other hand, with a witch as powerful as that pissed at her, nowhere was safe. She parked the car and headed inside, Freaky bounding beside her.
She wanted nothing more than to sleep for a thousand years, but the stench of her clothes was too much. She looked down. They were charred and shredded in places, definitely ruined. She stripped in the kitchen and dumped them in the trash, then headed upstairs to the bathroom.
When she flipped on the light and stepped inside, she half expected to see Samantha in the mirror, ready to say “I told you so.”
When she looked, though, all that she saw was her own face, covered in blood and soot and grime. There was more dead grass in her hair. Altogether she had to admit that she looked better than she felt.
She climbed into the shower and twenty minutes later woke up when the water turned cold. She had fallen asleep leaning against the wall. She finished washing her hair, shivering in the icy water but too drained to do anything about it.
When she finally exited she glanced at the mirror again, but it was still just her. She wondered if deep inside Samantha was unconscious, or maybe even dead. Dead would be good.
She barely made it into the bedroom. She fell headlong on the bed and passed out.
• • •
Desdemona woke several hours later cold and hungry. She rolled over and looked at the clock. It was nearly four in the afternoon. She sat up slowly, relieved that most of the stiffness and soreness seemed to be gone now. Some food would probably help. At least she felt awake and alert.
She threw on some jeans and a T-shirt and headed downstairs, Freaky racing ahead of her, the stairs groaning beneath his weight. She made it into the kitchen and was just about to open the refrigerator when Freaky lifted his head and growled. It looked as though she had a visitor.
She frowned. She didn’t feel anything. Was it really someone without powers? Maybe Martin and his demon had another warning for her. She grimaced at the thought, not in the mood to deal with anyone. She looked out the front door and saw a car she didn’t recognize parked out front and someone walking up the porch. There was something familiar about him. He had short, wavy brown hair and intense green eyes.
She opened the door and his eyes lit up when he saw her. “Samantha, I found you!”
8
Something stirred deep inside Desdemona and she realized that even though she only vaguely recognized the man, Samantha knew him well. The way Desdemona could feel her writhing away inside, she had to care for him. Snatches of memory were coming to her now, filling in the gaps. He was from Salem and his mother had been killed by her coven. There was something about him swearing vengeance and then there was kissing.
“Anthony?”
He nodded.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
He reached out and pulled her into a hug. She held herself stiff, not sure how to respond.
“I was so worried about you. You just . . . vanished. I thought something had happened to you, that you were dead.”
“I’m very much alive.”
“Why did you take off like that?”
Desdemona cocked her head to the side. “I discovered that there was a witch behind everything, taunting me, trying to control me. I had to come here to confront her, to kill her.”
“You didn’t have to come alone.”
He cared enough for Samantha to help her, even though she could remember how much he hated witches, how much he had distrusted her at the start. She even thought she remembered him attempting to kill Samantha at one point. Something must have gotten him over that. What would Samantha say? Probably something about wanting him to be safe. It was clear he had no power of his own. He obviously felt deeply for her. Would he if he knew she was part of the coven that had killed his mother? Maybe he already knew; the memories were too fuzzy.
“How did you find me?”
“Ed helped.”
“Ed?”
“Yeah, Ed Hofferman, your old partner
She wanted nothing more than to sleep for a thousand years, but the stench of her clothes was too much. She looked down. They were charred and shredded in places, definitely ruined. She stripped in the kitchen and dumped them in the trash, then headed upstairs to the bathroom.
When she flipped on the light and stepped inside, she half expected to see Samantha in the mirror, ready to say “I told you so.”
When she looked, though, all that she saw was her own face, covered in blood and soot and grime. There was more dead grass in her hair. Altogether she had to admit that she looked better than she felt.
She climbed into the shower and twenty minutes later woke up when the water turned cold. She had fallen asleep leaning against the wall. She finished washing her hair, shivering in the icy water but too drained to do anything about it.
When she finally exited she glanced at the mirror again, but it was still just her. She wondered if deep inside Samantha was unconscious, or maybe even dead. Dead would be good.
She barely made it into the bedroom. She fell headlong on the bed and passed out.
• • •
Desdemona woke several hours later cold and hungry. She rolled over and looked at the clock. It was nearly four in the afternoon. She sat up slowly, relieved that most of the stiffness and soreness seemed to be gone now. Some food would probably help. At least she felt awake and alert.
She threw on some jeans and a T-shirt and headed downstairs, Freaky racing ahead of her, the stairs groaning beneath his weight. She made it into the kitchen and was just about to open the refrigerator when Freaky lifted his head and growled. It looked as though she had a visitor.
She frowned. She didn’t feel anything. Was it really someone without powers? Maybe Martin and his demon had another warning for her. She grimaced at the thought, not in the mood to deal with anyone. She looked out the front door and saw a car she didn’t recognize parked out front and someone walking up the porch. There was something familiar about him. He had short, wavy brown hair and intense green eyes.
She opened the door and his eyes lit up when he saw her. “Samantha, I found you!”
8
Something stirred deep inside Desdemona and she realized that even though she only vaguely recognized the man, Samantha knew him well. The way Desdemona could feel her writhing away inside, she had to care for him. Snatches of memory were coming to her now, filling in the gaps. He was from Salem and his mother had been killed by her coven. There was something about him swearing vengeance and then there was kissing.
“Anthony?”
He nodded.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
He reached out and pulled her into a hug. She held herself stiff, not sure how to respond.
“I was so worried about you. You just . . . vanished. I thought something had happened to you, that you were dead.”
“I’m very much alive.”
“Why did you take off like that?”
Desdemona cocked her head to the side. “I discovered that there was a witch behind everything, taunting me, trying to control me. I had to come here to confront her, to kill her.”
“You didn’t have to come alone.”
He cared enough for Samantha to help her, even though she could remember how much he hated witches, how much he had distrusted her at the start. She even thought she remembered him attempting to kill Samantha at one point. Something must have gotten him over that. What would Samantha say? Probably something about wanting him to be safe. It was clear he had no power of his own. He obviously felt deeply for her. Would he if he knew she was part of the coven that had killed his mother? Maybe he already knew; the memories were too fuzzy.
“How did you find me?”
“Ed helped.”
“Ed?”
“Yeah, Ed Hofferman, your old partner
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