door open and stomped out, taking that soul-sucking darkness with him.

Zach let out a sigh, sliding down Simon’s back. “Whoa—” Simon caught him, eased him to the floor. “I’ve got you, son. Are you all right?” He studied Zach’s too-pale face, ready to haul him off to the nearby clinic.

“Yeah.” Clearing his throat, Zach managed a smile. A ghastly smile, but a smile. The glow was gone, leaving behind one exhausted, sweat soaked teenage boy. “I was fighting to hold on to this.”

He raised his hand. His fingers shook against the card in his palm. Up close, Simon recognized it. One of the cards from the deck—old, and reeking of its own twisted power.

“Is it hurting you?”

Zach blinked. “Not anymore. I was—glowing, wasn’t I?”

“Like a neon sign.”

“And my tattoo?”

“I could have lit up the room with it.”

Swallowing, Zach slid the card down his leg, toward a small zippered pocket on the thigh of his cargo pants. The card fought him, snapping and twisting, like it was alive. Cursing under his breath, Zach kept going, until he finally wrestled it into the pocket, and closed the zipper. The card pushed against the heavy cotton a few times before it settled. Even through the thick blue fabric, Simon could see the darkness, feel the taint of the spell infused in the card.