Rest For The Wicked by Cate Dean Page B

contagious.
    “Did Eric mention it before or after he treated Marcus?”
    “After.” Her smile faded. “You’re not going back alone, Claire.”
    “I will not involve you in this—”
    “Too bad, and too late. I’m your friend.” She closed both hands over Claire’s shoulders, gave her a little shake. “Your family, damn it, so that makes me involved. What is so bad that you can’t tell me? I know it’s some big ugly—I’ve known for a while that you’ve been doing everything short of lying to me about the big ugly.”
    Claire swallowed. “Annie—”
    “I’m not stupid. I know you’re different, and not the ‘I’m a witch’ different. Why don’t you trust me?”
    “Oh, Annie.” The pain in her friend’s voice squeezed her heart. Claire never planned to create such ties, but Annie simply wormed her way in, and stuck. “You are the only person I trust.”
    “Then why—”
    “Because there’s nothing to tell.” Claire hated the lie, hated telling it. “I learned to practice in secret.” That much was true. “It simply became habit.”
    “Right. Habit.” Annie stood, gathering up the breakfast Claire didn’t eat. “When I come back, you’re going to bed. You look like death—again.”
    Claire let out a shaky breath after Annie disappeared into the kitchen, aware that she was not off the hook yet. She knew that tone; Annie was furious. But she would rather have furious than repulsed. No matter how much Annie pushed or argued, she was never going to know anything about Claire’s past.
    Never.
    *
    W hen Claire opened her eyes, she found Marcus sitting next to her bed.
    She bolted upright, furious that she let herself fall asleep when she should have been preparing—
    The world took a slow, nauseous dip. Marcus caught her when she tilted sideways, eased her back to the bed.
    “You will be doing nothing but resting,” he said. “Not for the next few hours, at any rate.”
    “And you’re what, my watchdog?” She flinched. Her throat felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper.
    “So it would seem.”
    Guilt swept through her at his low, pain-rough voice.
    “Marcus, I owe you an—”
    “No need.” He took her hand, careful of the cuts scoring her fingers, the scrapes on her palm. His still held the warmth of a recent healing. A fading bruise darkened one side of his nose, but she couldn’t see any other damage. “It was a quick and dirty way to protect me and put me out of action at the same time. Do it again,” he smiled at her, cold and feral, “and you will not have the chance to offer an apology.”
    “So noted. What time is it? Where’s Annie?”
    He helped her sit, plumping the pillows before he settled her against the headboard. Just that simple move left her lightheaded and breathless. “It is just after five pm. I asked Eric to call her, propose a distraction. And after promising to offer up my soul if something happens to you, she let me stay while she went to help Eric pack. I want the truth, and I knew you would not give it to me with Annie here.”
    Swallowing, Claire finally said the words out loud.
    “Natasha has been taken over by a demon.”
    His grip on her fingers tightened, painfully. “Are you certain?”
    “Oh, yes. Believe me, I wish I was wrong. Worse, it’s a greater demon, trying to buy its way into a higher rank—”
    “Who does it serve?” Marcus grabbed her shoulders and yanked her forward. She let out a gasp when his fingers dug into still aching muscles. “Claire—who does it call master?”
    “I don’t know—I wish I did, Marcus, but I was too busy trying to stay alive to probe for that information.”
    He let her go. “Forgive me. You have been through an ordeal, and here I am interrogating you like a heartless fool.”
    “An ordeal.” She shook her head, sagged against the pillows. “Aren’t you the master of understatement.” One hand inched across the mattress, touched his wrist. “We need to keep Annie safe. Natasha