“I won’t fight back, Rhea. It’ll be murder. Cold-blooded murder.”
“It isn’t murder.”
“It really, really is.”
“De Mere, you’d better fight!”
“No.”
Before she could screech at him some more, he heard a car pull into the drive, then skid to a halt with the left front tire no more than six inches from the top of Rhea’s face.
Car doors were flung open, and quite a few Goodmans piled out and swarmed (how many were there, anyway?) around him. He realized he was pinning their eldest into the dirt and the two of them were filthy and sweaty. And their clothes were ripped.
He craned his neck to look up at Rhea’s father, who looked about ready to start breathing fire. “Hi, Goodmans. Uh. This isn’t what it looks like.”
Then somebody came up behind him and turned off all the lights inside his skull.
Chapter 7
Rhea’s lips were still burning from the kiss.
She thought of a line from King of the Hill: “That boy’s not right.” It perfectly explained Chris Mere, the big grabby rhyming kissing dolt.
And the bastard was strong. Well, he was big, so she should have expected it, but she’d had no idea how much physical power was lurking within those ropy muscles. She’d tried her very best to beat the hell out of him, and he’d come away from it with only scratches.
But he’d be sore tomorrow, by God.
Her parents had been utterly at a loss. It was inconceivable that a Mere showed up years early, that a Mere was talking peace. Neither of them knew what to do, and both of them thought it might be a trick or a trap of some kind. The de Meres had a centuries-old rep for treachery.
Interestingly, Violet spoke up for him. And Rhea had been forced to admit to Power and Flower that not only had he not hurt the little girl, he’d taken several blows to avoid hurting her. That made her folks reel all over again.
After some discussion, they decided it would be disrespectful (not to mention leaving them open to embarrassing questions if someone stopped by) to leave an unconscious Mere in their driveway, so they dragged him inside, all the way to the guest room.
Her mother had hesitantly brought a warm, wet washcloth, tiptoed to the bed, then handed the washcloth to Rhea and hurriedly left, clearly not interested in hanging around the unconscious witch.
Rhea considered gagging him with the washcloth, then gave it up and gently wiped the gravel and small trickles of dried blood off the left side of his face. Once she had that clean enough, she moved to the right side—
—and quick as thought, he was awake and grabbing her wrist, yanking it back from his face. That startled her even more than the kiss, the way he went from flat-out cold unconsciousness to being wide awake, if a little disoriented.
“Oh. It’s you. Hey, sunshi—oh, God, my head. My aching, breaking head. How long have I been out?”
“An hour,” she said, handing him the washcloth. He folded it into a small square and rested it on his forehead. “Give or take a few minutes.”
“Who hit me from behind?” he asked groggily. “Fucking Goodmans; do you ever try a frontal assault?”
“Me,” she replied, ignoring the very uncomfortable feeling his comment planted. “I brought my leg up and kicked you in the back of the skull.”
“So that’s why the room is spinning. I thought we were on a merry-go-round with a bed.”
“Not hardly.”
“I am totally astonished—yet grateful—to find myself not dead. I don’t know how you were all able to restrain yourselves.”
“Even we cold-blooded murderers wouldn’t slit the vocal cords on an unconscious witch.”
“Slit the—”
“Sure. That’s how I’ll have to kill you. You won’t be able to rhyme—make magic—and you’ll bleed out in about a minute and a half.”
He touched various cuts and scrapes, wincing as he did so. “If anybody can do it, you can.”
“Oh, stop.”
“No, really.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m not. You could absolutely do it.”
“Well, thanks. I appreciate that. But if you’re feeling better—”
“I am not.”
“—you’d better hit the road. My dad’s pretty upset, and my mom’s not too happy, either.”
“Why am I in a bedroom?”
“Well. We couldn’t just leave you in the driveway like a dead earthworm.”
“How charitable.”
“Damn straight, considering the fact that your father killed my dad’s older brother.”
“I’m pretty sure it was the other way around.”
“Either way, time to go.”
“But I have contusions,” he moaned, as she pulled him into a sitting position. “And possibly a fractured skull. You can’t just turn me out into the cold.”
“It’s eighty degrees outside. And make a rhyme to fix your hurts.”
“What rhymes with pain?”
“What doesn’t? Chain, brain, drain, mane, main, champagne, bloodstain, complain, disdain, explain, ingrain, migraine—”
“That’s it!” he shouted, startling her.
“The man on the bed
With a migraine
Fix his head
And take away his pain.”
Rhea covered her eyes. She probably should have covered her ears. “That’s really horrible. You’re an awful poet.”
“Hey, it got the job done, didn’t it, sunshine?”
“Quit calling me that.”
“Why?”
“We’re fated to kill each other, not give each other nicknames like Sunshine and Stupidhead.”
He sprang out of the bed, fully healed, and examined his filthy, shredded clothes in the mirror. “I am absolutely billing you for the clothes I must now go buy at Neiman’s.”
“You will not. And did you hear what I said?”
“Sure. How come you can always come up with a bunch of words that rhyme?”
She studied the pattern of the quilt, rather than look directly at him. She’d been feeling weird, staring at his broad shoulders. Almost…tingly? “It was my minor in college. I still, you know, write them. Poems.” She wouldn’t say it. No, she wouldn’t. Okay, maybe she would. “You should get yourself a rhyming dictionary.” Good work! You’ve just put a powerful weapon into the hands of your greatest enemy.
“Yeah, well, I don’t have a lot of leisure time to hang out in bookstores and—” He spun around so quickly she nearly jumped out the window. “What? You’re a poet?”
“Apparently, I’m a warrior for the honor of the Goodman clan,” she said dryly.
“Yeah, tell me about it. I got the whole song and dance by the time I was sixteen. How long have you known?”
“Since last Monday,” she admitted.
“Oh, shit! Why did your folks wait so long?”
“Tradition.”
He had turned back and now scowled at his reflection. “I’m really beginning to hate that word.” Then, quick as thought, he spun back. “Wait just one minute. You were going to be a poet, weren’t you? But then you had to do…” He gestured to his (broad) chest. “This.”
“Well…” She looked away.
“And you’ve only known this since last week?” He marched to the door and yanked it open. “Where’s your dad?”
“Uh…target practice, I think.”
“Because I’m off to kick his ass.”
“Better not,” she said, hiding a grin. It wasn’t a laughing matter, not really. “He taught me everything I know, not everything he knows.”
“I can take him,” Chris said confidently.
She snatched up the water glass from the bedside table and flung it toward him, missing his nose (on purpose) by half an inch. The glass exploded against the wall, and he ducked (about two seconds too late).
“What the hell?”
“I could have thrown that at your left eye
. But I didn’t. It’s why we always vanquish you, Mere. You can’t do magic fast enough to save yourself from our reflexes. All you can do is—”
“Yes?”
“Get your licks in.”
“Very nice. I’m out of here. You think I’ve got nothing better to do than hang out with a girl who wants to ice me?”
“Woman,” she corrected.
“Please. I’ve got almost a decade on you.”
“Are you leaving, or do I have to talk to you some more?”
“I am leaving. Right now. I’m sure there’s a demon to vanquish or a damsel in distress to rescue.”
“Demon?”
“What do you think I do,” he snapped, “when I’m not here trying to talk you out of murdering me?”
“Make evil happen?” she guessed.
He rolled his eyes and stomped out the door. She couldn’t help it; she ran to the window and watched as he stormed out, kicking up tufts of dust, then climbed into his car and roared out of the driveway—backward.
“And don’t come back!” she shouted after him, wondering why that sounded unconvincing.
Chapter 8
“Where is he?” Power demanded.
“You let him get away?” Flower asked, aghast.
Rhea rubbed her eyes. She had let him go. What was wrong with her? Other than being attracted to the man she was supposed to kill. A man who had been very, very careful not to hurt her, despite almost constant provocation. A man she almost wanted to…help? Had she gone crazy in the past week? Or had she always been crazy?
Still and all, he sure didn’t seem evil.
“Answer me,” Power said.
“What, you wanted him to spend the night? Have a slumber party with cookies and warm milk? I thought you’d be glad he beat feet out of here, not bummed because you don’t have a jammy buddy.”
“Watch your mouth.”
“The hell. You two are egging me on to kill this guy and get killed myself. Then he shows up and not only doesn’t kill me, doesn’t hurt any one of us. Then he came back. And didn’t hurt us again.”
“He isn’t in his prime quite yet. When he has thirty years, he will be formidable. And you. You’re already distracted.”
“He said he wouldn’t fight me.”
“He’s a liar.”
“He said it’d be cold-blooded murder on my part.”
“And he has no respect for tradition,” her mother added.
“That’s true,” she had to admit.
“Rhea. You can’t be fooled by his tricks and his charm.” Flower paused, then took a deep breath and continued. “I admit he’s attractive. And he seems harmless. But he’s a Mere, descended from de Meres. He. Will. Kill. You.”
“And then one of Violet’s kids will kill his kid.”
“Yes, or one of your other nieces or nephews, assuming he has already fathered a child, or will in the next couple of years.”
For some reason, that caused her a stab of anxiety right in the gut. Chris Mere kissing some bimbo? Touching her, whispering to her, caressing her?
“—be distracted.”
“What?”
“You cannot be distracted. This is a trick. On top of everything else, he’s probably afraid to face you when you’re in your prime. So he showed up early and tried the de Mere charm. But it didn’t work. Right?”
She said nothing.
“Right?”
“Why do we always take people from behind?”
Her father blinked. “What?”
“I was taught to strike from the rear, every chance I could get. Even most of the practice mannequins are facing away from us. How come?”
“Because we need every advantage over a magicks user.”
“Magic,” she corrected.
“Yes.”
“Well. Our family has a rep for cold-blooded murder—”
“Defending the family and the town is not murder!”
“—we always hit from behind—”
“Because we cannot do magic!”
“—and we’ve been killing his family for centuries. Some of them a lot more helpless than Chris Mere.”
“That is our duty!” her father practically screamed, his bald spot turning purple with rage.
“You know what? I think we are the bad guys.”
“Rhea!” her parents howled in unison.
“No, really. We are. He came in peace—twice—and all you two can do is talk about how it’s some cruel trick. Because you’ll never trust a Mere.”
“True enough,” her mother said.
“But I think I can.”
“Oh, Rhea.”
“You guys weren’t here. I was beating the shit out of him, and he took it. Not only did he not use magic on me, he didn’t use his upper body strength, either. Well, not too much.”
“That was not how it appeared when we drove up,” her father said sharply.
“You’re right. That’s not how it looked. Which proves my point: Appearances are deceiving. What if we’ve had the wrong idea for three centuries?”
“That’s—that’s—” Her father shook his head. “I would have to give the matter some thought.”
“Also, I think I know how to break the curse.”
Her mother slumped wearily into one of the kitchen chairs. “This is the curse. To kill and be killed, again and again and again. To bury your mothers and your aunts and your sisters and your nieces.”
“No. There’s a loophole, and you know it.”
Her parents were silent. Finally, her father tentatively said, “If he shares his powers with you?”
“That and one other thing.”
“What?” her mother asked.
“Never mind. I don’t know if I can pull it off. The important thing is to find him.”
“Find him?”
“Yeah. I have to find him before he turns thirty and I have no idea where he is. Too bad for him I memorized his rental car license plate. It’ll be a start.”
“Rhea, you cannot do this.”
“I’m calling your bluff, Mom. Because I’m not going to kill him. If you think killing me will fix that, you’ve gone over to the dark side for sure. And we’re already there, damn it.”
“Rhea, you know I—you know I would never hurt you. I-I was angry and I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t do it, Rhea,” Power said quietly, sounding for the first time in a week like the superb trainer and parent she adored, instead of the shrill, easily angered man he had become after Chris showed up. “It’s a trick. He’ll kill you. Please don’t go after him. Stay here and train. Maybe—maybe you can break the curse if you break him.”
“You guys. I have to do this my way, because the old way doesn’t work. I’m telling you: I can break the curse. Isn’t that worth the risk? Think about it, Dad. No more training, ever. Not having to flinch every time a stranger shows up in town. Saving Violet’s baby! Or Ramen’s, or Kane’s. Not having to bury me.”
Her father couldn’t meet her gaze and turned to stare out the north window. Her mother, however, looked hopeful for the first time in a week. “Oh, Rhea, do you really think so?”
Actually, I have no idea if my plan will work, but don’t give it another thought. “Absolutely,” she lied.
Her father stood with his back to her, still staring out the window. “Then go,” he said, “quickly. While there’s still time to catch him. Do—do you want me to come with you?”
“I’ll come, too,” her mother added, though she wasn’t a Goodman by blood, of course.
“My, my, look at you two. I’m shocked to my very core. Breaking tradition like that? No chance,” she teased.
“Mmm. And Rhea…”
“Yeah?”
“If it goes badly—”
“I know, Dad.”
“Because it may be an elaborate charade on his part.”
“I know, Dad.”
“To trick you into lowering your defenses.”
“Gotcha.”
<
br /> “Why was he the one on top when we drove up?”
“Uh—gotta go, Dad.”
Chapter 9
Call girls—or “soiled doves” as Chris preferred to think of them—had been disappearing in Boston for more than two months. Chris drove yet another rental down to the harbor for a quick look. And a finder spell, of course. Because he had a good idea what was happening. A K’shir demon: The Taker of the Lost. Looks like a man, feeds like a devil, then looks like a man again. Only a magic user could spot it for what it was—a creature so unnatural to this world that it actually made his head hurt.
In fact, it hadn’t hurt so badly since the day Rhea had smacked the shit out of him.
Don’t think about Rhea.
He tried. He really tried. He’d spent the last two days holed up in his hotel room, determinedly not thinking about Rhea. Trying to become absorbed with the Call Girl Killer. And in all the not thinking about Rhea, he’d decided what to do: stay away. Don’t go looking for her on his thirtieth.
And don’t knock anybody up, for the love of God!
He swallowed at the thought. Did he have the courage to end his family line? Could he? Should he?
If it kept Rhea and the next Goodman safe, then yes. Absolutely.
Feeling a bit better about his decision, he’d decided to look into the missing soiled doves. All had been lured down to the harbor. Other than that, they had nothing in common, except for the way they died—in great terror and pain.
The police thought wild animals were on the loose, even though no one had reported a pack of wolves gone missing. And Chris couldn’t blame them—he’d seen the crime scene photos. A quick show-me spell, a quick forget spell, and he had copies of everything. He had seen. Nothing human could do that to the poor girls. Frankly, he hadn’t been able to eat a thing for quite a few hours after looking through the case files.
He had a strong hunch that the cops weren’t going to be able to solve this case. Ever. So he would step in, again. In truth, he couldn’t wait. All the pent-up anger and frustration at his situation—his and Rhea’s, whom he wasn’t thinking about—could be poured into his attack.
Go back, the rat in his brain whispered. Do a spell. Make her come with you to the hotel. Make her take off her clothes and yours and—