“Watch the crystal,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, easy rhythm. “Focus on it. Breathe in and out.” Power crawled over her skin like a thousand invisible bugs, raising the hair on her arms and on the back of her neck. “Breathe in and out. Focus. There’s nothing but the crystal.”
The room swam in a haze of gray, expanding and shrinking at the same time as the crawling sensation intensified. Her heart pounded, so loud she could barely hear Lewis’s low voice.
Nothing but the crystal.
A great rushing wind swirled around her, like being sucked into a vacuum cleaner, and then it was silence. Cool black silence.
“Anna Lenoir.”
The growl shivered up her spine. Angry,
vengeful
. And disembodied. “Oscar.”
The wind rose again, twisting around her and grabbing at her clothes. Her hair whipped in front of her face as it swept past her and spiraled into a tight funnel. A figure appeared at the center, growing more tangible by the moment, until she could make out Oscar’s face. “Let me out of here.”
“I can’t. But I’m here to help you.”
His lips curled into a snarl. “You’re Alec Jacobson’s attack dog. If you’re here, it’s to help him.”
Maybe that was true in the beginning, but this had become so much more. “He sent me, but I’m here for you. Because what happened to you was wrong.”
“What happened to me was inevitable.” Oscar stalked around her, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. “I should have married Emily Jacobson so the two of us could be politely miserable together. I couldn’t drive her off, you know. Nicole, Veronica, they were easy. They wanted love. They wouldn’t settle for polite misery.”
“No.” How much time did she have? “You were right to want out.”
“No one gets out. Just ask Michelle Peyton.” He lunged without warning, looming over Anna. “Get them to safety. I won’t answer any of your questions until you promise me, Lenoir. You take Carrie and my daughter and you make them disappear.
Alive
.”
His fear and determination ricocheted all around her. “I will. I promise, Oscar.”
He eased back. “It was a spell caster. A witch. She caught me…” He trailed off with a snarl and an abrupt shake of his head. “Words take too long.”
The blankness around them exploded in screams and pleas, the scent of blood and hot metal and fire. Anna shuddered as the smells and sounds seemed to burrow under her skin, taking over until they were
real
, painful and terrifying.
“It’s all right,” a smooth feminine voice whispered in her ear. “Stop fighting. It’ll be over soon.”
And that was when she knew what had happened to Oscar Ochoa.
It took one hour for Patrick’s patience to snap. “That’s enough. It’s time to get her out of there.”
William Lewis didn’t look up from the crystal. “She may not have had adequate time to locate the spirit.”
“It’s been an hour. They’re in a crystal. How much looking does she have to do?”
He rolled his eyes. “The physical size of the container is irrelevant. You’re talking about the spirit realm. The rules, both those of space and time, are somewhat different from our own.”
It could be true for all he knew. But something about the man was setting off instinctive alarms, and it wasn’t his pretension. Patrick had met dozens of spell casters far more paranoid and neurotic than this guy, but the gleam in the eyes—the greedy glances he kept throwing at the sword strapped to Patrick’s back…
Sometimes all he had was his gut, and right now it wasn’t saying anything good. “She’s got it, or she hasn’t. Either way, you’re pulling her out of there. Now.”
“Right away,” he relented. “Once the account has been settled.”
Rage whispered through him, and his fingers twitched automatically toward the hilt of his sword. “The Seer said she arranged this with you.”
He looked up, his gaze clashing with Patrick’s. His eyes flashed with red sparks, the same ones dancing in the crystal. “It’s a difficult job.”
“I’m pretty sure she can pay up.”
“Or you could.”
No, rage was too tame a word for this. It had to be, because his sword was vibrating at his back, but all he felt was chilly, furious purpose. “Just so we’re clear, let’s lay it all out there. You’re holding my partner hostage to blackmail me into some sort of favor.”
Lewis wrinkled his nose. “Don’t make it sound so vulgar. A favor
for a favor
.”
Patrick’s sword was in his hands, and he didn’t remember drawing it—a pretty damn serious problem, considering he’d tied it into his sheath. Pulling the damn thing over his shoulder should have been an actual physical impossibility—which didn’t stop him from gripping the hilt and resting the tip of the blade against Lewis’s throat.
“A favor for a favor,” he said calmly. “You break the spell, and I’ll do you the favor of not decapitating you.”
The man froze. “You could do that, but the lady would die, as well.”
“Would she?” Patrick shifted the sword to one hand, ignoring the man’s squeak of pain as the edge bit into his skin. His cell phone was in his back pocket, and he pulled it free and dialed Kat’s number from memory.
She answered on the second ring. “Patrick? Have you guys—”
“Put Michelle on the phone,” he cut in. “It’s an emergency.”
Fabric rustled, followed by the quick thud of running footsteps. The sounds of the ranch drifted by—a wailing baby, strains of a television, a clatter from the kitchen, then a different tempo in the steps, and he could imagine Kat galloping down the stairs to Michelle’s workroom.
Lewis cleared his throat. “This isn’t—”
He shut up when Patrick pressed the sword closer to his skin. A drop of blood rolled down his throat. Sweat beaded at his temples. He was staring at the phone with undisguised panic, and Patrick didn’t blame him.
Michelle Peyton was not going to be amused.
Just for that, Patrick hit the screen to activate the speaker in time for Michelle’s greeting to roll out into the room. “Patrick? Is everything all right?”
“Not particularly,” he replied easily. “Our friend Lewis here sent Anna into a trance to go spirit-spelunking after Ochoa, and now he says he won’t take her back out unless I bargain with him.”
“Did he?” Michelle’s smooth voice was tinged with ice. “How unfortunate. I’m sorry, Patrick. I thought better of him.”
Lewis started, then winced when the sword bit into his skin. “You don’t understand—”
Patrick wasn’t feeling understanding. “Do I need him to get Anna out? Is it some sort of fancy spirit magic?”
“No,” Michelle said, and the man’s eyes bulged. “No, destroying the crystal will free anyone trapped inside the spell. Trust your instincts. And, Patrick?”
Patrick pressed the sword tip deeper, and the drops of blood turned to a trickle. It would be so easy to slice through the man’s jugular. Too easy. The rational part of his brain recognized it as a disproportionate response, but it was
Anna
, and nothing felt rational.
Lewis whimpered, and Michelle said his name again, more firmly. “Patrick.”
“Yeah?”
“I would appreciate it if you’d leave Lewis to me.”
He almost snapped out a refusal, but the man began to shake—not a tremble, but a full-on
shudder
. “No,” Lewis whispered, terrified.
Terror worked. Patrick smiled and lowered his sword. “You got it, Michelle.”
The bastard was still shaking when he disconnected the call, and Patrick ignored him. He ignored everything except for the crystal and Anna, whose shallow breaths were slow and measured, a reminder of how vitally important it was to get this right.
Not that he knew what to do. Nothing he’d done so far had been conscious. It was all instinct—or emotion. His gut and his heart, and both of them valued Anna’s life over damn near anything else. Maybe
literally
anything else.
I need her safe.
He held that thought the tightest, pushing away everything else as he lifted the sword.
I need her back with me.
Light burst from the blade, and power shivered under his skin, seething up his arms to flow outward. Lewis cringed back, tripping over the chair in his haste to get away, but Patrick paid him no mind.
The crystal. Anna. And the truth, throbbing through him.
I need her.
The crystal screamed as the blade crashed into it. It shattered, exploding into dozens of fragments as his swing carried the sword through a stack of papers, the blotter and the desk itself. Wood splintered, and Lewis let out a high-pitched shriek of his own.
For a handful of agonizing seconds, nothing happened. Anna didn’t move, and Patrick’s heart seized. Then she gasped, her shoulders lifting off the couch as she opened her eyes.
He lunged toward her, jerking to a halt when Oscar Ochoa materialized between them. Just for a moment, and so transparent Patrick could see Anna through his form. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out before an invisible force jerked Oscar to the side so hard he smashed through the wall and vanished.
Anna bolted off the couch. “We have to go.
Now.
”
“No arguments here.” Lewis was cowering in the corner, and it didn’t look like he was going to stop any time soon.
Good.
Patrick shrugged the sheath from his back as he followed Anna from the house. The sword was still glowing, and thinking
stop
at it didn’t help this time. The only thing to do was slide it into the leather and toss it into the back seat of Anna’s car as she sped out of the gravel driveway.
“We had it right in Carlsbad,” she muttered tersely, her hands locked around the steering wheel. “Skinwalkers. We thought of it first, damn it.”
“Thought of it and discarded it, because the skin isn’t going to do anyone a damn bit of good.”
“Right. You can’t peel a shifter like a banana, because all you get is skin.” She paused. “Usually. She found a way, Patrick. I think that’s what all the other missing shifters were—practice.”
“Shit. So she can shift?”
“No, fuck. I’m saying she didn’t just murder Oscar, she stole his body.” Anna growled. “The bitch stole his
face
.”
Chapter Seventeen
When Anna pulled into the gravel lot in front of the small motel adjacent to the roadhouse, the first thing she noticed was Patrick’s motorcycle parked outside the room they’d been assigned. “Looks like Mitch came through with your bike.”
Patrick stared. “That man is a little unsettling.”
“Do what the rest of us do.” She opened her car door. “Be glad he’s on your side.”
“Or on your side, anyway.” Patrick pulled his sword from behind the seat and took off like he couldn’t wait to get his hands on his baby.
Smiling, Anna leaned against one of the wooden beams supporting the porch overhang and watched him. She couldn’t blame him for his relief, especially when he’d been forced to abandon the bike under less than optimal circumstances.
Then a flicker of movement in the shadows at the corner of the building caught her eye, and her stomach clenched as a hard, cold knot of panic settled in her gut.
No. Not now.
“Hey, sprout.” He shuffled out of the darkness, his hands shoved into his pockets. His shirt was clean but stiff, as if he’d washed it with cheap hand soap in a gas station bathroom and hung it to dry, and his face was lined with more wrinkles than she remembered.
She wanted to throw up.
It got worse when Patrick turned in time to watch the old wolf stop a few feet away and spread his arms wide. “No hug for your old man?”
A chill swept over her, and she ignored the invitation. “What are you doing here?”
Her father held his arms out for another miserable lifetime before letting them drop to his sides. “Snaps told me you were rolling through, and I couldn’t miss a chance to see you, baby girl. I’ve been missing you awful hard.”
When would it stop, the thrill of hope? The prospect that this time—
this time
—he really meant it? She’d take anger or sorrow, anything, over the futility of wishing things could be different.
She took an automatic step back and damned herself for the weakness of retreat. Patrick was still watching, and she reluctantly met his gaze. “Patrick McNamara. This is Dodge Lenoir. My father.”
Patrick’s gaze broke from hers with reluctance, and he turned and studied the battered old wolf. Anna knew what he was seeing—all the things she tried not to let sink in because they’d make it too hard to send him away. Dodge’s gaunt face, the glazed, glassy eyes, the way his clothes hung too big on his frame.
Shapeshifters needed more food than humans, even when they weren’t junkies.
Not a hint of emotion flickered across Patrick’s face as he nodded. “Dodge.”
Her father stared at him, as if sluggishly trying to process whether he’d be an ally or an obstacle, and Anna made a soft noise of protest just to break the tense silence. “Have you eaten? I could get Mitch to send something over.”
Dodge smiled as a hint of life flickered in his eyes. “We could eat together. Maybe find some place that makes pancakes. Remember when I used to make you pancakes? I wanted to put chocolate chips in them, but you always wanted apples.”