Rest For The Wicked by Cate Dean

finally popped up—her and Annie, dressed to kill for the annual artist’s festival Christmas dance. Annie swallowed. Claire looked happy, healthy, different. It shocked Annie to see that smiling face, compare it to the drawn, pale one she had greeted every morning for the last few months. Once Eric had access, he opened up her program and started typing. “I’ve got her.”
    They crowded around the laptop, watched a blip on the map—a blip that moved, steadily, heading past the Monopoly-sized building. Straight toward the large body of water that stretched behind it.
    *
    C laire wrenched out of Natasha’s grip and ran, stooping to pick up a rock before she splashed into the water. She gasped at the icy embrace, then took in a deep breath and dove under.
    The car still floated, heading toward the bottom, at least twenty feet down. Kicking hard, Claire made it to the back of the car, grabbed the spoiler, then maneuvered around until she could reach the closest door handle.
    There was an air pocket near the ceiling, and Lisa had her face pressed into it. Good girl. Claire got her attention by pounding on the window. She gestured that she was going to break it. Lisa nodded, moving as far as she could get while still having air.
    Claire pushed through the resistance of the water and smacked the sharp edge of the rock into the window. It cracked, a small, insignificant line tracing out from impact. Claire’s lungs ached, screaming for oxygen. She pushed off the car with her feet, broke the surface of the water, took in a few breaths, then a final deep one and slipped back under.
    This time she held on to the door handle, smashed the rock against the window in the same spot. And again. The third time her hand went through, catching on the jagged glass. She ignored the burst of pain and kept pushing until the window finally gave way.
    Lisa floated near the steering wheel, her dress spread out around her, eyes blank, her face already grey. Claire grabbed her wrist, wrestled her out of the car. Her body begged her to take in a breath. She ignored it, ignored the burning in her lungs, and pulled Lisa up toward the light.
    She broke the surface, sucked in a gasping breath as she lifted Lisa’s head clear. Her cut wrist burning, she hauled the limp body through the water, dragging her once they touched land. As soon as she cleared the water’s edge, Claire lowered Lisa, dropped down beside her and checked for a pulse. Nothing.
    She started CPR, following the instructions she knew as well as the layout of her shop, the rooms of home. Lisa felt icy under her hands, her lips blue, her chest still.
    “Come on—” Claire breathed into her, waited for a response. “Come on, damn it—don’t you give up on me—”
    She worked over Lisa until her arms ached, and kept going. She refused to lose her; she couldn’t lose her, not again—
    “I am afraid your efforts are for nothing.” Claire ignored the taunting voice, kept trying to resuscitate her. “Claire, stop—her soul is already mine.”
    With a gasping breath, Claire sat back. Lisa lay under her hands, pale and still. Dead. Leaning forward, Claire gently pushed the soaked blonde hair off her face, then gathered the cold body into her arms and rocked her, tears sliding down her face. She thought nothing could hurt as much as that first loss, so long ago. She was wrong.
    Natasha knelt beside her. If Claire had the strength left, and the death wish to go with it, she would have smacked the woman.
    “Go to Hell.”
    “I will be happy to—as long as I can take you with me. I want to go home. I am so tired of pretending, tired of playing human. Look at me.” Claire obeyed, knowing that this creature may not be Natasha, but she had Natasha’s memories. And not one of those included anything even remotely sympathetic when it came to Claire. “I am going home. But I mean to return in style, and for that I need souls.”
    Panic swamped Claire—along with am emotion she had