Relentless Flame (Hell to Pay) Page 7

  “You’re ungrateful.” He groaned. “Look, if you can’t help me, then at least do one useful thing.”

  He hit her where it hurt, right in the guilt complex.

  “Sure, Scott.” Tears burned her eyelids.

  “Just stay away from the giant asshole you brought home last night.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me; he’s bad news. I’m laying down the law on this one, sis. You might be older than me, but I’m the man of the house. Don’t hang around with him anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so.” He moaned and held his arm over his forehead. “God, can’t you follow one simple direction? For me?”

  “Um, sure. But you should know he gave me some news yesterday.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like that Ray was dead.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “He saw Ray die.”

  “He’s lying.”

  “What?”

  “To get into your pants. He’s lying.”

  “That makes zero sense. Why should he go to the trouble to come all the way across the country just to lie to me?”

  “He didn’t travel that far. He’s making up the story so you’ll do him. Look, just steer clear of that ass clown.”

  “Um, sure.” Totally a moot point. After the warm welcome Dante had received last night, she doubted he’d want to be in her company anytime soon. But it still didn’t make sense that he’d make up the story about Ray. No one here knew her old name and her past. Except Scott.

  Oh no, had Scott talked? If he blabbed, they were in deep trouble, regardless of whether Ray had died or not. Once the police figured it out, Hannah and Scott were busted.

  “Get outta here before you’re late. And bring back money. Ughhh.”

  He rolled over on the floor. After a few moments of silence, he snored again, his breathing deep and even.

  Her chest hurt. This entire situation was so completely wrong.

  Scott’s behavior was deteriorating and unlikely to improve anytime soon, and she didn’t know how to fix it. Time to reexamine the option of leaving. Would Scott be safe on his own? Who knew?

  And Dante? Such a pleasant evening had ended so badly.

  Could I catch a break here? Just one?

  With aches in her heart and in her joints, she walked to work, dreading the day. But she dreaded the time after work even more. Although she loved her brother, she needed to be free of this depressing existence.

  • • •

  Dante had driven all over Portland and the surrounding area for hours after he left the disturbing meeting with Jerahmeel last night.

  So, what had he learned?

  He still had the possibility of getting out of his contract. Damned stupid hope lit up in his chest. He tamped it down as fast as possible. The Meaningful Kill and an end to his murderous career were in reach.

  If.

  If he continued to perform his duties to the letter and kill criminals for Jerahmeel.

  If he left Hannah alone.

  And what? Let Brandon interfere? Let Jerahmeel get his nasty fingers around her?

  Abandoning her to Jerahmeel’s whim didn’t bode well for her future. Dante could only imagine what they’d do to her. She’d end up chained, in pain, and forced to heal. Or worse, she would die. But those two creatures wouldn’t kill anyone quickly. Kristus, she’d live a life of nothing but torture.

  This morning, Jerahmeel’s command ate at his insides like acid.

  Since when did he care about someone’s future other than his own?

  Jåvlar. I have to walk away from this situation.

  Hannah enslaved to Jerahmeel or destroyed by him. Not a viable solution.

  But why should Dante care? It had to be the concept of Jerahmeel hurting an innocent being. Dante’s caring had nothing to do with this one particular woman.

  No wonder that he wanted to punch the steering wheel even now, after driving around all night. Instead, he tried to calm down as he navigated the steep drive into the Forest Park neighborhood. He barely registered the million-dollar mansions and meticulous landscaping as he drove past.

  He had to figure out a plan.

  Eight a.m. was as good a time as any time to wake up the old man.

  Dante parked his Hummer in front of an immaculate stone Tudor home. Checking himself before he slammed the black metal door, he inhaled the loamy, damp scent of the woods and the Columbia River flowing at the bottom of the bluff. For a moment, every muscle relaxed as the scene transported him home to Vårmland in central Sweden with its fresh-scented spruce trees and the mossy undergrowth softening the forest floor. He could still taste the crystal clear water of any of a hundred springs burbling through the wooded landscape.

  He jammed a hand through his hair, as if the act would push back the rest of that rogue nostalgia.

  Enough. There was work to do.

  He knocked on the massive walnut door. A tall woman he’d never seen before answered.

  “Yes?” No emotion. But there was dissatisfaction on her impassive face. Disappointment with ... him? But she’d only met him.

  Dante plowed ahead, bringing the charismatic sizzle as he rose to his full, impressive height. “Ah, is Barnaby home?”

  “Whom may I say is calling?”

  No-nonsense, with auburn hair pulled back into a severe bun, this woman was clearly not going to let him enter without appropriate clearance. Oddly enough, though, she had an air that she knew exactly who he was.

  “Dante Blackstone.”

  She blinked gold-flecked hazel eyes once, the only evidence of any emotion on her sculpted features.

  His knife heated, not with the desire to take a soul, but pulsed almost ... in greeting.

  “Please come into the foyer, Mr. Blackstone. I’ll make sure Sir Emerson is able to receive visitors this early.”

  Her disapproval dripped off that last word. Eight in the morning might be early for some people, but Barnaby was elderly. Didn’t all old people get up before first light? Dante struggled to think of Barnaby as human now, with typical weaknesses and bodily needs like sleep.

  All of the Indebted shared the same last name, a convention adopted thousands of years ago, even before Jerahmeel came into existence. Apparently Barnaby had gotten himself knighted back in the Elizabethan times when he’d lived. Or his friend had taken the affectation of “sir” simply because he could.

  Barnaby’s house retained the Tudor motif on the inside. Exposed beams of dark wood outlined the white drywall ceiling. Rich, oiled wood paneling ran the length of the foyer and the hallway. When he peeked into a front room, he smiled. Yes, even the front windows had the typical crosshatched iron over the glass.

  Hearing the dull tap of loafers on the walnut floor, Dante looked over as the gatekeeper returned. A handsome woman indeed, solid, probably close to six feet tall. Built like ... he searched for the appropriate modern slang ... a brick shithouse.

  “He’ll meet you in the patio room. Come with me.”

  She didn’t wait for his answer but spun and walked away. Normally, Dante would’ve salivated at such amazing curves packed into those bland, serviceable khakis, but apparently his overactive libido was still on the fritz. He could only work up a mild interest in the woman.

  Peter entered a sunny room where banks of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Columbia River with views of the Cascade Mountains beyond. He crossed the tiled floor and, with a groan of contentment, dropped into the plush lounge chair the statuesque woman indicated. Tea service steamed on the table next to him.

  You’ve done well for yourself, old man. This is the life.

  Moments later, he heard a cough, and then his friend shuffled into the room, the woman hovering next to him. When Dante jumped up, the glare she shot him could’ve frozen lava.

  “Dante, my boy!”

  The strength in that handshake had diminished since last Dante saw his former colleague a little over a year ago. Barnaby p
atted him on the shoulder.

  “Hi, Barnaby. You’re looking ...”

  Dante searched for something polite to say. Miss Starched Pants scowled.

  “Elderly? Decrepit?” Barnaby’s grin creased millions of lines in his face. The man’s chuckle disintegrated into wheezes and coughs as the woman guided him to a chair.

  Dante cleared his throat. “How about, you’re looking ‘wise’?”

  His friend had rubbed elbows with The Virgin Queen Elizabeth, although knowing Barnaby’s proclivities back in the day, the sly fox might have singlehandedly made that queen’s nickname a misnomer. Calling Barnaby wise barely scratched the surface of the man’s vast knowledge and experience. He had already walked this Earth for more than a hundred years before meeting Dante. And they had lived some amazing adventures for the 300 years since making each other’s acquaintance.

  Dante never considered that Barnaby would age and leave this world. He’d never known him as anything but an unhuman Indebted. Until the past few decades.

  “Oh my. Wise. That’s the nice way to say it, my friend. You do know I’m older than dirt. Literally. You can say it. I’m not offended.”

  He waved the woman away, and she exited, silent save for the light footsteps.

  “What’s with the bouncer?”

  The lines around Barnaby’s pale blue eyes crinkled. “Oh, Ruth? She’s taking care of me.”

  “You need help?”

  “I’m getting on in years, my boy. Any family I had died hundreds of years ago. I’ve got no one left. My beautiful Jane and I didn’t have children. But I’ve got money, so I might as well hire good help.”

  “Nurse Ratched? She’s got the personality of a lump of rock.”

  “Ruth is exactly what I need right now.”

  “Is she here all the time?”

  “Of course. My needs are not overwhelming, but as an advantage, she doesn’t require sleep.”

  “What?” He glanced back at the closed door. “She’s like ... us?”

  “Like you, son. I’m retired, remember?”

  “Interesting. Explains why my blade responded when I met her. What’s her story?”

  “She came from the American Civil War. She was a Union nurse. The rest of the story, I’ll not share. It’s her history, not mine.”

  “I thought I knew most everyone in our line of work.”

  “Yours.”

  “Okay, mine.”

  “Ruth’s managed to keep an exceptionally low profile over the years.”

  “I’ll say. But Jerahmeel’s aware of her, ja?”

  “Of course. He transformed her years ago.” He scratched at a few scaly, sun-damaged areas on his bald head. “He seems to have an unusual interest in her, so she tries to remain inconspicuous.”

  “Interest? That’s bizarre.”

  “Yes, we don’t know what to make it of. So she performs her assignments for Jerahmeel in a prompt and efficient manner and returns to help me. She tries to attract no attention. And no drama.” He scowled at Dante.

  “Unlike Peter? And me?”

  “You and Peter have done exactly the opposite. Ruth does her job and doesn’t make a fuss.”

  He glanced toward the closed door. “Is she happy?”

  “I can’t answer that question, but she seems content to help me for now, and I do appreciate her aid.”

  Dante sipped tea from a perfect china teacup and took in the mountain view before him. “Pretty nice digs here, Barnaby.”

  “My dream home with Jane, God rest her lovely soul. She didn’t get to enjoy it for as many years as we would have liked. Shame. But I figure I might as well spend all my money on making this as pleasant of a haven as possible. There’s no one to inherit. Why, do you need money?”

  “No, man. I have tons of it, trust me. Compounded interest is an amazing thing when spread over hundreds of years.”

  He nodded and sipped at the tea. “So, then. What brings you up here so early in the morning? I fancied you more of a night owl.”

  “I always thought you old codgers were up at the crack of dawn. Something about not being able to sleep with the prostate acting up?”

  Barnaby chuckled and added a lump of sugar to his tea. “Oh, my boy, the prostate is the least of the parts not working right now. And yes, I’m normally stirring before this hour, so you didn’t bother me. Ruth’s just very protective.” He paused, watery gaze thoughtful. “But you’re not here for a social call, are you?”

  “No, I need advice. I wasn’t sure who else to ask.”

  “What about Peter?”

  “I don’t want to intrude. Not with everything he went through. He’s got his own mortal life to live now.” Dante missed his friend, but Peter had broken his Indebted contract to be with Allie. Dante tried his best to respect his friend’s choice and give him and his wife space to try to live normal human lives.

  “Then how may I help you?” Barnaby asked.

  “First of all, I think I’ve got a minion to deal with.”

  The elderly man sat up ramrod straight, his quick movements belying his age. “What do you mean think? Another one?”

  Dante told him the whole story: the kill in Philadelphia, Raymond Jackson’s request for Dante to find Hannah, her ability to heal others, the confrontation with her brother and the minion. And now, because of the minion, Jerahmeel had knowledge of what Hannah could do.

  Barnaby took a long time considering the information. Dante squirmed at the delay.

  “Oh my, son. That’s something.”

  Dante gritted his teeth. “What do you mean, ‘something’? Something good? Bad? Life altering? What, Barnaby? What am I supposed to do about this? What’s it all mean?”

  “Well, this Hannah will certainly interest Jerahmeel. Like Allie did. Hmm.” He scratched his sagging jowl. “Maybe there’s a connection between the two women? Who knows? All I do know for certain is that Jerahmeel’s attention is deadly for any special mortal.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would healing abilities be useful to him? He’s immortal.”

  “Not exactly immortal, but he’s close. If what you say about Hannah’s abilities is true, then people like her can put Jerahmeel out of business. He doesn’t like anyone meddling in his schemes. If he wants a human to die, that person needs to die. He wants that particular soul to feast upon and be done with it. Someone cannot come behind and magically heal that person.”

  When Barnaby paused and paled, Dante’s stomach dropped out from under him.

  “What?”

  Barnaby faced him squarely. “I had another terrible thought. What if she’s forced to heal a savory near-kill, over and over again? Quite a useful tool for Jerahmeel’s never-ending appetite.”

  Hannah under the control of Jerahmeel. Forced to heal. How could she survive so much pain, day in and day out? All because of Dante’s actions that had thrust Hannah onto Jerahmeel’s radar.

  No. Not going to happen.

  “So have you met anyone like Hannah before?”

  It was Barnaby’s turn to stare out the windows. “Yes, two people who could heal. The woman was hung as a witch around 1700. I didn’t know her very well, other than to say she wasn’t a witch. But the man I met during World War I, a medic in the British army. Interesting thing about him, he had the ability to reverse the healing.”

  “Reverse? How?”

  “Not certain, but he said instead of pulling the sickness to him, he pushed it back into the person. I suppose if he took on too much of the illness it might kill him, so he’d learned how to avoid that.”

  “So Hannah might not have to suffer?”

  “The potential exists for her to give back any injury she might absorb. I daresay she doesn’t even know about this other aspect to her ability. Unfortunately, I wager Jerahmeel knows by now that it’s possible for the healing to go both ways. He has to have met someone with similar gifts over his vast centuries walking this Earth.”

  “So he’s going to be interested in her,
regardless?”

  “I believe so, my boy.”

  “What if Hannah doesn’t heal anyone again?”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s like with Peter’s wife, Allie, and her abilities. The potential exists that her power can be used against Jerahmeel. Peter managed to convince Jerahmeel that Allie wouldn’t use her power anymore. But there’s always the risk of Jerahmeel’s renewed interest hanging over them.” He coughed into a cloth napkin for a few moments. “And Jerahmeel’s probably more vigilant for aberrations in his employees as well now, with what Peter managed to pull off last year.”

  “Getting out of his contract?”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “How’d he do it?”

  “You know I cannot speak of it. Why, are you considering it yourself?” Barnaby propped his slipper-clad feet up on the ottoman and laced his wrinkled hands together over his still-flat abdomen.

  “Might be nice one day. Maybe. I guess.”

  “You guess? Oh, ho, that’s a new tune you’re singing. For hundreds of years, all you’ve talked about is how you have the world at your feet. Methinks you’ve discovered a reason to be a different man.”

  Dante opened his hands, palms up. “I’m no man, Barnaby. Sure, I can have anything I want—anyone I want. But here recently, it’s like a cosmic joke. Don’t get me wrong. I love the power, the control, the ability to be faster and stronger than any human.” He rubbed his neck. “It doesn’t matter that it’s bad guys who are dying. I can’t abide the creature I’ve become—an enslaved murderer.”

  “I understand completely, my boy. Your observations about your life are interesting, as is the minion’s appearance. Makes me wonder if you’re nearing the end of your contract.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  “No idea, but the pattern holds with Peter and with me. First, you acknowledge your disillusionment. Then, find someone to give you a reason to be human. Then, get tangled up with a minion who will do anything to keep you from succeeding.”

  “But you succeeded.”

  “There’s always the chance that they’ll let you succeed but destroy your reason to live. Remember Allie?”

  How could Dante forget the sight of Allie bleeding in Peter’s arms? She had nearly died, and still bore the scars of the minion’s attack from that day. Dante swallowed and nodded.