Page 14

Then he turns away, casually resuming his position at the bar, only now he’s slightly angled toward the newcomer, who settles in beside him and orders a drink.

So Heathcliff isn’t here stalking me. He’s meeting someone. The guy’s wearing a suit and he’s got a leather briefcase. Wonder what kind of meeting it is.

Shit, I’m ignoring Edgar again. I smile encouragingly and nod, then quickly adjust my expression to one of sympathy as I tune in and realize he’s telling me that one of the devotional authors he mentioned is actually the founder of the group he worked with in Zambia.

Something about bringing relief to starving children.

“That’s amazing,” I murmur, scanning the menu. “Oh, look, they have calzones.”

Right after I say it, I realized how callous that sounded. Poor starving kids—look, calzones! Really, Cathy?

“Sorry,” I gasp. “That was so awful of me.”

Edgar’s warm blue eyes meet mine, sympathetic and kind. “It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it like that. You’re a good person, Cathy. You should come with me on a mission trip sometime—as part of the group,” he adds quickly.

“Isn’t it expensive?”

“You have to raise some of the money, sure, but then sponsors pay the rest.”

“Oh, cool. Well…maybe.”

“I’ll text you the link to apply!” He shifts, reaching for his back pocket, then shakes his head. “I almost forgot—no phones at the table. A personal rule of mine. I’ll text it later.”

“Wonderful.” I hold my smile in place and allow myself a tiny glance at Heathcliff’s broad back. I’m weirdly tempted to run over, wrap my arms around his neck, and beg him to carry me out of the restaurant piggyback-style.

What is wrong with me?

When the server arrives with bread and butter, Edgar makes several inquiries about the source of the meat and fish, then orders a Caesar salad.

He’s giving me a look, and I don’t know if it means Don’t support unsustainably sourced food, Cathy or Order whatever you want, Cathy , so I opt for the middle ground and order a pepperoni calzone.

Heathcliff is deep in conversation with the businessman at the bar. He hasn’t looked over his shoulder once. I mean, I didn’t expect him to come over and say hi, but to not even glance at me after that first look…

“I’m going to the bathroom.” I snatch my napkin out of my lap, pitch it onto the table, and slide out of the booth.

The door to the back hallway is beyond the bar, which means I get to walk right past Heathcliff. I cut as close to him as I dare and give my hips a little extra sway as I head for the restrooms.

The rear hallway is isolated, separate from the kitchen entrance.

There are three doors—bathrooms for men, women, and all genders.

On the wall hangs a large board with concert posters and service ads pinned to it.

The men’s bathroom is at the far end of the hall, its sign barely discernible because one of overhead lights is out.

I head into the women’s restroom, but I don’t really have to pee, so I just run my fingers through my curls for a couple seconds and check my chewed lip in the mirror. Then I head back out into the hallway…just as Heathcliff strides down it.

My heart soars up and lands in my throat, choking off my breath. I shift aside to let him pass, but he grabs my shoulders and shoves me into the single-stall, multigender bathroom. He kicks the door shut and turns the lock.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I whisper-yell at him.

Silently he crowds me back against the wall, plants tattooed hands on either side of my head, and stares me down.

My pulse is rocket fast, and the millions of nerves across my skin are all screaming at once, demanding to touch him or be touched by him.

He leans in, his breath hot against my face. “So that’s your type? That soft little preacher boy?”

“Edgar is a gentleman. Something you’ll never be.”

Heathcliff laughs roughly. “No shit.”

“If you’ve got something to say, say it,” I hiss. “Is this some kind of intimidation tactic? You trying to scare me, threaten me?”

The humor leaves his eyes. “You’re still worried I’m gonna tell your secret. I won’t.”

The weight in his tone settles my heart. I’m not sure I should believe him, but I do. “All right.” I nod, expecting him to back off.

He doesn’t move, and my heart rate ratchets up again. He ducks his head, his lips and nose skimming the waves of my hair. When he speaks, it’s low, resonant. “Did you keep that pussy wet for me, Cathy?”

God, yes . “You’re such a creep. Let me go.”

“You wanna walk out, go. I’m not touching you. Not gonna keep you here.”

He might not be touching me, but he’s holding me captive with his presence, with the beauty of those magnificent arms, with the surge of his heavy breath under that plaid shirt and the visible swell of his dick against the zipper of his jeans.

He’s trapping me with his musky, spicy scent and with that sarcastic, seductive mouth.

“I’m not going to fuck you while I’m on a date with Edgar,” I whisper savagely.

“Then when?”

“Never.”

“Huh. I thought you were the kind of woman who does what she wants.”

“I don’t want to fuck you.”

His body surges forward, and I gasp. He’s still not touching me but there’s scarcely a finger’s width between his chest and mine. His hips sway nearer, the bulge between his legs almost brushing my lower belly. “Liar,” he breathes. “You want me so bad, you can hardly think about anything else.”

Swallowing hard, I picture Edgar Linton waiting for me at our table, waiting while I yank down my shorts and bend over for Heathcliff, while he pumps that thick cock into me again… Fuck. If I weren’t on a date right now…

But I am on a date.

I can be catty, selfish, bitter, and judgmental. But I have standards, and also I have willpower, born from years of controlling my banshee side, guiding my own wanderings despite every compulsive instinct.

This is a line I won’t cross.

I tip my face up until my lips almost touch Heathcliff’s, until his eyes go unfocused with desire and anticipation.

Then I duck under his arm, unlock the door, and leave the bathroom.

I regret the choice instantly. I have to sit across from Edgar, thinking about what Heathcliff and I could have done in that bathroom, enduring the slickness between my thighs, watching Heathcliff stalk back into the main room and resume his conversation with the man at the bar.

I should have asked him who the man is. Not that he’d have answered.

Heathcliff doesn’t look at me again the whole rest of the time he’s there—a kindness, I think.

He’s respecting my decision. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting him to look.

That doesn’t stop me from feeling him there across the room, from regretting every second I’m not back in that bathroom with him, dragging my nails across his strong shoulders.

Heathcliff leaves when Edgar and I are halfway through our meal. With his absence, the restaurant is gutted—no longer a place of cozy warmth, vibrant light, and entrancing smells. It’s hollow now—dull carpet, bland food, and the vacant eyes of uninteresting people.

“Enough about me.” Edgar’s smile blooms again, but his eyes don’t have the same purity and sincerity; they’re sharper now. “Let’s talk about you! My dad mentioned you’ve had some health struggles?”

Shit. Now I have to perpetuate the lie, talk about the conditions I supposedly have but know very little about.

“Um, yeah. Walking seizures. They’re also called focal awareness seizures.

And I’m bipolar.” I know I’m being insensitive to people who live with epilepsy and bipolar disorder by attaching the terms to myself just to cover my ass, but I don’t know what else to do, short of blurting out that I’m a banshee who gets uncontrollable fits of grief and has to wander the woods for hours until it stops.

“Is that what happened at church the other day?” Edgar’s aqua gaze bores into mine. “Isn’t it better to stay around other people if you’re going to have a seizure? So they can put something under your head and stuff? Keep you from hurting yourself?”

Yes, Edgar, that would make more sense . “My condition is…unusual. I don’t really like talking about it.”

“Sure, I understand.” His hand slides across the table, covers mine. “But do you talk to anyone about it? Maybe it would help to share the burden with someone. I’ve been told I’m an excellent listener.”

Something in his eyes—a keenness, an awareness—

I pull my hand away. “Did Pastor Linton ask you to talk to me about this?”

The answer flickers in his eyes—he’s not a good enough liar to hide it, and he has the grace to know that.

Pastor Linton got a pretty strong hint about me from Daisy and her group this afternoon, and I’m guessing whatever Dad said didn’t satisfy him.

Edgar and his dad had time to talk about it between then and now.

I’ll bet they decided to turn a simple dinner date into an investigation of my possible supernatural status.

“Dad is concerned about you,” Edgar says.

“So he asked you to pry into my life.”

“It’s not like that, Cathy. I’m here to help. Anything you need, seriously. A listening ear, a ride to your doctor’s office. I could even offer you a counseling session. Maybe I can help you find ways to cope, some verses to memorize…”

Is he for real? Acting in the role of counselor or therapist would be totally out of line after he’s shown a romantic interest in me. And memorizing Bible verses as a palliative for the serious conditions I’ve mentioned? Really?

This was a mistake.

“I have to go.” I grab my purse and scoot out of the booth. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Cathy.” He jumps up too and clutches my arm. “Cathy, can we just talk about this?”

When his fingers tighten, I jerk away, recoiling with a sharp panic that sends my butt crashing into the table behind me. Silverware rattles, and everyone in the vicinity looks up from their meals.

Edgar pulls his hand back, a shocked look on his face.

Hitching my purse strap higher on my shoulder, I walk out of the restaurant into the night. It’s cold, but a few insects still sing among the black trees.

I shouldn’t have panicked like that. Edgar isn’t Dad. He wasn’t going to hurt me. Still, I can’t bear the thought of sitting with him a second longer or letting him drive me home. Not that he’s running after me to offer.

I march across the parking lot toward the street. Why did I wear shorts in October, at night? I guess I could call an Uber or something, but that’s money I can’t spare. I’ll walk home. It’ll take maybe an hour, but I’ll get there.

I should have stayed in the restaurant booth and gently redirected Edgar to a safer topic of conversation. By flying off the handle, I just confirmed any suspicions he and his father might have that I’m hiding something.

Heathcliff was wrong about the folks at Wicklow Chapel, though. Even if they discovered what I am, they wouldn’t kill me. Kick me and Dad out of the church, maybe. Shun us. Nothing more drastic than that.

They aren’t murderers. Of course they’re not. I’ve known them all my life. This is modern-day America. No witch hunts, no burning the devil’s children at the stake, no burying me in the earth like the demon. I’m safe. Everything is fine.

If only I could be sure. If only I could have listened in on Pastor Linton’s conversation with Edgar.

I desperately want to know what they know or what they suspect.

I can’t shake the memory of what Heathcliff told me—that the people of this town kill supernaturals.

That can’t be true, or they would have killed the four visitors at Aunt Nellie’s.

Of course that was a public place, too many witnesses…

I have to stop thinking like this. I’ll drive myself insane.

I’m walking quickly just to stay warm, trudging along the edge of the narrow, lightless road.

My boots scuff the grass, and chilly air whispers around my legs.

The row of trees ends abruptly, revealing a wide, grassy meadow, a dark sea that stretches over low, swelling hills before yielding to forest again.

The primal side of me, the banshee side, loves fields like this almost as much as she loves forests.

The urge to run through that meadow hammers against my bones.

I wouldn’t be roaming in grief this time but in freedom.

In some ancient era, an ancestor of mine walked the broad moors with windblown hair, arms lifted to billowing gray skies, laughing in the face of an oncoming storm. I am myself, but I am her, too.

But the world is caged now. Fences along roads, every acre assigned. Every tree has an owner, and the wild places are shrinking.

Impulsively I run down the slope into the ditch beside the road, then up the bank to the wire fence bordering the meadow.

I’ll climb over it and get into that grass.

I’m going to run through it and feel the cold breeze slamming against my cheeks, diving deep into my lungs.

There’s a tattered moon coming into view overhead, and I want to dance beneath it.

I’m reaching for the wire when light slices the darkness of the road, two beams like pale arrows.

A pickup truck roars past, then slows. Its engine noise fades to a growl, then cuts off as it pulls over.

I hesitate, torn between the impulse to go back to the road like a normal person and resume my walk, or to clamber over the fence and run into the wilderness like a startled deer.

A big, masculine silhouette saunters around the truck. I recognize that walk, the outline of those shoulders.

“Cathy, what the fuck are you doing?” demands Heathcliff.

I vent a hysterical giggle because I asked him that very question not one hour ago. “Are you following me?”

A pause. “Yes.”

The admission releases a bit of tension inside me. I’m not imagining it. He likes me. More than likes me. He might be a tad obsessed, and why is that so hot?

“Get in the truck, Cathy.”

When I don’t answer, he crosses his arms. “Don’t make me come down there. Get your ass in the truck now . I’m taking you home.”

Home. My memory conjures images of Dad’s purple, snarling face, his meaty hand crashing against my cheek, his fingers forcing my mouth open, sliding a butcher knife between my teeth. “I don’t want to go home.”

“Fine. Where do you want to go?”

The words leap out before I can make sense of them. “To Pastor Linton’s house.”

“Why? So you can make up with your milk-sop date and jump on his limp dick?”

“No.” I traverse the ditch and pass Heathcliff, yanking open the passenger door of his truck. “So I can spy on them.”