All Things Wicked (12 page)

She clenched her eyes shut, burying her face against his chest. “Just fight it off,” she begged. “We can settle everything else later, just—just, please.” Her words snagged. Broke. “Please don’t leave me alone.”

The sulfurous haze slipped across the emerald water, ghostly fingers extending across the bay. Juliet clung to him, praying silently, desperate as she mentally rifled through the small number of rituals she had ever bothered to learn. None would help.

She had none prepared.

Oh, God, she was a worthless witch. A tool, only fit to be used.

Slowly, the hard edge of fists at her back relaxed. His hands opened, splayed over the grimy T-shirt and stroked from her nape to her waist. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered against her hair.

She’d meant to say something reassuring. Something flippant and wise. Something tough.

Instead, her words caught on a sob.

“I’m sorry, little rose.”

Shock sliced through her. Slid like ice water into her veins. She stiffened, fingers clenching in his shirt as she raised her head. “Wh-what?”

Caleb stared blankly beyond her. Confusion filled his eyes as she searched them, now the blue she remembered. Normal blue. He blinked hard, turned one hand palm-up to study it over her shoulder. “What,” he rasped, and cleared his throat to try again. “What happened?”

I’m sorry, little rose.

Cordelia. How had he known? How did he know that her sister had called her that? He was a witch. She wasn’t. There was no way they’d ever met.

She jammed a shaking hand against his chest, desperate for space.

Caleb’s gaze locked on her. Studied the line where her body pressed against his. It trailed up her throat, over her mouth. Flickered.

When he met her eyes, his own softened.

Juliet raised her chin.

Slowly, cautiously, he slid his scarred fingers over her throat. Her chin, along her jaw. The ridges rasped against her skin, rough and oddly warm.

Helpless before the wonder filling his face, the uncertainty, she turned her cheek into his palm. “Caleb, I don’t—I mean, I can’t . . .” She shook her head. “I just can’t.”

His mouth quirked. “I give up,” he whispered, leaning in.

“Give up?”

Without answering, without giving her the time to gather the shrapnel of her thoughts, he seized her mouth in a kiss so gentle that frissons of confusion, of sweetness and breathtaking temptation whispered through her.

His hand flattened at the small of her back, held her in place as his lips rubbed, nuzzled against hers. Not taking. Seeking.

Asking permission.

Her eyes fluttered closed, body melting in his hands. Against him. Surrender.

So right.

Then he pushed her away. Backed up, raising his hands as if he could ward her off. “Go back to the house,” he ordered, voice hoarse. Curt.

She took a step closer. “But you—”

“Go!”

He turned his back, shoulders set in unforgiving lines, jammed his hands into the pockets of his too-big jeans and strode down the sandy shore. Bits of black sand kicked up under his shoes.

Juliet watched him walk away.

Little rose.

She rubbed two fingers over the sudden, yawning ache under her breastbone. Damn it. She didn’t have the energy for this. She didn’t want to keep up with his moods, volatile and rough on her already bruised heart.

She didn’t want to try and understand the secrets he seemed so determined to keep.

What she desperately wanted was a drink.

Chapter Ten

A
faint orange glow shimmered from behind the little house, casting a warm radiance as the cloudy sky rapidly darkened beneath a summer storm. The local weather patterns had never been anything but seasonal with an eighty percent chance of acidic rain, and as Juliet trudged around the side of the house, the first fat drops splattered around her.

Just great.

Juliet hurried around the corner, darting under a beige canvas pavilion just as the skies unleashed soaking fury. Rain pounded the treated cloth like a drum, canvas thunder echoed by a clash of the real thing rolling overhead. She ran her fingers through her damp hair, grimacing.

Warmth and firelight seeped from the open face of an old-fashioned iron stove at the edge of the patio. Beneath her feet, the rock gleamed with the same smoky facets as the flagstones by the bay. Plastic furniture served as seating, arrayed near pots of giant flowers with petals as large as both of her hands together. The wood inside the stove crackled and popped.

It was, for the moment, bliss.

“Gets old real quick, doesn’t it?”

Juliet jumped as the husky voice floated out of the dark. She surveyed the shadow-rimmed patio until she spotted a pair of black, heavy-duty street boots crossed at the ankle in the corner.

“Sorry?” she asked blankly.

The figure leaned forward. Firelight painted the healer’s exquisite features with shadows and reflected glints from her jewelry, but her teeth gleamed in a smile not entirely friendly. “The rain,” she explained, gesturing to the sheets of gray veiling the air. “Always with the rain. Have a seat, kiddo.”

Pride eyed exhaustion. It was no contest. Knees giving out, Juliet sat.

Naomi blinked at her. Then pointed to one of the white plastic chairs. “I meant in an actual seat.”

“I’m fine.”

The witch shrugged. “Suit yourself. Juliet, right?”

“Yes.” Tucking her knees under the skirt, she wrapped her arms around them. It helped keep her warm while the snapping heat of the fire built strength. “You’re Naomi.”

“Yeah.”

“Were you the one who took care of me?”

“That’s me.”

She hesitated. “Thanks.” For a long moment, only the thunderous echo of the rain and crackling wood peppered the silence. Juliet stared into the heart of the stove, acutely aware of the strange violet eyes fixed on her.

The healing witch didn’t move much. She didn’t fidget. She stared, still as a feline on the prowl. It made Juliet’s skin itch. She flicked the woman a glance, eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Once upon a time,” Naomi replied in a slow, husky drawl, “I would have hunted you.”

“What?” she asked again, straightening. “Hunted me?”

Heedless of decency or reserve, Naomi stretched out her legs and hooked a thumb at the waistband of her low-riding jeans. It didn’t take much to shove the band down, revealing a scrap of electric blue nylon, taut, sleek muscles Juliet would have killed for, and a dark circle of black ink tattooed low on her abdomen.

Juliet’s gaze snapped back to hers. “But you’re a witch!”

“Go figure.” The woman let go of her waistband, resettling into a lazy, comfortable sprawl. Her piercings glittered, points of reflected fire at her eyebrow, nose, lip, and ears. “Used to be a missionary.”

“Used to?”

The look she slanted Juliet was wry. “Clearly not anymore. Last fucker who tried to be both got his ass scalped.”

She couldn’t imagine it. “How can someone be a missionary and a witch at the same time?” she asked, perplexed. How could the holy tattoo that so terrified witches like her allow it? Then, because she couldn’t help it, she added, “And what crazy witch would join the Order that murders them for fun?”

“For a living.”

“Whatever,” Juliet replied, in a tone that made clear how little she thought the difference was. Dead was dead.

Naomi searched her face, pierced eyebrow arching. “So no one told you?”

“What?”

“Peterson.” Her lip curled. “You all called him Curio.”

Juliet’s hands jerked, and she drew them to her chest, fisted tightly. “That’s a lie.”

“Hooked you as bad as he got us, huh?” The witch’s sneer only deepened; disappointment, anger. Her gaze flicked to the fire as she said flatly, “His name, far as we know, was David Peterson. For about nine years, he was the Mission director. The boss.”

Juliet shook her head, ears ringing with the words she didn’t want to hear. But even as she did, even as her lips shaped the words, doubt filled her. “But he was . . .”

“A friend? Took care of you?” Her eyes gleamed. “A lover? Just about any lie’ll do, take your pick.”

Damn it. Juliet looked away, back toward the gray mist settling beyond the canvas roof. “How do you know?”

“On that day down at the Waterline,” Naomi told her, and didn’t even pause as Juliet winced, “Silas and Jessie saw him as Curio.
We
knew him as Peterson.” Her boots scraped as she adjusted her feet. “
Mission Director
Peterson, ’scuse me. The shitfucker.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Join the club, kiddo.” Naomi laced her hands behind her head, tipping her head back against the chair and once more into shadow. The light painted wicked patterns across her chest, saturated the synth-leather jacket she wore like a second skin, but only the faintest gleam from the dark suggested she still watched Juliet closely.

Juliet’s mouth twisted. “I thought witches and missionaries just killed each other.”

“Yeah, so did I. That’s the mission statement.” Her tone flattened, bone dry. “Somehow, Peterson didn’t have to sign the same dotted line.”

“How?”

“Told you,” Naomi said, only somewhat patiently. “We don’t know. He was killed before Silas and Jessie could expose him.
I
didn’t even know ’til I joined this merry band of outlaws, and I worked with the fucker.”

Juliet’s fingers knotted under her chin, twisted so tight it barely registered as pain in the turmoil of her mind. Curio, the coven master. The man who had taken her in, laughed with her, been stern and firm and kind.

A missionary?

And a witch. . .

Curio only used you for magic.

And she’d let him. Every time. Even when it left her feeling empty and aching and cold, she came to his hand like a puppy starving for love and he—

A shudder slid down her spine. “He was right,” she whispered, mostly to herself. Even she could hear the revulsion, the tears, thick in her voice.

Naomi watched her uneasily from the dark. “You aren’t going to cry, are you?”

She almost laughed. “You expect me to, don’t you?” The woman said nothing as Juliet wiped at her still-dry eyes with her bare arm. “Poor little orphan witch, taken in by a witch hunter.”

“Wasn’t a hunter,” Naomi replied, her voice so even that Juliet almost missed the way it edged. Like a razor. “And I’ve got news for you, kiddo. Every missionary out there is an orphan.”

That one gave her pause. “Really?”

“We’re
cultivated
,” Naomi told her, drawing the word out scornfully. “At an orphanage. Yeah, even me,” she added before Juliet could ask. “Whether we lose our parents young or are one of hundreds of kids abandoned in some gutter, all missionaries come from the same pool.”

“That’s . . .” Horrible? Efficient? Juliet shook her head, uncertain if the witch wanted her sympathy or just her attention.

Naomi shrugged. “That’s the way they do it. Then a funny thing happened, and I ended up a witch.”

“Ended up? You weren’t born with it?”

“Not even a glimmer of a genetic anomaly.” Naomi sighed, a deep gust of something that could have been annoyance. Or relief. “About a year ago, I inherited some abracadabra and that was that.” She dropped her hands, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against her stomach. “So, witchcraft and the seal of St. Andrew live harmoniously together, blah, blah, blah.”

“Without . . .” That brought them back to how a witch could be a missionary, didn’t it? Juliet’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know, doesn’t your magic set off the seal?”

“Mine? Nah. Other witchcraft does.”

It was unheard of, as far as Juliet knew. She fidgeted, digging her toes into the hard stones of the patio. It was easier to concentrate on the subject at hand and the heat slowly warming her skin than the ache behind her heart.

Caleb was right. Caleb was
always
right.

Used.

Juliet shook her head, hard enough to swing the damp ends of her hair out of her eyes. “You were a witch hunter, and now you’re a healer?”

“Doesn’t matter how often I hear it,” Naomi said, snorting. “That word sounds wrong. Doctor, fine. Nurse? Whatever. Healer? I feel like I should have long white hair, flowing robes, and be chanting something.”

“With bells?”

The woman chuckled. “Yeah. With bells.” She sighed. “Then there’s the Leigh witches.”

Juliet hesitated.

“Relax, I’ve been working with Jessie for a while, now. I get that she sees the present, or whatever.”

“What about Caleb?”

“The other funny thing.” Naomi shifted, grabbing the edges of the plastic chair and hauling it closer. It scraped, like nails across glass. She kicked her feet out again, casually crossing them at the ankle as she sat back, this time fully bathed in the furnace’s warm glow. “Was a time I actually
was
hunting Caleb Leigh.” Her eyebrow arched again, silver winking wildly. “He was top of the list.”

“The list?”

“The Mission has a list. Most-wanted witches, usually the type that get executed on sight. Sometimes, though, they want ’em alive.”

Juliet hugged her knees as a shudder rippled through her. “Why?”

“Questioning, maybe. Usually, witches like that aren’t working alone. Don’t know, we just bring them in. Or kill them.” She tipped her head. “Caleb Leigh once topped that list, and so we hunted him. Mostly Silas.”

“By himself?”

Sparks leaped from the stove, showering the gleaming stone underneath with embers. It cast Naomi’s features into devilish angles as she grinned. “More or less. Always had a loner streak.”

Juliet thought back to the way he’d forged through that water, all brick-house muscle and savage strength. Remembered, too, how stern he’d been as he entered the house. How careful as he’d sat beside Jessie’s unresponsive body.

“He loves her,” she blurted, and Naomi’s overly full mouth quirked.

“Went rogue for her.” She sighed again, even as her tongue flicked out to trace the silver hoop pierced through the center of her lower lip. “He turned his back on all of us . . .” She paused. “Them. Anyway, point is, both of them have nearly died more’n once for each other. This is something he can’t do anything about.”

To know that kind of love, unconditional and more powerful than any magic. . .

She couldn’t imagine it. Juliet stretched her legs out toward the stove, leaning back on her hands as she studied the tips of her toes. “So,” she said slowly, “what’s wrong with her?”

“Same thing that’s wrong with you.”

Juliet’s head jerked up, gaze snagging on a steady blue-violet scrutiny.

“Not,” Naomi drawled, “that I know what
that
is, either. But you’re both showing the same signs.”

“What signs?”

“Breakdown.” Lightning cracked overhead, coloring the canvas a bright white for a breath. Naomi glanced up, lips moving, and then nodded with a faint smile as thunder rumbled a few seconds behind. “Acts like a disease, looks like nothing. Can’t pin it.”

“I’m . . .” Juliet stared at her, her mind struggling to make sense of the words. She heard them. She knew what they meant. But it may as well have been another language. “I’m what?”

“Dying, probably.”

Juliet shot to her feet so fast, the canvas rippled overhead. “What?”

“Relax,” Naomi said, shaking her head. “You’ve got some time. More than Jessie’s got. She’s . . . worse, you could say. If it were a disease, I’d say hers has progressed farther.”

Fear gripped her throat. Locked into her knees and made them tremble, but Juliet clenched her hands into tight, white-knuckled fists. “Why? What is it?”

“Don’t know,” Naomi said on a long, tired exhale. “I can’t fix it. But I’ll tell you a secret.”

“What?”

“You and Jessie have something else in common.”

Juliet stared at her, uncomprehending.

“Your tattoo,” Naomi clarified. “Jessie has one like it, on her back.”

“No way.”

“Yup. Too bad you can’t ask her about it, right? Where’s Leigh?” She paused, fine black eyebrows working together, and amended, “Caleb, I mean.”

And she thought Caleb was cold. This witch watched her like someone would watch a bug; with lazy interest, some amusement, and the kind of wariness that suggested she was ready in case Juliet did anything rash.

Like what? Cry?

She shook her head. “Out there,” she said, somehow managing a calm that she didn’t feel.

“He sees the future, right?”

Juliet nodded, jerkily.

“Go ask him what’s in store. Maybe he’ll have something for you.” She hooked one leg over the plastic arm of her chair, propping her chin up in her palm. “I spent a lot of energy healing him,” she added. “That man . . .” She hesitated, as if searching for the right words. Finally, she shrugged one shoulder wordlessly.

“You sound impressed,” Juliet said, glancing over her shoulder at the rain-dark vista. He was out there, somewhere. Sitting by the water, maybe.

“It takes a fuck ton of grit and guts to stay upright, as much pain as he was in,” Naomi replied simply. “Yeah. I’m impressed. I think anyone else would have long since keeled over.”

“Anyone else?” She frowned. “What’s so special about him?”

Besides the fact that his presence made her heart beat double-time. And the fact that one look from his impenetrable blue eyes was enough to make her forget every shred of common sense she claimed to have.

“I don’t know,” Naomi was saying slowly, but her gaze rested on the furnace, thank God. Juliet jerked her attention firmly back to her.

And not on the clever, manipulative fingers that he’d eased between her legs not half an hour before.