The Taking (14 page)

Then again, Alcroft had given up, accepted a divorce. Maybe it had been his pride that had led him to resist the end of their marriage, instead of genuine affection or an agenda. Maybe he wouldn’t care what or who Regan did now.

Or maybe that was a horrible rationalization on Felix’s part.

He tapped the cover of Camille’s journal, the initials mocking him. “Are you going to try to research who this belongs to?”

“Yeah, as soon as I have some time. There are some clues. The date. And the fact that her entire family died that year in a yellow fever epidemic. Her grief is so stark, so palpable. It just broke my heart to read about it”

What the hell was he supposed to say to that? “I’m sure.”

“I’ve been wondering if it happened in my house ... if all those people died there.”

“Would that bother you?”

She shook her head slowly. “I guess not. I mean, it was a long time ago. It’s just a house, four walls and all that. But I’m not going to lie, it makes me sad. I don’t want my house to have been a sad house.”

“Houses don’t have emotions.”

“But people do.”

“More than they should.”

“Are you a cynic?”

That was a label he could definitely own. “Oh, undoubtedly.”

But she shook her head, a small smile playing about her mouth. “I don’t think I believe you.”

“Believe it.” He opened the damn journal so that he wouldn’t have to see that optimism, that misplaced belief and trust in him. She had no fucking idea what she was staring at.

“You’re not going to try to do any of these spells, are you?” he asked her.

His spells. Taught to him by his mother, and peddled to bored society ladies who had paid him piles of money to cures their illnesses, to increase their sex drive, and to capture that certain special man.

He had never believed in what he was doing, but had reveled in the reward of their attention and all that cold, hard cash. Now seeing his so-called magick written in Camille’s handwriting just made him feel anger at himself, at the disgusting man he had been, using all those women for material gain.

But those were not new feelings. Guilt, anger, and bitterness were his closest and dearest friends, walking every step of his endless existence right alongside him, arms entwined with his.

“No, of course not.” She played with the black rope necklace she was wearing. “That would never even occur to me.”

“Good. Now I need to head out,” he told Regan, slapping the book shut and standing up. He couldn’t do this anymore, just sit here and talk like they were two normal people in a normal world.

“Okay, sure,” she said, looking a little bewildered. “Umm, thank you, for meeting me and for the information.”

Felix handed her the book. “Why don’t I e-mail you those book titles? You can read about voodoo and I think that will help you read the journal. My guess is she was just a bored socialite dabbling in it for something to pass the time.”

Regan nodded. “That would be great, thanks.” She pulled out a business card and handed it to him. “Here’s my contact information.”

It was a black-and-white card. Felix was not the least surprised. Then a perverse impulse had him saying, “Take down my number. In case you need to call me.”

There was a pause where she stared at him, then she picked up her phone. “Great. Thanks.”

After he gave her his number, Felix moved closer to her to let a man past him in the aisle. His knees brushed her and she pulled away, shifting her legs to the opposite side of the table leg. He couldn’t leave it, her, like this.

“Regan.”

“Yes?” She looked up at him, clutching her phone.

“I will do readings at your party. If you still want me.”

It was meant to be an apology for his rudeness in cutting their conversation short. But he didn’t lie to himself. He wanted to see her again, despite the risk.

Maybe because of it.

For whatever reason, Regan Henry had been pulled into his and Alcroft’s world, and yet she had no idea she had been. It wasn’t fair to her, and Felix wanted to understand why she was involved, to learn what her role in the odd triumvirate of Camille, Alcroft, and himself was. Felix didn’t believe in coincidence and she was here, dragged unwittingly into their world, with no way to defend herself.

He didn’t know if he could, but he felt compelled to protect her.

She gave a small smile. “Yes, I still want you. At the party.”

“Good. And if you feel nervous in the house, you can always call me. I can give you some herbs to calm you even if you don’t want to remove the spirit.”

“Okay, thanks.” Her head tilted.

He had the oddest compulsion to kiss her. If not on the lips, then the forehead.

She would accept it, he knew that instinctively.

But Felix knew it would be greedy to take anything from Regan, and if there was anything he fought against, it was his own greed. The flaw that had brought him to subjugation.

“Have a good day,” he said softly, and fought the urge to sigh. There was something so painfully innocent about her, so inherently good, and he wanted to just sink into her, soak up that hope and joy, and restore all the noxious holes inside of his soul.

But down that road lay disaster and disappointment.

And he’d already had enough of those.

Without another word, he left her alone in the coffee shop.

Regan sat up straight in bed. Blinking, she looked around the room, disoriented. God, another dream so real, so intense, she felt like she had been there. She had seen the crusty, oozing sores on Miss Janise’s face, and smelled the bitter medicinal lotion that had been rubbed over the girl’s skin. She had heard the rap of Camille’s boots on the floor, and felt her sick satisfaction at having reduced her enemy to tears.

How could Regan feel those emotions, ones that didn’t belong to her and that she, frankly, found offensive? And what was rolling around in her subconscious that she could take a simple entry in Camille’s journal for creating a rash and spin it into such a detailed story? There had been no indication why the author had written it down, other than the cryptic remark that it had worked, though she had never mentioned on who it had been used. Regan still didn’t even know why she kept giving her the name Camille. It was an odd name to pluck out of thin air and it made Regan nervous.

Kicking back the covers, Regan stood up. She needed a glass of water and a new T-shirt to sleep in. The one she was wearing was damp with sweat, another disgusting side affect of these new vivid dreams. Regan flipped open her cell phone on her nightstand and sighed. Two A.M. She had to work the next day and she was wide awake and then some.

Padding to the adjoining bathroom, she flicked on the light and squinted, the bulbs blinding. She leaned over the sink to splash some water on her face, the cool liquid hitting her hot skin and flushing away the perspiration. When she stood back up she glanced in the mirror.

And screamed.

Oh, my God. Her face was covered in a rash, open sores oozing fluid, a patchwork of lesions all over her cheeks, forehead, chin, and neck. Regan fell back, knocking the towel rack, her hands flying to her face. She could feel them, the sticky wetness of the rash beneath her fingertips.