When Wicked Craves (12 page)

She raised a brow. “That’s not an easy thing for a man to do to a girl like me.”

“But he tried.”

“I’d been sunbathing in our backyard. Could you see it? Through the mist?”

“I saw. The garden. The fence.”

“A high fence,” she agreed. “We always kept it locked. And I was out there. You know, in a bathing suit.” She felt her cheeks warm. “A bikini.” She’d been all alone, her teenage body longing for a boy’s caress, and yet forced to make do with nothing more substantial than the play of the sun’s warmth over her skin, on her breasts, on the thin piece of material that covered her sex.

“I fell asleep in the sun, and when I woke up—”

She cut herself off, hating the way the memory could still make her tremble.

“He was there,” Nicholas said, his voice so close that she drew in a breath, knowing that he wanted to touch her and comfort her. Knowing he couldn’t, but so desperately wishing he could.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. “As close as you are now,” she whispered. “Then he reached for me, and—and I screamed for Kiril.” Kiril, who was always nearby—but that had been the wrong thing to do. “The man grabbed me. One hand on my arm, one over my
mouth. Except he never actually got the hand to my mouth.”

“He changed.”

“The instant he touched me.”

Nicholas lifted his hand toward her face. She flinched, backing up, then realizing he was holding out a handkerchief.

Carefully, she took it, then wiped her eyes. “I didn’t even realize I was crying.”

“Not for that bastard, I hope. Attack a woman—a child—and a man must suffer the consequences.”

“No. Not for him. Never for him.” But the tears had come, and she hated them. Crying meant weakness, and that was the last thing she wanted to show in front of Nicholas. At the same time, though, she longed to sag into his arms and sob.

Dear God, it had truly been one hell of a day.

“What happened to him?”

“Kiril,” she said softly. “He came—good God, he came like a plague upon the earth, all wind and storm, and they fought, and …” She trailed off, not wanting to remember. “Kiril almost died. The monster was barely even formed, so he was still comparatively weak—but he beat Kiril up so badly. I think it was his pain and anger, but I’ve never seen Kiril conjure such a storm. He brought down a tornado to rip up a tree. The monster practically broke it up into toothpicks, but it kept the creature occupied, and—and that gave Kiril time to use the sword.”

“What sword?”

“My aunt had come running with this old Civil War
sword that had belonged to her husband. And Kiril took it, and he sliced the monster in half.”

“Thank God.”

Her smile was halfhearted. “No. There’s not much I thank God for.”

“Petra …”

“I was so glad he was dead. I felt so guilty, because I’d made him something horrible, but I was so glad he was dead.” She met his eyes. “I was young, then. When I think back now, I only hate the memory. The bastard attacked me. I’m sure I wasn’t the only girl he’d done that to. There’s no guilt. No guilt at all.”

“Good. What changed?”

“I might have become the well-adjusted person you see standing before you, but it was through no help from my aunt.”

“What did she do?”

“She’d never been kind to me, not really. But after that day, she wouldn’t even look at me.” Petra realized she was clenching her teeth and forced herself to relax.

He didn’t speak, as if he knew she needed time. She turned, and headed the rest of the way into her bedroom, with Nicholas following. Once inside, she peeled back the rug, then pulled up the loose floorboard. A box was inside, and she opened it, revealing the platinum and emerald bracelet that she cherished above all else. “My aunt gave it to Kiril right before she died. Cancer. He gave it to me.”

“It was your mother’s?”

She nodded, her throat full of tears.
“There’s a saying carved on the back. Latin.
Manus fati.
”

“The hand of fate,” Nicholas said, his voice barely a whisper.

“My aunt had kept it away from me all those years.” She fell silent, remembering how pathetic she’d been, trying throughout her childhood to entice a smile or a kind word from her aunt. No luck there. The closest she’d gotten was the Christmas she’d been fourteen, when her brother had given her a small bound book, and in it he’d written a story featuring the three of them—Petra, Kiril, and their aunt. It had been one of those alternate-history things, and in the story the aunt missed her sister, but loved the twins with a sweetness that had brought Petra to tears.

“Petra?”

She managed a thin smile. “Sorry. My aunt never even tried with me. I had the curse, and she hated what I was, and me along with it.”

“There are a lot of monsters on this earth,” Nicholas said. “Some of the worst don’t even live in the shadows.”

“Isn’t that the truth.”

“So what happened to the monster? You and your brother were only fifteen. What did you do with the body?”

Petra forced back a shiver, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “Kiril burned it.”

“Your brother really does take care of you.”

“Yes,” she said. “He does.”

Kiril.
They were away from the protections of the warehouse now. Soon he’d sense her. Soon he’d come.

“Do you think they’re watching the house?” she asked. “The Alliance, I mean?”

“I’d be shocked if they weren’t. But the windows are covered and the night hides the mist.”

“But if Kiril comes racing back—”

“They’ll figure out we’re here.”

“We need to go.” She put the bracelet on her wrist, then grabbed the Bible and her journal off her dresser and shoved them into her backpack. “My notes. All my leads on sorcerers who could do a counter curse.”

“How long have you been looking?”

“Almost a decade.”

She could see him doing math in his head. “You were just a kid.”

“Yup. That’s how I ended up working in the shadow and human worlds, too. When I started looking, I didn’t even know your world existed. But I found it. Hints and pieces, I mean, when I started looking for someone who could remove the curse. After a while, I realized that’s where I belong. After all, as far as humans are concerned, I’m as much of a freak as werewolves and vampires are.” Her mouth quirked ironically. “Considering the warm reception from the Alliance, though, I probably should have continued living like a human. Bought a cabin and lived by myself in the woods.”

“Eventually, they would have found out about you,” Nicholas said.

“I know,” she said. “I’m cursed, remember? Bad luck is in my blood.”

Disney’s ornate El Capitan theater was a bustle of activity, and Kiril frowned, wondering why the hell his sister would want to meet him in a crowd. Crowds and Petra did not go together, although he supposed that if she was hiding, a crowd was the best place to do it. As long as she was adequately covered, it was probably smart.

His fingers itched to pull out his notebook and scribble a few thoughts. He was working on a spy story, and the idea of hiding in a crowd was a good one. But now wasn’t the time. Now he needed to find Petra.

She’d said that she would be seated, and if he knew his sister, she would have filled the seats on either side of her with packages and bags, pretending to save them for someone. That should make her easier to find, as he could look for gaps in the rows.

Except he’d already peered into the auditorium, and she wasn’t anywhere to be found.

He could feel her, though. When he reached out with his mind, he could find her in the blanket of magic and mysticism that surrounded and bound the earth, much as an aura surrounded a human.

He closed his eyes, oblivious to the dirty glances of moviegoers trying to balance their popcorn and tug their children into the theater. They weren’t his problem.
Only Petra mattered. Finding her, helping her, saving her.

Fear rose within him,
and he clenched his fists, forcing it back down. He couldn’t let himself think about losing her. Had to concentrate on finding her. Thinking positive. That was the ticket. Thinking … and feeling.

He kept his eyes closed and tried to relax, only to be jostled by a rush of people.

“Get the hell out of the way, dipshit,” a gawky teenager snarled.

Kiril just smiled. Didn’t even pull up the magic. Just looked him in the eye and smiled.

The kid hurried away, fear in his eyes.

Yeah, smart kid.

He started to relax, trying to find the zone again, when,
bam
, there she was.
Petra.
Not in the theater, but in him. Gloriously, totally, completely in him.

Nearby?

He tilted his head, trying to pinpoint the location. Not close, and yet he could feel her so clearly. Which was odd, because usually she had to be near for it to feel so sharp and crisp. Right then it felt as if they were—

Home.

Goddamn his sister! She’d sent him here while she went home.

He had no idea what the hell was going on, but he was certain that whoever had spirited her out of the execution chamber was pulling some sort of shit. Maybe they thought they could keep her alive, but he knew better.
He
was the one who looked after her.
He
was the one who protected her. She was
his
, goddammit. His responsibility. His sister. His whole life and purpose.

And he was the one who was going to get her back right that very moment.

Around him, loose papers began to flutter as his temper rose. He didn’t even try to tamp it down, despite the humans looking around in confusion, grabbing on to counters and kids. In the crowd, he saw a dark face standing unperturbed.

A jinn.

Kiril could feel the magic, and he knew damn well that a jinn hadn’t just wandered into the Disney theater that day. He was being followed. He was being used as a goddamn magnet for his sister.

Well, let them try to follow him now …

With a growl of understanding, he began to spin. Humans stared, backing away in terror as a wind whipped up around him, moving him like a cyclone through the shattering glass doors, then down Hollywood Boulevard, as people grabbed for signposts so as to not end up like Dorothy in his twister.

Some even pulled out video cameras, but he didn’t care. They’d explain it away. Weather phenom. The devil. Who knows.

Right then he didn’t give a fuck.

Right then, he could think only of getting his sister back with him where she belonged.

Nick glanced around Petra’s room as she shoved a few personal things into her backpack—underwear, toothbrush, dental floss. Typical fare for a woman on the run.

Her room was as tidy as the kitchen—lived in, yes,
but also uncluttered in a way that was almost sad. A room in stark contrast to his own apartments in Los Angeles, New York, and Florence. Apartments filled with antiques bought during an age when the pieces were considered modern, the polished surfaces of tables and desks now covered with evidence of his various passions. Pages from Leonardo’s notebooks, the journals of his friend Galileo, the brilliant scribblings of Roger Bacon, and Nick’s own transcriptions of his long conversations with Marco Ferrante.

Over the years, philosophy and art had come to fascinate him as much as science, and his walls were covered with the works of both the masters and aspiring artists he had discovered over the years, many of whom had never found fame but had true talent in the way they wielded a brush.

Petra’s shelves were crammed full of books, but they did not lie open and scattered about as Nick’s always did. Nick had the impression of being in a cell rather than in a home, and when he looked at Petra again, he saw a girl who moved through the world but did not in fact live in it.

“Are we leaving or not?” she demanded.

He realized he was standing in the doorway, his hands clenched as if in protest of something he didn’t understand. A problem he didn’t know how to tackle, yet he wasn’t certain what troubled him.

He shook off the feeling and stepped from the room into the hall. “We’ll transform in the kitchen, closer to the vent. Less time for you to be forced into that form.”

Her brows lifted. “Less time by about four seconds. Is it really that dangerous? I mean, I do have a car.”

“Mist is safer.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely,” he said, with more surety than he felt. At some point, her human constitution would rebel against the repeated transformations. For that matter, at some point he would have to feed, as the strain of transforming her along with himself would soon take its toll. Now, though, it was most important to get out of there. And for that, mist was best.

“Guess I’m ready then—oh, wait.” She paused in front of her dresser, grabbed a lipstick, and scribbled
I love you—I’m safe
on the mirror. “Okay?”

He only half nodded, his interest captured instead by the calendar taped to the upper corner of that same mirror. Interesting primarily because there was nothing written on it. No engagements. No birthdays. Nothing except one date circled in red. The fifteenth. Only one night away.