Cravings (26 page)

Later, he'd developed a sort of homesickness for this world. At the time,
though, he hadn't cared. He wasn't alive then.

Had his creator planned for him to come to consciousness? Michael himself
didn't know, and I wasn't about to guess. But the place where he'd been stashed
was much smaller than our universe, with magic spilling all over itself.
Anything that held on to a stable form there for long achieved life. Anything
living and sufficiently complex become sentient.

Michael had been built to last. And he certainly wasn't simple.

He shifted beside me, propping himself up to look down on my face. He traced
my lip with a finger. "You are well, Molly? You are all right?"

"I'm well." I kissed his finger. "Unbelievably tired, but well. Um… shouldn't
we be getting out of here?" I glanced around. "No sign of ninjas yet, but—"

"We can leave in a hurry if we need to. Of course, I only know one place to
go." He smiled. "Back to Galveston."

"In that case, I want my clothes. I'm not arriving there naked again."

The two of us creaked to our feet. I was giddy with exhaustion… and
happiness. "What about Cullen?"

"They won't bother him if we are gone. Why should they?" Michael lifted his
hand to clear the wards, but paused. "One more thing before we go. I have been
giving your name some thought."

I leaned against him, smothering a yawn. "I'm not sure I can give your
suggestions the proper attention right now."

"I was hoping you would let me name you, as you did me."

I straightened, looked him in the eye. After a moment I said softly, "All
right."

"Then I would like you to remain Molly. And I will give you a new last name."

I nodded solemnly. "That's traditional. What did you have in mind?"

He kissed the tip of my nose. "You are my gift of grace. I name you Molly
Grace."

I closed my eyes, checking the fit. And smiled, and opened my eyes. "All
right… Michael Grace."

His eyes lit. "You gift me with a last name, too."

"It
is
the twenty-first century." Another yawn overtook me.
"Michael? Can we go home now?" Because that's what Galveston was, I realized. I
might leave it again, maybe many times. But I'd go back. And I wouldn't go
alone.

Michael lifted the wards, banished the guttering flames on the candles, then
swung me up into his arms to carry me out of the circle. I found that very
funny, especially when he stumbled and nearly dropped me.

"Is this not tradition? The carrying over the threshold?" he asked.

"Close enough." I handed him his jeans and stepped into my panties. "I love
you."

"Good." He said that with great satisfaction, then fumbled his way into his
clothes while I pulled mine on. I finished first, and told him I wanted to check
on Cullen. "Just to be sure."

His brows twitched down, but he nodded. "I will wait for you."

It was a leave-taking I needed, I realized as I tossed a blanket over
Cullen's sleeping body. Something new had begun, but other things had ended. I
folded up a jacket and placed it under his head for a pillow, then knelt beside
him and kissed him lightly on the lips. "Good-bye," I said softly.

It wasn't really Cullen I was bidding farewell to, of course.

Michael was waiting by the node, as he'd said he would be. I walked into his
arms. "You are happy?" He whispered it, as if the question was too large to say
out loud. "You do not regret giving up all the beautiful young men like Cullen?"

Oh, he did know me. That was going to take some getting used to, but… "I'm
happy," I told him, and grinned. "Besides, sometimes all a woman my age really
wants is to curl up in bed with a good book."

Michael grinned, too. And took us home.

SOME people glory in the warmth of the afternoon sun. Antonia Delarosa had
learned to seek the shadows of the night.

On this November evening, she sat in the midnight-dark lounge of the old
Victorian where she lived, her narrow hands not quite steady as she shuffled and
cut the tarot cards, then laid them on the table in front of her.

No light illuminated the images. But she didn't need to fix her gaze on them.
As she laid each one on the table and ran her finger over the upper left-hand
corner, a familiar picture came to her.

"The Empress," she murmured, seeing in her mind a woman wearing flowing robes
and a twelve-star crown, seated on lush red pillows.

The next card she turned over was the Knight of Cups—coming to save the day,
no doubt.

As a teenager, she had been drawn to the tarot, and she had worked with the
cards for more than fifteen years, using many different decks.

Tonight, she held her old favorites, the Rider-Waite. The one that most
people thought of when they pictured the cards whose origins went back to
ancient legends and religions.

As always, she felt herself tapping into a combination of memory and
awareness—her own unconscious.

Shuffling through the deck, she turned over one more card. It showed a man
and a woman standing naked under the arms of Raphael, the angel of air, who was
giving them his blessing.

"The Lovers," she breathed. That card had come up for her again and again
over the past few months. Of course, it didn't always refer to a romantic
relationship. Maybe she was going to mend her fences with Mom.

"Right. And hippos will fly," she muttered.

Her hand went back to the Empress, touching the surface lightly, and she
uttered a small sound that was part distress and part wonder.

There was another image intruding into the picture now—something that didn't
belong. To the left of the woman, an animal sat ramrod straight, his mouth
slightly open, his tongue lolling out between white, pointed teeth.

"The wolf." Antonia felt a prickle of sensation travel down the back of her
neck. The animal's fierce eyes stared from the card, challenging anyone who
dared question his right to be there.

She had first become aware of him weeks ago on the Magician card, his outline
hazy among the greenery that festooned the underside of the sorcerer's table.
She had doubted her vision then. And when she had focused her inner eye more
closely, the wolf had vanished.

But he came back the next night—on the five of Pentacles, in front of the two
homeless people. The card represented bad luck or loss, but it had been upside
down, which wasn't quite as bad—because it might indicate a reversal of bad
fortune.

The wolf had refused to relinquish his position under the church window, even
when she had muttered "begone," and lain the card facedown on the table.

He had returned again and again, and she couldn't guess what his presence
meant.

"You're close now, aren't you? Come out and show yourself," she challenged.
"Or are you a coward?"

"I am no coward."

The answer echoed in the darkened room. She had spoken the words with her own
lips. But she sensed the wolf's truth.

A wolf mates for life. And what if his mate is killed? Does he slog through
existence without her? Or does he find a way to end his misery?

Grant Marshall turned the question over in his mind as he drove down the
two-lane highway toward Sea Gate, New Jersey.

He had opened the window partway, and a cold breeze off the ocean blew back
the dark hair from his forehead. He knew he needed a haircut. He'd get one at
the barber shop in town and hopefully get the locals talking about last month's
murder.

He wasn't the kind of man who naturally started conversations with strangers,
but necessity had changed his habits.

Once, he'd built houses. Now he was a vigilante—dedicating every moment of
his existence to finding the man who had killed his life mate.

And when he had sent the devil's spawn back to hell, he would plunge into the
cold sea and swim away from shore—until his strength gave out and he could join
Marcy.

That is, if they let werewolves into heaven.

He dragged in a lungful of the damp air, imagining that he could catch the
scent of evil drifting toward him. Did the killer live in this town? Or was he
only passing through—as he had passed through so many communities in the last
eight years.

Marcy hadn't been the killer's first victim. Or his final one. But Grant was
close on his heels now. He knew the signs. Knew the kind of woman he preyed on.
He knew how to search the Internet and newspapers for the creature's spoor. He
would track down the monster and make sure it never took another life.

He reached the town limits, then cruised down Atlantic Avenue, which was a
block from the ocean. It featured a commercial district overflowing with art
galleries, real estate agencies, and t-shirt shops, most of which were closed
for the season. But the all-year-round establishments like the drugstore,
grocery, and cleaners were still open for business.

At the far end of the main drag and on several side streets, he saw
Victorian-era houses in various states of repair. Some rivaled the decorative
splendor of New Orleans's famous painted ladies. Others were worn by salt, wind,
and rain.

He found the murder house on Maple Street. A blackened wound in the flesh of
the town, much like the remains of the home where his wife had died.

Seeing the charred remnants of the structure made his throat close, and he
gripped the steering wheel to steady himself.

He should drive on past and wait until tonight to poke through the ruins of
Elizabeth Jefferson's life. A wolf could pick up more clues than a man.

Yet he couldn't stop himself from pulling to the curb, then climbing out.

He walked around the foundation of the structure, breathing in the scents of
burned wood and a crowd of people. The place had been a regular sideshow
attraction. He was halfway around the blackened derelict when his sharp ears
told him he had made a tactical error.

A car was gliding slowly to a stop in back of his SUV. Turning, he saw it was
a patrol car.

Shit.

He kept the curse locked in his throat as a cop climbed out of the cruiser,
wearing a blue uniform and an attitude. He appeared to be in his late thirties,
with close-cropped blond hair and piercing gray eyes. The black plastic tag on
his chest said his name was Wright. Probably he thought he always was.

"Mind telling me what you're doing here?" he said, his voice lacking any
touch of warmth.

Grant stood with his hands at his sides, hoping his body language made it
clear that he wasn't going to pull out a concealed weapon.

"I read about the incident here. I thought I'd stop by the house where it
happened."

"Why?"

"Because I'm considering buying property in town," he answered, giving the
cover story he'd been using for the past two years when he came to investigate
one of the murder sites.

"Let me see your driver's license, please," the cop said.

Grant pulled his wallet from his pocket, fished out the plastic card, and
handed it over.

Wright studied the license, comparing Grant's dark eyes and hair to the man
in the photograph. And his six-foot height, hundred and ninety pounds to the
written description. He'd lost some weight since Marcy's death, and he'd never
gained it back. But the license was otherwise accurate.

"You're from Pennsylvania, Mr. Marshall?" the cop said in a flat voice.

"Yes."

"What are you doing down here?"

"Like I said, I'm looking to buy a home in a town on the ocean."

"Why here? Are you some kind of vulture?"

"I'm a prudent investor."

Wright walked to his cruiser. Grant followed, standing back as the cop
checked his name on the onboard computer.

Even though he was sure nothing was going to come up, he could feel his heart
drumming inside his chest.

"You're clean." The officer sounded sorry about that as he handed back the
ID.

"Yeah," Grant agreed, glad that his license didn't have "werewolf" stamped
across the front.

"We don't need outsiders coming in and taking advantage of our… tragic
circumstances."

"Thanks for the advice," Grant said, using the mild voice that worked best
with aggressive small-town cops.

He felt the man's eyes on his back as he got into his SUV and started the
engine. The cop followed him to Atlantic Avenue, then sped away with his lights
flashing, probably racing home for a late lunch.

 

SWINGING back the way he'd come, Grant turned onto Norfolk Street. He
intended to stay in town until his business was finished. Now he knew from the
get-go that he'd have to watch out for the law.

As he turned another corner, a sign caught his eye. It said BED AND
BREAKFAST, CLOSED FOR THE SEASON.

Under it was an additional line that said TAROT CARD READINGS.

He made a snorting noise. He had never gone in for mumbo jumbo like
fortune-telling, and he had no intention of starting now. No intention at all.
But some impulse caused him to stop for the second time since reaching Sea Gate.

Pulling up beside a neatly trimmed hedge, he studied the house and grounds.
The Victorian's clapboard siding was painted dove gray, with darker gray trim.
Neatly tended gardens surrounded the structure, and several bird feeders hung
from the lower branches of large, old trees.

What the hell
, he thought.
Maybe she can tell me if this is the
week I get lucky
.

As he rang the bell, he was picturing a stoop-shouldered crone wearing a
shapeless dress and knit shawl over her plump shoulders.

"Yes?"

The woman who answered the door uttered only that one brisk syllable, then
went very still.

He fought to quickly rearrange his thinking. Instead of a housedress over a
dumpy figure, she was wearing gray wool slacks and an emerald-green sweater that
showed off her slender curves. She looked to be in her late twenties, although a
streak of white at her forehead split her shoulder-length dark brown hair,
drawing attention to her lush, shiny curls. But he was more interested in her
blue eyes. Though she seemed to be focusing on his face, there was something
strange about the way she regarded him.

It took several seconds for him to realize that she was blind.

"I was looking for the tarot card reader," he said.

"You found her."

"But…"

 

ANTONIA fought a sudden sharp stab of panic. He might leave. And she couldn't
let that happen. Hoping her face showed none of the tension coursing through
her, she said, "I've been working with tarot cards for a long time. I don't need
to see them to read their meaning."

An eternity elapsed as he considered the statement. Finally, he answered.
"Okay."

She had to gulp in a breath of air before she could manage to say, "Come in."

Then she waited with her pulse pounding while he stepped into the front hall
and closed the door.

Hoping she didn't look like a nutcase, she led the way to the table in the
corner of the lounge with its comfortable upholstered chairs.

She didn't need to see where she was going. She knew the landscape of this
house as well as she knew her own body. Every piece of furniture was where she
had placed it. Every cup and saucer was put away where she could find it.

She needed that order in her life. And usually her control of the environment
left her feeling calm and confident.

Not now—because she sensed something unsettling and at the same time
compelling radiating from this man.

She had learned to form quick impressions of people. That was more difficult
when you couldn't see their eyes. But she liked the deep timbre of his voice.
Liked the clean, woodsy scent that clung to him. Not from aftershave, but from
some unnamed quality all his own.

Yet it wasn't voice or scent that commanded her to keep him here. It was
fear—that he would leave her and do something that could never be set right.

She didn't really know what that meant. She only knew she had to find out
what was troubling him—for his sake and for hers.

She sat down, then listened for the small sound of chair legs scraping across
the rug. When she heard it and knew he'd joined her at the table, she let out a
small sigh.

The cards were sitting where she'd left them. She picked up the deck and
shuffled.

"I should have introduced myself," she said. "I'm Antonia Delarosa."

"Grant Marshall."

He didn't offer to shake her hand, but she knew he must be watching her,
probably deciding whether to go through with a reading. Should she offer to do
it for free? No. Instead of reassuring him, that would probably drive him away.

She wanted to study his expression, judge what he was thinking. She'd been
sighted for the first twenty-five years of her life, and she wanted to see this
man. If she couldn't do it with her eyes, she wanted to use her hands. But that
would step over a social boundary she couldn't cross, so she kept her fingers on
the cards.

"I guess you're wondering if you've made a major mistake by coming here," she
said, struggling to keep her voice steady.

When he didn't answer, she went on. "I charge fifty dollars for a reading,
and I can refund your money if you're not satisfied. But I think you will be.
I've had psychic abilities since I was a little girl."

He cleared his throat. "Like what?"

She had stories waiting at her fingertips. Setting down the cards, she said,
"I'd know things—things that I couldn't explain by normal means. I remember when
I was seven, waking up crying—worried about my parents. My baby-sitter couldn't
calm me down, and it turned out Mom and Dad had been in an automobile accident.
She broke her shoulder and collarbone, and my dad had a concussion."

Into the silence from across the table, she went on. "That's just an extreme
example. I knew other stuff. Not necessarily anything monumental. Like maybe
whether a friend was going to call me on the phone. When I grew up, I did tarot
card readings in New Orleans, before I lost my sight. People came back to me
again and again. And they recommended me to their friends."

"How did your parents react to your making a living that way?" he asked, and
she sensed that the answer to the question was important.

"The talent has been in my family for years. It was something we all knew
about and accepted."

"So you can see the future?" Again, tension infused the question.

"You want to know your future?"

"I want to know…" He stopped, swallowed, drumming his fingers against the
tabletop.

She never pushed people to reveal more than they were willing to tell her.
She always let a querent—a person who came to her for a reading—give her
information at his own pace.

Breaking one of her own rules, she reached across the space that separated
them and found his hand. It was large and warm and strong, with a hint of callus
between his thumb and index finger. When she stroked her own thumb along his
palm, she couldn't hold back a strangled exclamation.