Lure of the Wicked Part 32

She caught them, held tight. "I'm here," she said tightly. "I'm right here. Did Carson do this?"

"Doesn't-" Gemma coughed, cringing with the pain that Naomi knew must fill every part of her. Burning, eating. Draining. "Doesn't matter," she managed. "Need . . . you."

"I'm here. Where's Phin?"

Gemma's smile was weak. Her eyes glittered, feverishly bright into Naomi's. "White . . . knight. N-Naomi. You must . . . take it."

Around her, Naomi dimly registered gasps. Mutters.

Questions.

Jessie eased around the circle, a thin, fragile point of awareness in Naomi's peripheral. She watched her, watched Gemma, and her expression told Naomi what she'd already known.

The woman was beyond help. Gut shot.

Tears balled in her throat. "Take what?" she asked, her voice cracking. "What can I do?"

"The fountain." Gemma's fingers tightened. Hard enough that Naomi's bones ground together, that pain rippled to her elbows. "You're . . . right."

"Right?" Naomi shook her head as the first tear trickled over her cheek. "I don't want to be right, Gemma, I want you to get up off this floor and-"

Gemma's laugh cut her off. It wasn't the bitter, broken laugh of a woman dying. It wasn't the angry surge Naomi expected of anyone gunned down by a b.a.s.t.a.r.d with a grudge.

It gentled. Brushed over her like a caress.

Sweet. Loving.

"I know you're right," she whispered. "Phin . . . knows you're right." Naomi's heart twisted. "Take the power."

Her eyes widened. "The what?"

Gemma's closed. "Take it. Protect it. Pl-please."

"Naomi."

She looked up from the shiny, twisted mask of effort on Gemma's pallid face. Jessie met her eyes, her gaze vibrant gold and shimmering with regret.

"She's a witch."

Naomi's hands jerked.

Jessie grabbed her shoulder, hard enough to leave nail marks in her skin. The skin that should have been scabbed and furrowed. "Shut up, turn it off, and listen to me. The power she carries heals, but only others." The witch crouched, smoothed her hand over Gemma's forehead. "She is the fountain of life, Naomi."

"She's a witch-"

"You're the only one," Jessie said flatly, "that can keep this from dying out right now. You don't take it, something beautiful and helpful and good dies, and the world loses another part of its soul with it."

Naomi flinched. "This world can eat its own tail and die trying."

"It's her last wish, Miss West."

Gemma cracked open her eyes. "I can-I can do my own pitch, thank you," she said with some shadow of her former asperity. But it weakened with every word, slipped into broken lines as Naomi tightened her grip on Gemma's hands and struggled to hold it all in.

To keep her together.

d.a.m.n it, to keep herself together.

Jessie's smile flashed. Sad. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I thought-"

"I'll do it." Naomi avoided Jessie's gaze. "Gemma, how do I help you?"

"Come down here," she whispered. "You, Cally . . . whoever you are. You'll know when . . . we need the water. The . . . warm one. Waterfall."

"Yes, ma'am," Jessie whispered.

Around them, the loose circle stirred. Beyond the uncertain faces of the uniformed people framing the b.l.o.o.d.y circle of power drawn on the floor, Michael Rook and Jordana lay slumped together; breathing, but unconscious.

The man she'd throat-punched in her fury met her gaze, unapologetic. "They won't see anything," he rasped, fingers ma.s.saging his neck.

Her skin p.r.i.c.kled. Magic all but thrummed in the vast, echoing hall, but her seal was dormant. Why?

How?

A copper-skinned teenager laid his fingers on the man's shoulder. "Sorry, Joel," he said solemnly. "I didn't think she'd fight like a man."

Joel's lips twitched, but it did nothing to ease the shadows from his eyes.

Gemma tugged on Naomi's hands, her grip already weaker. Swallowing back the knot of tears and tension swelling in her throat, forcing herself to ignore every shrieking, Mission-trained warning in her head, Naomi bent over the dying woman.

Phin's mother.

A witch.

So the Church isn't investigating my home?

He'd known. The lying, manipulative, traitorous son of a b.i.t.c.h had known.

And he said he'd loved her.

Gemma cupped the back of her head with one crimson hand. Her eyes flared open, beautiful, chocolate brown, swimming with pain and that focused determination she'd read so often in Phin's own gaze. "I'm sorry," she breathed.

Naomi smiled crookedly. "It wouldn't be the-"

Her words died as Gemma tugged her face down, seizing her mouth in a kiss that stole the breath from her body.

She tasted the copper tang of blood and the salt of bitter sweat. She tasted peppermint, the soft warmth of Gemma's lower lip, and swallowed surprise and a sudden rush of pain that didn't feel like her own.

The world detonated around her.

For an eternity of silence, everything went white.

Chapter Nineteen.

The pop and crackle of the fire woke her.

Naomi drifted away from dreams she couldn't remember, away from the surreal emptiness of something she couldn't name and into snug comfort. Warmth bathed her skin. Soothed her mind, her agitated soul.

She was home.

She inhaled, smelled burning resin and the wonderful fragrance of pine as she drew it in, wrapping it around her like a blanket.

For the first time in years, nothing hurt. Nothing ached. Nothing burned or throbbed or bit sharply. Naomi was whole, peaceful.

She smiled, opening her eyes.

The mahogany mantel gleamed in the golden light, polished to within an inch of its life and so shiny she could almost see her reflection in the beautiful sheen. The fire blazed merrily, cast a friendly warmth throughout the study.

There were no photographs framed on the mantel. No family pictures to tell her where she was, but she didn't need them to know that it was safe. Nothing could reach her here.

Around her, books lined the walls in precisely ordered reams of color. The wood matched the mantel, polished just as beautifully and all but hidden beneath row upon row of colored spines. Encyclopedias, new books printed since the earthquake, some rarer books from before.

Some had letters that gleamed gold in the light, and those were her favorite. So shiny and pretty. Others barely held up in the shadow, old and marked, their spines creased with age.

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, the beautifully woven afghan sliding to her waist. She'd never caught her father reading any of them, but sometimes she'd take one down and leaf through its pages. Sometimes, when he wasn't looking, she'd pretend she read the mysterious books with their jumble of pictures and words she couldn't understand yet.

Naomi stretched. Froze.

Suddenly shaking, she touched her lips. Her face. The soft afghan blanket in her lap.

A core of ice slipped down her spine.

"Are you awake?"

The voice slammed into her skull, a memory plucked from the depths of her mind and transformed into a sledgehammer. Warm, serious, patient, the masculine sound of it seared every nerve she had until she shot off the couch, already knowing what she'd find and dreading it.

Hating it.

Tears welled in her eyes. "Daddy."

Katsu Ishikawa didn't look up from his neat, precise notes. The firelight flickered, gilded his slicked-back hair and thin, angled features in gold. His eyebrows moved as he spoke, a trait she'd loved.

They moved now. Furrowed. "Why are you here?"

Naomi sucked in a small, painful breath. "I don't know."

"Unacceptable." Deftly her father licked one finger. Turned the page over. Without looking up from his letter, he said, "What do you want from me?"

Too much.

No. Exactly enough. Naomi's fingers fisted. "It's too late now."

"Is it?"

"You're dead," she snarled.

"Ah." Still, he kept his eyes on the letter. Signed it, ended with the same neat signature he signed all things. He rose, straightening the tailored suit jacket that always made him look so distinguished. So handsome.

Naomi circled the settee, knew she stared. Her eyes feasted on every detail of his face, his posture. Every angle, every feature. So familiar.

The cheekbones, high and defined. Even his jaw, never overly square but perfect. And his nose, straight and strong like hers.

Half her own reflection.

"Why am I here?" she whispered.

Carefully he set the papers on his desk, just at the corner. He adjusted his cuffs, ensuring they remained precisely in place.

He'd always been so careful with everything. His study, his schedule, his evening brandy.

Her father didn't look at her as he powered down the sleek computer. "That's an excellent question. Why should I know?"

She flinched. "You're my father."

"Am I?"

Naomi sucked in a sharp breath. Anger simmered low in her belly. Bubbled. "You know you are."

"What is a father, Naomi? Is it genetic? Is it sperm count? Is that all a father is? Is it a memory?"

Still he didn't look at her. His dark eyes remained fixed on his own tasks as he moved around the desk. He crossed the carpeted floor and pulled the drapes closed.

She shook her head. "You raised me."

"For how long, pet?"

Five years. In the scheme of things, it seemed so little. She raised her chin, jaw tight. "You marked me."

His hand froze over the drapes. Now, slowly, he turned his head and met her accusing stare.

His own brimmed with regret. "For that," he said, so politely, so gently, "I am sorry. I had hoped five years would be too little time to remember me."

"Sorry?" Naomi threw out her hands, trembling with so much she couldn't define. A terrible, slashing hurt. "How could you say that?"