it.
“Let’s get back to your house. I think we need to talk.”
Kara studied Risk’s profile as a passing car’s headlight illuminated the inside of his Jeep.
He wanted to talk. Kelly once told her someone wanting to talk could never be good — but a man? That was downright dangerous.
They pulled up in front of the small house Kara shared with her sister. Flat stones formed the walkway to the porch. Kara slid from the Jeep and stepped from one rock to the other. The thyme she’d planted last summer was still fragrant when she kicked off the light covering of snow and scuffed the herb with her shoe.
It was cold tonight, but not unbearably, not like the night she’d met Risk, seen the dogs. She took her time, stopping to pick up a dry maple leaf, the edges curled toward each other.
Once she opened the front door and stepped inside, heard whatever it was Risk wanted to tell her, she had a feeling her life was going to change forever.
By the time Risk stepped inside the house, Kara had already started a fire in the brick fireplace and was walking into the living room, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and two glasses in the other. Her feet were bare and her hips swayed back and forth as she padded toward him. He paused, tension curling like a fist inside him.
“Whiskey?” She held out a glass.
He shook his head.
With a shrug, she set the glasses down on an old chest that served as a coffee table, and filled one with the amber liquid. “No reason to be stingy, right? Might make what you’re going to tell me easier to swallow.” She held the glass up to the fire, watched the flame flicker through it for a second, then tilted it to her lips. After a long swallow, she set the half-empty glass back down. “Okay, let’s talk.”
She was acting brave, but the room was heavy with her anxiety. Risk stalked toward her, her emotion pulling at him. As he neared the table where the bottle of liquor sat, he stopped. He had to keep a clear head. Concentrate on convincing her to help him in trade for finding her sister.
He reached for the bottle and sloshed whiskey into the second glass. Then waited.
She shot him a curious look, then wandered to the couch and sat down, her legs crossed in front of her, the whiskey glass balanced on one knee.
“So, am I crazy?” she asked.
He sniffed his glass; the sharp scent of pine mixed with almonds assaulted him. He sat the glass down, turned to face her. “Crazy?”
“Yeah. Crazy.” She took another sip of her drink. “You know that first night. The dogs? You only said you saw them, too. Never explained how I got to your house, escaped the giant helleyed canines. That alone is crazy, right? Why am I even here with you — a stranger. You said you’d help and I jumped on it. A week after my sister disappears, I trust a complete stranger. That alone’s crazy, right?” She tossed the remaining liquid down her throat.
“Then that woman tonight? I touched her. I did. And I saw things — saw her life, felt her joy, her peace, and finally her terror. I think…I think I saw her die.”
Her eyes rounded; anxiety wafted off her. She glanced at Risk then down toward his untouched glass. Without a word, he picked it up and handed it to her.
She took the whiskey, an almost imperceptible shake in her fingers.
“Kara…” he began.
She lifted the glass again, looked at him for a second over the half-circle of the rim, then closed her eyes and swallowed.
“Kara. You’re not crazy.”
“Really. Well, that’s a relief, I guess.” She laughed, a rough sound like snow crunching underfoot. “You know I hate dogs. I was almost killed by one when I was a kid. My best friend was killed that night. At first I just blamed that for everything weird I was seeing. Posttraumatic stress or something like that. It would make me see things, don’t you think?”
She hated dogs. Watched her friend be killed by one. Risk pulled back at the revelation. How had she survived being attacked by not one but two hellhounds?
“Risk?” Her voice startled him out of his thoughts. “You going to tell me what’s going on? You know, don’t you?”
Risk glanced around, part of him wishing for an escape. He wasn’t used to talking to anyone longer than it took to let them know he held their life in his hands. But that wasn’t the conversation he wanted to have with Kara — ever. When he found her sister he’d have to face that conversation, too, but first he had to tell her something that would turn her world upside down, then get her to trust him — so he could use her in a task she might not survive.
A shudder rippled through his body. Shaking his head, he flung the beginnings of guilt from his mind. She would have her sister, a chance at life — more than she would have had if he’d just taken her to Lusse; all in all, a more than fair exchange.
He inhaled deeply. He had to do this. Even if he told her everything, she’d still choose to find her sister — no matter the cost. Why worry over details that really didn’t matter?
Clinging to that thought, he shoved the whiskey bottle aside and lowered himself onto the coffee table. Elbows resting on his knees, he faced her. “Your sister. You said she wasn’t normal. And all those things in the basement — the statue, the athame, the rocks…You know what those are for?”
She held her glass in front of her, leaving only her eyes fully visible.
“Your sister, and that woman at the morgue. They have something in common. At least I think they do.”
She lowered the glass slightly, moisture forming in her eyes. “You think Kelly is dead? Charred and dumped somewhere, like that woman?”
“No. No. I mean. I think they were…are witches.”
Kara stared at the man in front of her. A witch. Her sister? That woman in the morgue? She held her glass up to her nose and inhaled the soothing aroma of whiskey. Warm and familiar, just the scent calmed her. It was a constant in a world that suddenly seemed to shift with every step. She took a tiny sip, let it sit on her tongue.
Kelly a witch. Was it possible?
The dagger, statues and other strange objects her sister kept stored in the basement, plus the strange Web sites Kara had found bookmarked on Kelly’s PC — they all added up to something, something strange.
Time to face facts.
Taking in a shuddering breath, she replied, “I told you Kelly was…different. I guess I knew all along she believed in some strange stuff. So, she thought she was a witch — what’s the harm? Could be worse. She could think she was a vampire — or a werewolf. That would have been a nightmare, right?” She laughed. What a pair. A French poodle could send Kara into fits of terror and her sister, the sane one, had been practicing witchcraft in the basement.
Risk blinked, a shadow of unease passing behind his eyes. God. He thought she was crazy, too.
“I mean, so she burned some candles, chanted a little voodoo. That can’t have anything to do with her disappearing — or that other woman…” She let the words drop off, not sure how to even voice what had happened to the body she’d touched.
“Kara.” Risk placed a hand on her knee. “Listen to me. I’m not saying your sister thinks she’s a witch. I’m saying she is a witch. And so are you.”
Kara stared at the square masculine hand clasping her knee. Noticed the tiny blond hairs that dotted the top. She wasn’t sure which was more startling — the zing of awareness that shot through her at his innocent touch, or his words. He thought her sister and she were witches.
“Kara.” He squeezed her knee lightly, gave it a tiny shake, then using his free hand, tipped her chin up until her eyes met his. “You’re not crazy and neither am I. You and your sister are both witches. That other woman in the morgue, she was too. And whoever/whatever killed her most likely has your sister now. We have to find her — fast.”
Kara stared at him, absorbing the intensity in his eyes, the lines of his chiseled face. God. He was right. She’d
