The Legacy of Buchanan's Crossing (4 page)

“Cayden need sleep. Dream now.”

“Right again, on the first count anyway. I’m shot. Please don’t wake me for at least eight hours.”

She pulled the tie-back, loosening the heavy brown drape that screened the room off from downstairs. The last thing she heard was Nevermore ruffling his feathers. She was too tired to wonder what it was about.

The Darkness filled Cayden’s awareness. It wasn’t the simple comfort of dark without light. It was a Darkness with all the light there had ever been sucked out of it. It both chilled and slicked her skin with sweat, pressing down on her with its aching emptiness. Surely, her chest was too heavy for her heart to beat.

Sounds echoed: The voices of two men were rushing toward her, or she was rushing toward them, yet no one was moving at all. The uncertain physics of it brought the sour taste of last night’s supper to her tongue, until she was able to make out their words. Then, her blood froze in her veins, bringing an end to concerns about the loss of her last meal.

“If we can’t break the old witch’s warding spells and gain control of the Crossing, it must be destroyed. That would be an unforgivable waste.” The tone was laced with contempt. “And an unforgivable sin against our family. With my last breath, I would curse you.”

“It won’t come to that. Please, Father, just be patient a little while longer. My plan—”

“Your plan,” the older man hissed, “is as impotent and disappointing as you are.”

“It is working, Father. You were right. He’s perfect, ambitious and dissatisfied. He does have an integrity issue, but I’ve already begun his enlightenment. I’ve got him right where I want him.”

“You have nothing!” The voice rose, dripping with scorn. “I raised you myself, taught you everything you know. The rare blood of great witches flows in your veins. Rarer still, my blood. It’s mine, not that of your feckless mother, that gives you the power of persuasion, a power that should brook no resistance. Yet you were barely able to get him to sign a simple contract, one to his advantage, at that.”

A coughing fit interrupted the cold voice’s tirade.

The other voice whined. “That wasn’t my fault. There was something working against me, some kind of magic.”

“Bah! He merely carries the blood. As with most of our kind, but unlike you and me, he has no power. That’s why I picked him, you fool, not because he might be biddable. You are supposed to be able to handle that, you miserable excuse for a last scion.”

Distance was slowly gathering between Cayden and the two men. A vast sense of relief to be away from them battled with her need to hear the rest of their conversation.

“Now stop making excuses. If you fail, all will be lost. If you succeed, centuries of waiting for vengeance and power, power that should have been ours from the beginning, will not have been wasted. That power will heal me.”

“Father’s” sigh rattled, though he seemed to have regained some of his composure. The cunning in his voice alarmed Cayden even more than his words.

“We will rule together. If you want the power of the Crossing, my son, not the ashes of it, you must succeed. In spite of your weakness, it may yet be done before it is too late. Offered freely and spilled properly, the blood of three men born of ancient witches’ lines can break the old Warder’s spell.”

Chapter Four

C
lint groaned, resting his forehead on the steering wheel. The monster headache had been with him since he’d woke up this morning, if he could call it waking up when he hadn’t really slept.

The HandiMart scene had played over and over in his mind, a bad movie on an endless loop. He looked like a piece of shit in every reel. The way Cayden had said his name echoed in his head. During the restless nights since he’d first talked to her, he’d dreamed of her saying it. In those dreams, her voice had been filled with heat and need. It sure as hell hadn’t sounded like she was spitting something disgusting out of her mouth.

When he’d finally dozed off last night, it had been straight into another nightmare. Two men arguing in the dark. The only other thing he could remember was a choking darkness and finding another crow’s feather on the windowsill later. His head had throbbed ever since.

The shrill twanging of Cumberland’s ringtone at seven o’clock on this not-so-fine Saturday morning had been the final nail in sleep’s coffin. And that was before Dean had insisted on seeing him first thing Monday morning. If the meeting was only about a progress report as Dean had stated, then why had he sounded so tense? After a week of leaving him in peace, Clint’s finger had chosen that moment to start itching again.

He’d begun popping aspirin with his first cup of coffee and hadn’t stopped. They hadn’t helped. Up until this spring, he could have counted on one hand how many headaches he’d had in his entire life. He should make a doctor’s appointment, get that weird recurring itch on his finger checked while he was at it. Fine, but what was he supposed to do now? Bang his head on the steering wheel until it stopped pounding?

The headache was bad enough that he’d been forced to call off dinner with Darcy. She’d been pissy and had made it abundantly clear that he’d best not even think about canceling their plans for tomorrow.

Then the real hammer had struck. By the time he noticed his spare bottle of aspirin was the one he emptied, it was after ten thirty. HandiMart wasn’t just the closest possibility for relief, it was the only possibility for miles. Walking there had been out of the question; every step he took drove a spike between his eyes. Driving hadn’t been much better. Five minutes behind the wheel in minimal traffic had damn near finished him.

At this point, two basic options were available. Door number one would require hauling his ass out of the truck and into HandiMart, offering some kind of miserable apology to Cayden for what had happened with Dillon last week, and hoping she had a more forgiving nature than Darcy. If she didn’t throw him out, he’d be able to eat a handful of aspirin, chase them down with half a Handi-Freez, and hold the rest to his head. Door number two pretty much meant sitting here with his pounding head until his eyeballs bled.

It was a tough choice. He wrestled with it until he realized how much he wanted to apologize to Cayden. Then he hurried inside before he could talk himself out of it.

Any urge he might have had to turn around died when he got an eyeful of her in a super-short black dress. The bottom of her marble white ass cheeks and a peek of black lace panties were visible because she was stacking boxes on a shelf far above her head. While standing on a three-legged stool. Wearing four-inch spike-heeled shoes.

His boots scraped to a halt. She jumped while trying to pull her dress down. The stool wobbled wildly. The lights flickered. He must have moved because he was suddenly aware his hands were squeezing the studded belt at her waist, of setting her on the floor, of her cool soothing green scent.

“I’m going to have to replace that bell right away.”

“What?” He’d meant to ask her if she’d been trying to break her neck. Now he asked himself why, since his head had stopped pounding, she still wasn’t making sense.

“The twerpy, chirpy tinkling was driving me nuts, so I tossed it. I guess I should’ve waited until I had a replacement. I’m thinking a cowbell would be a nice change.” Her curly head tipped up from his chest. “You can, uh, let go of me now.”

A deep, steadying breath through his nose delivered another dose of her rain-soaked earthy scent. Yes, he could. He definitely should. That’s what he instructed his hands to do. They responded slowly, one finger at a time. Once he took a step back, he remembered what he wanted to say to her.

“Hey, Cayden? I’d like to apologize for what happened last week.”

“Mm-hmm. You just want me to sell you a bottle of aspirin.” She stepped back, too, crossing her arms under her chest.

Making a supreme effort not to appreciate the way the position pushed her breasts up into the deep square neckline, he looked into her eyes. He expected flashing fire under her raised blackened brows, but found smoldering gold sparks. A rosy flush warmed her pale cheeks. Her full lips were painted a red so dark it was nearly black. They canted a bit, as though she were biting the inside of her cheek. She didn’t look mad—skeptical maybe, and so damn hot it took him several seconds to remember what she’d just said.

“No. Yes. I mean, I really am sorry. I should have shut him up. I should have decked the asshole.”

“I thought all you jock-types stuck together, like cops and soldiers.”

“Dillon’s a guy on my crew, that’s all. He had too much to drink, so I figured I should drive him home.”

“Really? I got the impression you two were old pals.”

How in the hell did she do that?

He exhaled, focusing on a hole in the linoleum flooring where a tiny patch of wood showed through. “Okay. We were part of the same crowd a long time ago. I thought he was all right. The way he acted, the things he said last week, well, they changed my mind. I really should have popped him. He took me by surprise. I didn’t have a clue he was like that.”

But he had, hadn’t he? Or at least he hadn’t cared back then, as long as he was with the top pack.

“That must have been hard for you, after what that guy at Cornell tried to do. Did you call the cops, report it to the administration?”

“I reported it to the campus police. You can guess how it went, though. He was the star jock. I was—” she swallowed “—what I am. I knew how far the investigation was going to go when the first question they asked me was what I was wearing at the time of the ‘alleged’ incident. I wish I’d tried harder. If I had, maybe he would have been put away sooner. Maybe I could have saved some of the women who weren’t as lucky as I was.”

“Don’t blame yourself for that sicko’s crimes. I guess I never thought about how hard it must be to report something like that. Are you okay now?”

“It was easier for me to let it go once I knew he was locked up. Thanks for asking.” She glanced at the yellowed round clock on the wall advertising Milk of Magnesia. “Now let’s find you a bottle of aspirin for your headaches.”

“Three bottles, please.” Wait, shit, how…? “How do you
do
that?”

“I pay attention.” A blush flamed her fair cheeks. She looked back at the clock. “Maybe you’d like to try a different product. This stuff doesn’t seem to be working on your headaches.”

He would have missed another of her uncannily accurate guesses if the pain in his head hadn’t cleared. “I’ve admitted you were right about the aspirin, but what makes you think I’m taking it for headaches? It could be for something else.”

“The dark shadows and that pinched squint around your eyes. They’re new, since the night of the anchovy pizza.”

Oh, that night. Now that she mentioned it, that was when the headaches had begun.

“Before that, I’d just assumed you were sleep-challenged.”

How much she knew about him was a little unnerving. Were all women that observant? If Darcy had noticed anything different, she hadn’t said a word.

“So, what would you recommend?”

“For the insomnia or the headaches?” Her lips twisted in a half-grin.

“Both.” He couldn’t help grinning back.

“I drink tea specially blended for headaches.”

“Tea, huh? Sure, why not? Which aisle?”

Her low chuckle caressed his ears. “We don’t sell it here. I make my own with peppermint, plus some secret ingredients.”

She could be yanking his chain. “Okay, so what do you do for insomnia?”

“I sleep like the dead, always have.”

Now she was being just plain mean.

“In your case, I’d recommend a good book in place of TV. You were interested in this one.”

He followed the ripple of the silky black dress’s hem across the back of her thighs until it disappeared behind the counter. She ducked down to retrieve a vaguely familiar beat-up black leather backpack. He caught himself wishing she’d bent over to get it and gave himself a mental slap. Since when was he such a perv? And why did he have to keep reminding himself that the only woman further from his type wouldn’t be a woman?

She pulled out an antique leather-bound book,
Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque
. It was the one she’d been posing with, pretending to read
The Fall of the House of Usher
that first crazy night he’d talked to her.

He couldn’t help stroking the book reverently. “This can’t be what it looks like, a first edition of the first volume. There’s no way you could have possibly gotten your hands on it if it was.”

She either missed his inadvertent slight or chose to ignore it. “It is what it appears to be. My gran gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday. Poe has always been one of my favorites. Reading about Roderick Usher’s family problems helps put mine in perspective.”

So she hadn’t been posing. “
Sixteen?
And you carry it around in that backpack? Do either you or your grandmother have any idea what it’s worth?”

“The book’s monetary value isn’t what makes it precious to me. I assure you, it’s quite safe in here.” She patted the backpack. “It possesses certain properties. It was also a gift from Gran.”

As if that explained anything.

“You do realize you’re crazy, right?”

She scowled at the clock. He couldn’t have said why her preoccupation bothered him.

“Are you expecting someone? Am I keeping you from your work?”

“Yes, I am expecting someone. He’s late.”

Nor did he have any label for the little pang in his gut. And no business whatsoever feeling it.

“You’re not keeping me from anything. My relief is late, and I need to be in East Granby before midnight.”

He immediately relaxed. “East Granby?”

“You know, by Bradley International.”

“That’s what, less than twenty miles from here? It’s only eleven. If he gets here in the next fifteen minutes, you should be fine.”

“Only if I could fly.” She held out her arms, making the dress’s angel sleeves flutter.

Did she say things like that on purpose?

“You could just drive.”

“Flying would be considerably less dangerous,” she said with a perfectly straight face.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I take it you either don’t have a car or don’t drive. So how were you planning to get to Connecticut tonight? The last train must be long gone.”

“Yes, that’s why I brought my bike. Even if the guy filling in for me had been punctual, it would have been too late to skate there tonight.”

Skate…roller skates. He recalled a well-rounded ass in a tight leather skirt, strong white thighs, black lace gloves, and a matching umbrella, for God’s sake. But it was night, dark, and certainly not safe, not all the way out there.

“I’ll give you a ride.” The words had bypassed his struggling brain and gushed out of his mouth. He didn’t regret them though, because he felt better as soon as they hit the air.

She considered his offer longer than he thought necessary, given her options.

Finally, she said, “Why would you do that for me?”

The answer came easy, the part he understood anyway. “Because it’s not safe to be bicycling or roller skating through some of the neighborhoods between here and Bradley, especially at night. Besides, I owe you one for bringing that scumsucker Dillon in here.”

And because he was uncomfortably, inexplicably fascinated with her.

“I don’t care about him. It was you I was disappointed in.”

He was digesting her statement when she went on. “Okay, I accept on one condition: You have to borrow this book.”

“You hardly know me. How do you know I won’t wreck it, or keep it, or sell it?”

“So I should feel safe putting myself in your hands, but not an inanimate object?”

Shit
. “Well, not in my hands exactly.” Now why had he said that? What was it about her that made it so damn impossible for him to get a grip?

Her warm laughter caressed him. “I would never have pegged you for such a serious guy. I’ll make you a deal. If you bring it back, I’ll let you borrow Volume Two, or another, if you prefer. I have a decent collection, poetry and fiction. Oh, and tea for your headaches.”

“Lucky you’re a night clerk at a convenience store. You’re not a very good negotiator.”

Her smile wavered. “And up until now I thought I’d taken every point.”

Goddamnit, he’d done it again. He might as well fit his mouth for boots.

The fading wail of a far-off siren turned both of them toward the door. A little bald guy hurried in.

“I’m sorry, Cayden. My wife had to work late, and it took forever to find a sitter, and my cell ran out of juice, and…”

“No problem. I’m glad you made it. I’ve stocked the shelves; you should have an easy night.”

“So, uh, Cayden, this your boyfriend?”

Clint’s own laugh was loud, though Cayden laughed last. It held none of the warmth of a moment ago.

“Nope. Just my ride.” The words were clipped. “Thank you for covering the rest of my shift. I’m sorry it was such a hassle.”

She tossed the book in the backpack. He winced, then did a double take as she pulled out a long black cape. How the hell had it fit in there? And why wasn’t it wrinkled? Not so much as a T-shirt came out of his big suitcase looking that good.

Cayden cinched the flap and said, “Why are you staring? I told you it possesses certain qualities. One aspect is TARDIS-like in nature.”