Mark of the Witch

“This thing—it could have killed you tonight, Indira.”

It was true. I shivered with the knowledge that it was absolutely true.

“Next time I might not get to you in time.”

“What can you possibly do about it?”

“Take you with me to Ithaca. I’ll help you solve this thing. I’ll make it go away, I swear I will, if you will just help me keep the demon where he belongs in return. Please, Indy. Before he can hurt you any more.”

“Why Ithaca?”

“It’s where we need to be. I’ll explain more on the way. All right?”

I hated to admit that I was losing my skepticism. I hated to even think about believing any of this. But it was real. I’d seen it, right there in my own mirror. I’d seen it. I was still shaking, and it pissed me off. But I ignored that and nodded, a quick, jerky motion that was anything but graceful.

“All right,” I said. “You win.”

Tomas had told me to take the day to get ready, and to phone if I needed him. I didn’t. I made arrangements at work—I had five days’ vacation time coming, and if that wasn’t enough, I could tack on a few sick days. I didn’t need to tell them I was actually talking about my mental health. I packed up my things, enough to last a week, got some cash out of the bank and tried to call Rayne. She didn’t answer, so I had to settle for leaving her a snotty voice mail message asking if she’d lost her mind, sharing my most intimate confessions with a demon-fighting priest.

That night, I took an antihistamine along with cold medicine, and for once, I didn’t dream. Slept like a rock, in fact. And damn but I needed it.

Next morning I showered, dressed and met him out front as planned, even while wondering if I’d lost my freaking mind to be buying into any of this.

Of course, the bloodstains on my sheets said I wasn’t crazy at all. What was happening to me was completely insane, but I wasn’t imagining it or dreaming it or hallucinating it—it was real. And who the hell else was going to help me figure it out? Who else would even believe me?

Rayne, maybe. But I’d gone to Rayne. And she had basically handed me off to this priest. As angry as I was at her for that, I trusted her. She wouldn’t set some lunatic on my trail. She must believe he could help.

He pulled up right on time to take me off to Never-land in his sagging chariot.

Father Tomas’s car was an aging, once-white Volvo station wagon that looked as if it had been through a series of natural disasters. Its color had yellowed to a sort of dull cream that was flaking off in places. He stowed my gear in the back, like he was a gentleman and I was a helpless little female. I stood on the curb just staring at the car, sort of in awe that anything that ancient could still run.

He caught my expression and smiled. “It’s a classic. A 1967 Amazon.”

“Looks like you found it in the Amazon.”

His smile didn’t falter. “I’m restoring it myself. It’s a … hobby, I guess.”

“Heaven help me. My savior is not only a priest but a motor head.”

He opened a door that looked as if it weighed a ton and held it for me. “Trust me, she runs like a dream.”

“She looks like a nightmare.” Still, I got in and dutifully buckled up, surprised that the inside looked pretty nice. Definitely a lot better than I’d expected.

In seconds he was behind the wheel, turning the key, smiling at the sound of the engine. “Hear that?”

“Sounds like a car, all right. So it only looks like it’s going to fall apart on the road, then?”

He rolled his eyes. “Mechanics first, comfort second, cosmetics last of all. It’s the unwritten motor head code.”

It was comfortable, I had to give him that. There was enough room in the back to transport a small sofa. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but it was big. Despite the super-soft leather and the ultracozy seat, though, I still felt like shit, no matter how I sat.

“Your back?” he asked.

I sent him an almost irritated look, though I was secretly impressed and a little surprised by how much attention the guy was paying to me. “It doesn’t really hurt. It’s like a phantom pain, every time I remember—” I stopped there, because giving voice to anything more would only conjure it again. The brutal lashes of the whip. Oh, shit, too late. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

“You’re my calling, Indira. I’m not likely to miss a thing now that I’ve found you.”

“Hell, Tomas, if you weren’t wearing that collar, I’d think you were about to propose.”

He looked at me briefly, then pulled away from the curb. I could have sworn a hint of panic appeared on his face, but maybe I’d imagined it. And that was another reason I wasn’t worried about going off with the guy. He was a priest, and he hadn’t done a single thing out of line. I was the one having impure thoughts, not him.

I figured I’d give him a break and change the subject all the same. “So tell me about your demon fighting thing. You do it often?”

He smiled a little. “Never. And it’s just the one demon.”

“Does he have a name?”

“I’ve only heard him called ‘He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken.’”

“Are you shitting me? He doesn’t even have a name?” I looked at him, waiting for the punch line. But he only smiled and shook his head.

“I know. I know how crazy it sounds. And to tell you the truth, I was pretty skeptical myself until I saw those marks on your back.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I gotta say they made an impression on me, too.” I didn’t want to talk about that, though. My world had taken a turn for the macabre, and I was trying to focus on the parts that went down a little easier. Those phantom lashes from that phantom whip had left real wounds, and that flat-out scared me too much to dwell on just yet. I’d get to it. But right now, I thought, let’s stick to the easy stuff. Stuff about him and this so-called demon of his.

“So how many priests are there on your … um … anti-demon squad?”

“Two,” he said. “Me and the man who trained me, Father Dom. You see, one priest from our sect—”

“The Leaders of the Pack.” That’s right, keep it light.

“The Keepers of the Pact,” he corrected. He gave me an odd look, like he was amused but trying to figure me out at the same time. I liked the way his eyes felt when they moved over my face, probably because I got the feeling he liked what he saw.

Priest, Indy. Priest. Priest. Priest.

“One of us is chosen from each generation as the Guardian of the Portal. Dom chose me. Just as he was chosen by his predecessor.”

“And what was his name?” I asked. “Father Dom’s predecessor?”

Tomas frowned. “You know, he never told me.”

“I bet it rhymed. Tom. Dom. Rom, maybe?”

The look he sent me this time was a searching frown, like he was seeing through my plot. Yeah, I was using humor to keep this light, to try to pretend nothing all that serious was happening. But I was also scared half to death. And I was pretty sure it showed. I got the feeling there wasn’t much I could hide from those perceptive brown eyes of his.

“When the current Guardian begins to age, he chooses and trains his replacement. That tradition has continued since the time of ancient Babylon.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I said, holding up a hand to stop him. “Even I know ancient Babylon is BC, as in Before Christ.”