Flame Unleashed (Hell to Pay) (16 page)

Eventually, he would depart from this Earth. If not now, then in a matter of years. Guilt assailed her like a slap to the face. Barnaby lay in an ICU bed while she rolled in the sheets with Odie. Some caregiver.

Thankfully, Barnaby wasn’t alone. Friends surrounded him in his time of need.

A stab of jealousy and sadness made her wince. If she were in Barnaby’s shoes, which friends would come see her?

No one. The theme of her entire life.

She hid behind the sex-on-a-stick costume that helped her score her kills.

She hid behind the prim and professional nurse uniform.

Where was the real Ruth?

Picking up a piece of her hair, she smelled residual sulfur.

Damn it.

Normally, washing her long hair made for a frustrating chore, but she had to eradicate all traces of that last encounter with Jerahmeel. Had to try to forget the hell that awaited her.

Dunking her head into the water, she enjoyed a moment of muffled, watery silence. Weightless for the smallest space of time, she pretended to have no stress, no need to kill, and no pressure to worry about Barnaby. Nothing but warmth and stillness.

The cooling water reminded her that the peace never lasted.

Once she finished rinsing her hair, Ruth stepped out of the tub, a towel wrapped around her head. Then she dried off with another plush towel. Such indulgence using two towels. No other guests apparently used them here, so she might as well take advantage. Opening the door, she peeked out into the hallway. The sounds of a television drifted up to her from the first floor.

She found her luggage in a well-appointed guest room that featured a beautiful oak sleigh bed with detailed scrolling at the head and foot. A dark blue duvet was folded back to reveal cornflower-blue sheets, fine Egyptian cotton if her fingers detected correctly, and down pillows. The enticement to get in the bed and rest was obvious. She would indulge in relaxation later this evening.

Pulling on khakis and a silky maroon shirt over her underwear and bra, she toweled her hair as best she could. It would take hours to dry, but at least she now smelled like flowers, not rotten eggs and suffering. Finally feeling, well, not actually human but the closest she could be, she girded herself to face Odie. She had to be honest with him and honest with herself; it was the right thing to do.

No more pretense, no more costumes, no more hiding.

It was time to share her carefully guarded story for the first time in forever. Even Barnaby didn’t know all of the details of her shame and pain.

But Odie had been honest with her. She could do the same.

If only sharing her innermost pain didn’t make her heart feel like a buggy wheel rolled right over it.

Alert to an intriguing aroma emanating from the first floor, her nose distracted her from the depressing thoughts. She strolled downstairs in bare feet as the scent of vanilla and strawberries drifted into the foyer. As she entered the kitchen, Odie plated what looked like crepes with strawberries and cream. After dusting the pastry with powdered sugar, he brushed off his hands, stiffened, and turned around. He had replaced the denim shirt she shredded with a snug, gray Henley. He left the top buttons undone, revealing a hint of pectoral muscle and a light dusting of dark hair – the image served as a cruel taunt to her resolve and equilibrium.

“You’re a gourmet chef?” She forced her gaze to his face. The folded crepes with strawberries peeking out constituted a work of art.

“I dabble. If I have a good reason.”

“When is that?”

“Never. Until now.”

He brushed a thumb across his lower lip. That single tiny gesture set her ovaries on virtual fire. Damn. He was good.

“You have some powdered sugar on your face.”

“What should we do about it?”

Ruth shocked herself by licking the spot of sugar from his cheek next to his nose. When she leaned back, he followed her. His pale green irises were turning black again.

“I should cook more often,” he said.

“I agree. This smells delicious.”

“That’s not what I was talking about,
chère
.”

She would not go back down this oh-so-tempting path. Not right now. Not with him. Although she didn’t want to hurt him, she needed some emotional distance if she was going to get through her own story.

“I know.” Taking a few steps back, she added, “So, um, can anyone have one of these treats?”

He blinked, like a sleepwalker waking up, and his pupils constricted back to normal size. Glass green colored the irises again. His lips thinned. Good. Message received.

“But of course,
madame
. If you’ll allow me to part with formality, we can eat these on the front porch. I do love the night air and the quiet.”

“Polite society would be scandalized by such barbaric behavior.”

“You’re exactly right. And that’s why we’re going to do it. Grab both of those plates along with the forks, please. I’ll bring dessert wine.”

They settled on the second to top step of his grand porch. Tree frogs chirped so loudly, it sounded like a crowd of people talking all at once, in a singsong rhythm. The cool, damp night air calmed Ruth as she inhaled the scent of soil and autumn leaves and sighed. Even a few stars were visible tonight, their tiny lights wavering in the humid atmosphere.

She cut into the still-steaming crepe and took a bite, savoring the sweet cream, the slightly tart strawberries, surrounded by the vanilla crepe.

“Amazing.”

“Glad you like it.” His fork glinted as he cut a piece of dough.

“Thank you for cooking. I know it’s not your top priority.”

“I’m glad I had a reason to cook.” In the shadows, it was hard to make out the details of his face, but she felt him studying her nevertheless. Her mouth went dry.

“I should call and check on Barnaby,” she said.

She jumped when he stilled her with a warm hand on her knee. Damn that reaction. And damn how his hand heated her entire leg.

“I called Peter while you were upstairs. Barnaby is unchanged. Peter and Dante are taking turns spending time with him. And two Indebted have joined them and are keeping tabs on both Barnaby and the mortals.”

“They don’t need me, then.”

“Of course you’re needed. But it’s okay for you to rest as well. It’s no use if you’re constantly on vigil. You won’t think as clearly if Barnaby needs you later.”

“You’re right.” In the moonlit glow of the well-kept lawn, the grass and trees took on a grayish-blue color. “You’ve got quite a place here. Such a haven from the world. I remember nights similar to this, sitting on the porch, telling stories, and talking about all manner of things.”

“What was your home like?”

“Before?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know any of my past?”

He paused. “Only that you were a Civil War nurse from Maryland. Barnaby was very tight-lipped about your history. Said it was your story to tell, not his.”

“Sounds like something Barnaby would say.”

Barnaby would also tell her to let go and confide in someone.

Over the years, she had helped physicians cut men’s legs off, nursed countless people through devastating illness, and killed on command. She was good at everything she did, professionally. But letting down her guard was the one thing she had never accomplished since she became Indebted.

Maybe Barnaby was telling her something, even now. A knot formed in her gut, but she pushed it down, hard. Maybe it was time to try to trust.

“I was born in 1834 in Rockville, Maryland.” She began. “I had a typical life for someone with an upper-middle-class upbringing. I played with friends, received education on how to run a house, then attended finishing school in Baltimore to learn how to catch a husband and become a perfect wife and mother.”

“You had mentioned your schooling before. Didn’t you enjoy the course of study?” He took another bite of crepe, the vanilla aroma drifting around her in the still night air.

“Knowing what I do now? No. But that was the only option for women’s education in those times.”

“So was school successful? You found a husband, correct?”

It was impossible not to smile in response to his sheepish grin.

“See, now you’re joshing. But yes, I did manage to snag quite the specimen: William Coe. William Coe the Third, no less. Most eligible bachelor in Rockville, Maryland. Oh, he was handsome enough, had a golden-brown moustache that made all the ladies swoon. He cut a fine figure in his evening best, too. But what attracted women, or more specifically their ambitious mothers, was his pedigree. Mr. Coe came from a long line of English aristocrats who settled in Baltimore. Despite having moved to this country, his family had the means to continue their high-class ways.”

“You sound, how should I say, less than enamored of the lineage?”

“How should I say? I say that the man makes the man, not the money or the breeding. However, as luck would have it, William became infatuated with me during my debutante season. I was eighteen. He was twenty-four. My mother, who always had ambitions of higher status, loved the opportunity to have a descendant of an earl in the family. She jumped at the chance to essentially propel her daughter from landed gentry status to a member of the peerage. Figuratively speaking, of course. Even though it was America, the British Victorian influence remained strong in the upper classes.”

“So did you love this man?”

She paused as emotions churned. In her own way, she had loved him. But with the distance of time, it was obvious that he didn’t return the love. And the care she had for her husband had only gone so deep. “It was a favorable match.”

“That wasn’t my question.” Odie pushed an errant piece of dark hair back off his forehead.

“I loved the idea of being in love. This was the first man who’d truly been in contention for marriage, and I had no comparison. All I saw was a debonair gentleman who lavished attention on me. With Mother’s prompting, I encouraged him, and six months later, we were wed.”

“And then?”

“Then nothing. We lived a harmonious, if not dull, society life together. I tried to be a loving, nurturing wife. It was my life’s work at the time. Then we had two children, Charlotte and then William the Fourth.”

“You and your husband must have been so proud.”

Was that a hard tone underneath his words?

“I loved my son and daughter dearly, and they never wanted for anything. William looked at our children more as an outward demonstration of our satisfactory union and a continuation of his lineage.”

“That sounds cold.”

“It’s practical. Based on the era, that sentiment fell well within society’s expectations. So yes, he was distant but never unkind to the children.”

“And to you?”

“After our son was born, he pulled away from me. My duty to produce male offspring had been completed, right? Of course, in my desire to please and be pleasing to him, I continued to try to love him. And I did love him, in a manner of speaking. But it’s obvious now that was a waste of time. Wishful thinking.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ll get to that part. The story gets interesting. No more ‘poor rich girl’ anymore.”

He held his hands up. “I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to. I said it.” A few steps below her, she crossed her ankles and peered up at the stars. “As the Civil War developed, Maryland mostly went north with the Union. Rockville split more evenly, and each family supported its side as best it could. William took a position of captain in the Army of the Potomac under General McClellan, a big honor. As a dutiful wife, I of course supported my husband wholeheartedly. He had to leave home often for trainings and later to attend strategy meetings. One day in September of 1862, he came home frothing about a campaign coming up soon. He was so excited that he’d lead his own company of the Maryland infantry in a key part of the battle. I got wrapped up in his excitement and wanted to help in any way possible.”

“September of 1862?”

“Antietam.”

“Wasn’t Antietam a bloody battle?”

“That’s an understatement. After he went to war, I disobeyed his express wishes and followed.”

“Let me guess. You were to stay home with the children?”

“Yes, but in my mind, that’s what their grandmother was for. I had met a woman named Clara Barton a few days prior as she loaded up supplies to help with the wounded during the battle. Her passion and drive were contagious. Right then and there, I realized that she possessed what I was missing: a greater purpose, a mission.”

Odie leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “What did your husband say when you left home?”

“Well, he didn’t know at first. So the battle started. Clara and myself and a few other nurses operated out of a barn set apart from the main battlefield, but close enough that the cannonade and rifles hurt our ears. There’s a legend that a bullet passed through Clara’s sleeve and killed the man she was tending.”

“Was it true?”

“I saw it with my own eyes. She was an amazing woman.”

“Sounds like you both were amazing.” His warm hand on her shoulder grounded her to the present, even while her memories placed her firmly on the battlefield in the past.

“I took direction well. There was no way I could decide what to do next without her guidance. So in the midst of battle, with all these casualties streaming in, all I could do was fix what could be treated and move on. The surgeons were sawing off limbs faster than I could prepare the men for amputation. The screams, the thick smell of blood, the foul stench of entrails, then later the almost-sweet odor indicating infection. Even now, I remember it like it happened yesterday.

“We worked the day of battle and into the night. The next day, there was a break in the battle, so any able-bodied soldiers cleared the battlefield, dragging in even more casualties. I went from one soldier to another, cataloging injuries, moving each man to the front or back of the surgeon’s line, as the injury dictated.”

“I can’t imagine what that was like.” His gaze never wavered from her face.

“Knowing what I do now about modern medicine, the treatment was beyond barbaric. But we did the best we could with what we had.”