Lure of the Wicked (24 page)

Jessie grabbed her shoulder, hard enough to leave nail marks in her skin. The skin that should have been scabbed and furrowed. “Shut up, turn it off, and listen to me. The power she carries heals, but only others.” The witch crouched, smoothed her hand over Gemma’s forehead. “She
is
the fountain of life, Naomi.”

“She’s a
witch
—”

“You’re the only one,” Jessie said flatly, “that can keep this from dying out right now. You don’t take it, something beautiful and helpful and
good
dies, and the world loses another part of its soul with it.”

Naomi flinched. “This world can eat its own tail and die trying.”

“It’s her last wish, Miss West.”

Gemma cracked open her eyes. “I can—I can do my own pitch, thank you,” she said with some shadow of her former asperity. But it weakened with every word, slipped into broken lines as Naomi tightened her grip on Gemma’s hands and struggled to hold it all in.

To keep her together.

Damn it, to keep herself together.

Jessie’s smile flashed. Sad. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I thought—”

“I’ll do it.” Naomi avoided Jessie’s gaze. “Gemma, how do I help you?”

“Come down here,” she whispered. “You, Cally . . . whoever you are. You’ll know when . . . we need the water. The . . . warm one. Waterfall.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jessie whispered.

Around them, the loose circle stirred. Beyond the uncertain faces of the uniformed people framing the bloody circle of power drawn on the floor, Michael Rook and Jordana lay slumped together; breathing, but unconscious.

The man she’d throat-punched in her fury met her gaze, unapologetic. “They won’t see anything,” he rasped, fingers massaging his neck.

Her skin prickled. Magic all but thrummed in the vast, echoing hall, but her seal was dormant. Why?

How?

A copper-skinned teenager laid his fingers on the man’s shoulder. “Sorry, Joel,” he said solemnly. “I didn’t think she’d fight like a man.”

Joel’s lips twitched, but it did nothing to ease the shadows from his eyes.

Gemma tugged on Naomi’s hands, her grip already weaker. Swallowing back the knot of tears and tension swelling in her throat, forcing herself to ignore every shrieking, Mission-trained warning in her head, Naomi bent over the dying woman.

Phin’s mother.

A witch.

So the Church isn’t investigating my home?

He’d known. The lying, manipulative, traitorous son of a bitch had
known
.

And he said he’d loved her.

Gemma cupped the back of her head with one crimson hand. Her eyes flared open, beautiful, chocolate brown, swimming with pain and that focused determination she’d read so often in Phin’s own gaze. “I’m sorry,” she breathed.

Naomi smiled crookedly. “It wouldn’t be the—”

Her words died as Gemma tugged her face down, seizing her mouth in a kiss that stole the breath from her body.

She tasted the copper tang of blood and the salt of bitter sweat. She tasted peppermint, the soft warmth of Gemma’s lower lip, and swallowed surprise and a sudden rush of pain that didn’t feel like her own.

The world detonated around her.

For an eternity of silence, everything went white.

Chapter Nineteen

T
he pop and crackle of the fire woke her.

Naomi drifted away from dreams she couldn’t remember, away from the surreal emptiness of something she couldn’t name and into snug comfort. Warmth bathed her skin. Soothed her mind, her agitated soul.

She was home.

She inhaled, smelled burning resin and the wonderful fragrance of pine as she drew it in, wrapping it around her like a blanket.

For the first time in years, nothing hurt. Nothing ached. Nothing burned or throbbed or bit sharply. Naomi was whole, peaceful.

She smiled, opening her eyes.

The mahogany mantel gleamed in the golden light, polished to within an inch of its life and so shiny she could almost see her reflection in the beautiful sheen. The fire blazed merrily, cast a friendly warmth throughout the study.

There were no photographs framed on the mantel. No family pictures to tell her where she was, but she didn’t need them to know that it was safe. Nothing could reach her here.

Around her, books lined the walls in precisely ordered reams of color. The wood matched the mantel, polished just as beautifully and all but hidden beneath row upon row of colored spines. Encyclopedias, new books printed since the earthquake, some rarer books from before.

Some had letters that gleamed gold in the light, and those were her favorite. So shiny and pretty. Others barely held up in the shadow, old and marked, their spines creased with age.

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, the beautifully woven afghan sliding to her waist. She’d never caught her father reading any of them, but sometimes she’d take one down and leaf through its pages. Sometimes, when he wasn’t looking, she’d pretend she read the mysterious books with their jumble of pictures and words she couldn’t understand yet.

Naomi stretched. Froze.

Suddenly shaking, she touched her lips. Her face. The soft afghan blanket in her lap.

A core of ice slipped down her spine.

“Are you awake?”

The voice slammed into her skull, a memory plucked from the depths of her mind and transformed into a sledgehammer. Warm, serious, patient, the masculine sound of it seared every nerve she had until she shot off the couch, already knowing what she’d find and dreading it.

Hating it.

Tears welled in her eyes. “Daddy.”

Katsu Ishikawa didn’t look up from his neat, precise notes. The firelight flickered, gilded his slicked-back hair and thin, angled features in gold. His eyebrows moved as he spoke, a trait she’d loved.

They moved now. Furrowed. “Why are you here?”

Naomi sucked in a small, painful breath. “I don’t know.”

“Unacceptable.” Deftly her father licked one finger. Turned the page over. Without looking up from his letter, he said, “What do you want from me?”

Too much.

No
. Exactly enough. Naomi’s fingers fisted. “It’s too late now.”

“Is it?”

“You’re dead,” she snarled.

“Ah.” Still, he kept his eyes on the letter. Signed it, ended with the same neat signature he signed all things. He rose, straightening the tailored suit jacket that always made him look so distinguished. So handsome.

Naomi circled the settee, knew she stared. Her eyes feasted on every detail of his face, his posture. Every angle, every feature. So familiar.

The cheekbones, high and defined. Even his jaw, never overly square but perfect. And his nose, straight and strong like hers.

Half her own reflection.

“Why am I here?” she whispered.

Carefully he set the papers on his desk, just at the corner. He adjusted his cuffs, ensuring they remained precisely in place.

He’d always been so careful with everything. His study, his schedule, his evening brandy.

Her father didn’t look at her as he powered down the sleek computer. “That’s an excellent question. Why should I know?”

She flinched. “You’re my father.”

“Am I?”

Naomi sucked in a sharp breath. Anger simmered low in her belly. Bubbled. “You know you are.”

“What is a father, Naomi? Is it genetic? Is it sperm count? Is that all a father is? Is it a memory?”

Still he didn’t look at her. His dark eyes remained fixed on his own tasks as he moved around the desk. He crossed the carpeted floor and pulled the drapes closed.

She shook her head. “You raised me.”

“For how long, pet?”

Five years. In the scheme of things, it seemed so little. She raised her chin, jaw tight. “You marked me.”

His hand froze over the drapes. Now, slowly, he turned his head and met her accusing stare.

His own brimmed with regret. “For that,” he said, so politely, so gently, “I am sorry. I had hoped five years would be too little time to remember me.”

“Sorry?” Naomi threw out her hands, trembling with so much she couldn’t define. A terrible, slashing hurt. “How could you say that?”

He looked away again, and it seemed as if his shoulders weren’t as broad as she’d remembered. Not as strong. He seemed leaner, thinner than she thought. Was her memory wrong?

Was it skewed by her years spent raised among men built like brick walls?

Quietly he pulled a drapery cord from its moorings.

Naomi’s anger turned to an avalanche of fear. “Daddy, no.”

“Have you ever wanted something so badly,” he asked as he coiled the rope around his arm in precise increments, “that you’d stop at nothing to get it?”

She shook her head as tears of fury, of terror, overwhelmed her speech.

“Then you get it.” Slowly he crossed the study once more. Retraced his steps. He didn’t look at her again, passed her as if she were the ghost. “And it’s everything you’d hoped, everything you’d dreamed, and everything . . . you dreaded.”

“No.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “And still you suffer it. Gladly. Every day a torture and a joy.”

Naomi reached out to seize his shoulder. Sobbed a broken curse as her hand slid through it, flesh through smoke.

He paused, uncoiling the silken cord. “Then it’s gone,” he said quietly. “Just gone.”

Naomi staggered backward. Her legs slammed into the settee and she sprawled. Helpless. “Daddy, don’t. Don’t do this.”

The rope gleamed in the light as he tossed it high. It found the rafter, curled over it with ease. “What else was I supposed to do? My family’s honor was ruined. My reputation tarnished. Her creditors were calling every day.”

Tears crystallized, spilled over in acid grief. “You had me,” Naomi said bitterly. Her hands clenched in her lap, but she couldn’t look away. Couldn’t do anything but watch as long, deft fingers twisted and knotted. As he coiled drapery cord into a thin noose.

“She wanted you.”

Naomi’s head jerked. “No, she didn’t.”

“She’s a fickle woman. She wanted you to spite me, but I wouldn’t have it. So I gave you away in secret. She got everything else.”

“No.” She lurched to her feet as her father stepped onto the chair he’d placed by the desk. The fire crackled, spitting sparks onto the slate floor around it.

It glittered wildly in his face. Caught the dead sheen of his eyes as he tugged the rope. Tested its hold.

Her breath shuddered in her chest. “Daddy, don’t.”

“I’m sorry, pet.” Slowly, mechanically, Katsu Ishikawa slid the noose over his head. Tightened it behind his neck. “There is honor to consider.”

“There was
me
to consider,” she shouted. She lunged for his waist, his jacket, anything, and only swore viciously as he gave way like smoke. As he leaned out and sent the chair flying into her legs.

It hurt. The wood slammed into her shins and sent her staggering, hobbling. Pain ricocheted from wood and bone.

But she couldn’t touch him.

Couldn’t do anything but scream in bottled rage and horror as his body jerked like a twisted marionette on the edge of the rope and danced a final, twitching dance.

For a long moment, she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

Thump
,
thump
. His feet hit the desk in a slow, rhythmic swing.

Naomi crumpled to the floor.

Thump
,
thump
.

“Daddy?”

Her heart slammed into her stomach. Nausea gathered, sharp and fast.

“Daddy, Nanny says it’s time for supper.”

She turned, suddenly feeling as if she were made of lead. Her blood filled with it, slowing her. Freezing her in place, unable to call out, to warn the little girl who pushed open the study door.

Her hair gleamed in the firelight, as black as her father’s and gathered into two pigtails, each wrapped with pink ribbon. Her skirt hung neatly pressed, her blouse frilly and so tiny. She wore saddle shoes in pink and white and cradled a small horse doll in one hand.

She’d loved that doll.

“Daddy?” Her voice wavered. Her little feet tripped over the carpet, and Naomi struggled to break the terror of memory. To wrench herself from the dream shattering her heart.

But it didn’t fade.

Instead, as the little girl sat on the carpet and watched her father swing, Naomi reached out. Her fingers trembled desperately as she hovered one hand over the tiny child’s glossy black hair.

The scream of the nanny threw the house into chaos.

Naomi flinched.

“This isn’t your fault.”

A broken sound, at least partly a laugh, tore from her chest.

“Naomi.” Blue-violet eyes met hers. So wide, bright with unshed tears. Her young, childish voice resonated, matured eerily from her bow-shaped mouth. “This isn’t your fault.” She reached out to stroke a tiny hand over Naomi’s cheek. It passed through.

Naomi shot to her feet, spun and screamed in rage, in fear, as her father’s purple, bloated face swung inches from hers. Back and forth. “This isn’t your fault,” he wheezed, slowly spinning.

The cord creaked.
Thump
,
thump
.

“No.” Naomi backed away. She passed through a figure wrapped in silk and expensive perfume. Trails of ghostly color clung to her face, skeins of a fragrance that haunted her dreams, her skin. Naomi staggered.

Abigail turned in a frothy sea of peach lace and cream, her smile sad. “This wasn’t ever your fault.”

Naomi shook her head, over and over, a high, keening wail locked behind her teeth. “No,” she sobbed, the word a broken sound of understanding. “No. It’s yours. All of it, it’s all your fault, the both of you.”

The corpse’s smile turned ghastly. “There is honor to consider.”

“There was still so much I had to have,” Abigail said lightly.

“And you lost it all,” Naomi whispered. She scrubbed at her face, furiously dashed her tears aside. “You lost honor when you abandoned your child to become a killer. When you used me like some sort of revenge.”

The corpse’s skin mottled.

Naomi flung a finger at Abigail, sharp accusation. “You. You lost everything. You threw it all away, hoping to find some miraculous fountain of youth, and now it’s too late. Nothing of you lives on.
Nothing
.”

Both specters stared at her. Watched her in brutal silence.

And five-year-old Naomi Ishikawa watched her from the floor, her eyes brimming with too much awareness.

Too much knowing.

So many untapped tears.

It’d be years until one man would break through that dam. A standstill decades long.

Naomi swallowed hard, and remembered what she’d forgotten. What she’d always known. “Your mistakes aren’t my fault,” she whispered. “You’re right. But I can fix what
is
my fault, and fuck you, I will
not
be the twisted, lonely woman my parents made me.”

“Oh, sweetie—”

“You have to go,” the little girl said solemnly, cutting off Abigail’s trilling laugh. “You have to go back before it’s too late.” Boots tromped through the halls, echoed shouts and sirens piercing the ghostly solitude. Within moments, emergency technicians poured into the study, a regulated wash of chaos.

Naomi shook her head. “How?”

Somberly the little girl with Naomi’s own face moved around the adults. She pressed herself to the fringe and watched the corpse of her father hit the ground. Crumple bonelessly, bloated face jiggling. Mottled.

Dead.

“I don’t know,” she said.

A hot tear trickled down Naomi’s cheek. The girl glanced at her. Followed the tear as it dripped from her chin and splashed over Naomi’s hand.

The girl’s mouth curved down. “How do you know where you belong?”

Naomi closed her eyes. She fisted her hands tightly, nails biting into the callused edge of her palms and struggled to remember.

To forget.

Warm brown eyes met hers in the dark recesses of her mind. A dimpled smile tugged at her heart.

Phin. She belonged there. At least for the moment, at least for the time it would take to say good-bye.

More than she’d ever done for anyone else.

“You just know,” Naomi whispered. Shuddering, she took a deep breath.

And smelled chlorine.

Tears streamed over her cheeks as she opened her eyes. Tears of regret, bottled grief so long capped and filled to the breaking point that it raged from her now. Warm water battered at her, crimson currents swirled until the tub looked like a pool of steaming blood. Wordless, sobbing with the weight of it, with the unfairness of it all, Naomi clung to Gemma’s lifeless body as anguish poured from that forgotten place deep inside.

That place Naomi had sworn didn’t exist.

Steady hands bracketed her shoulders. “I know,” Jessie murmured against her hair. “Let it out. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

Maybe it would be. Someday.

A high-pitched whine sliced the air into auditory shreds. Overhead the speakers turned over into a quiet hum. “This is Phin Clarke, Carson.”

His voice echoed from wall to wall. Battered at her grief. He was steady. So calm.

“I know you’re in this building somewhere. You’re holding innocent people hostage. Let them get out before the fire spreads, and I’ll give you what you want.”

Naomi sucked in a hard, shuddering breath as Lillian sobbed at the edge of the tub.