Cross-Stitch and Brimstone

Cross-Stitch and Brimstone by Stephanie Beck

Breathless Press Calgary, Alberta www.breathlesspress.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Cross-Stitch and Brimstone Copyright© 2010 Stephanie Beck ISBN: 978-1-926771-88-5 Cover Artist: Victoria Miller Editor: Stephanie Parent All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. Breathless Press www.breathlesspress.com

For my Freak Sorority followers who make every Freak Short so much fun to write.

Chapter One

Marc was going to kill his boss. Wisconsin? Really? And of course, his flight had been a red-eye straight out of Hell. Or at least out of New York City after a fall wedding he’d rather have slit his wrist than attend. Pammy. Marc couldn’t even think about her without berating himself for passing up the opportunity to be with her. She’d been perfect for him, yet he’d held back because he was sure there was time. Wrong. She’d found a grocer, of all things, and fallen in love. Now he was without a partner, and she was off the roster for travel cases. Which could only mean one thing for a demon hunter: she had to be pregnant. He was happy for her; yeah, he just had to keep reminding himself of that. He sighed as he followed his directions and turned down a sleepy street. It wasn’t like he’d been in love with Pammy. If he were, he would have fought for her. His over two hundred years on Earth, though, had shown him there were very few things worth fighting for, and he’d recognized the “like” he’d had for Pammy wasn’t worth shedding the blood of a grocer named Bricker. 1

Cross-Stitch and Brimstone The streetlamps were well placed, and with practiced ease, Marc Sanders pulled his rental car to the dark curb. Even if people were watching, it made no difference. He’d be in and out, done and gone by the time anyone looked twice at the nondescript rental. With one last check to make sure he was at the right home, he pulled his knives from the backseat. He’d ripped off demon heads before, but that was mighty messy, and he was hoping to catch a flight home in the morning. Being covered in foul green goop always made for more questions during travel. He stepped out onto the street paved with asphalt, but covered in pea gravel for repair. He winced, once again reminded of why he longed to live back in the South, where the roads weren’t in constant disrepair or in preparation for winter’s snows. Another winter—just the thought made him shudder, but with Pammy out of the Demon Hunters’ Guild at least for the time being, help was scarce. He would get by as he always did, he told himself as he stalked to the darkened Victorian house—one kill at a time.

***

She had to finish the dishtowel by the full moon or there would be hell to pay. Beth furiously cross-stitched, trying to complete the row of tiny birds she’d promised to finish for her neighbor. The colors were beautiful, but Beth had known they would be. Two hundred years of working with thread and yarn didn’t lend itself to making poor color decisions. Time, however, had just not been on her side. First the garden club had come around with nonsense about her roses winning a prize. She should have known not to grow her beloveds in a northern climate where beautiful blooms through the end of October just weren’t the norm. For the past week she’d had busybodies and rose lovers looking around her yard, and she was too much the Southern hostess not to invite them in for tea and cookies. She paused a moment to stitch a French knot. It had been nice to have company. She couldn’t complain about the quality of it. Wisconsin was an extremely friendly state, and she had enjoyed more than one of the visits. She’d even been asked out by a few of the younger men who’d accompanied their mothers for personal meetings, after she’d met with a group of local gardeners. But the fact remained that if she didn’t finish the birds, she would have more to deal with than just gently letting down some boys who made her feel every one of her two hundred years. If the full moon 2

Stephanie Beck rose with the stitches so close to completion, the birds would come alive. She tried not to think about the worst-case scenario, but it was always on her mind. The meowing cat in the corner was a permanent reminder of the power of her stitchery and of the moon. “I know, Sebastian,” she said, feeling cross and more than a little desperate to finish and get to sleep. “I would have had this done if not for all the people visiting lately, and I won’t have the time to do it tomorrow because of the parade. I refuse to have any more animals around here. No more.” He meowed again, just as sick of her company as she was of his. Her first work after the one that had given her accidental immortality had been a lovely stitching of a black cat. She’d finished it right on the day of the full moon, but had gone on to add a few stitches by the firelight, and he had come to life. Since 1866, the cat had been her constant companion. And she despised the damn thing. “Oh, do shut up,” she hissed at the loathsome creature, and he hissed right back. He’d been worse lately, snide and finicky. While she appreciated his penchant for leaving for hours and days on end, each time he came back he was meaner than ever. “There,” she said, cutting her final thread. “All finished, and not a live one to be seen.” After the cat incident, she’d stayed with geometric patterns and sampler work in her sewing. The craft had made her a wealthy woman over the years, as the art was forgotten but still appreciated. Selling a primer piece she’d done in the late 1890s had given her the money to buy the old Victorian house and furnish it with all of her old loves. Of course, it was in Wisconsin instead of Savannah, but when she’d seen the house on the Internet, it had called to her. In real life, she’d heard it all but scream to be loved by her. And so she had, and after eight months, she still adored it. She watched Sebastian jump from his place on her pianoforte and hiss at the door. Stupid cat. Beth tidied up her threads for her next project, reminding herself to find more of the rose-colored floss she’d used so much of. Not that she minded the use. Her neighbor was a dear woman who paid top dollar for the handiwork, so stitching for her always gave Beth pleasure. The cat hissed again, and Beth sighed. “Fine, I’ll let you out, you stinking beast,” she muttered, going to the side door that released to the wraparound porch she loved. “Go on now, and don’t you— Who’s there?” 3

Cross-Stitch and Brimstone The figure at her front door, only three feet away from her, froze. It was the middle of the night, so she’d long ago turned off the porch light. Terror welled. Her longevity was a given, but she was still as easily broken as any human woman under five feet tall and just as susceptible to villains of the night. “Elisabeth?” The figure turned with her name on his lips. That voice. It sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She flipped on the light switch for the hall behind her, but it didn’t help much, not until he came into the light. “Marcato? But...how...how?” She ran for him, the three steps taking only a heartbeat before she launched into his arms. He felt just the same as when she’d given him one final embrace before he’d gone off to fight with his brothers so long ago. How she’d loved her soldier boy, though before the war he’d been sweet and gentle, a young man on his way to the seminary to be a preacher. She ran her fingers down his face, the same face she remembered in her dreams. Not so often anymore, but there was no way she could have forgotten about him. Not him. He kissed her, nothing like the shy boy who’d asked so sweetly to hold her hand. No, his lips devoured hers like he was a man starving, and she gladly gave, eating him up with her lips and hands, touching everywhere she could in hopes of making the moment real. Of making him real. He lifted her off her feet, and before she could instruct him where to take her, she felt her back connect with the edge of the doorframe. Pain flashed through her lust-filled mind for only a moment before she was laid back against her davenport. She wished a moment for her clinging, long white nightgowns of old, but conceding to modern times and October in Wisconsin, she wore sweats. They didn’t deter Marcato, though. He pulled them off without ceremony, and the coolness from the opened door brushed against her bare legs as he settled his hips between them. Beth curled her legs up, welcoming him as he wasted no time in plunging deep within her. She cried out, and he paused a moment, as though the exclamation had broken the trance that had led him back to her. He looked at her oddly, like he might stop and ask questions that would halt their reunion. She couldn’t let that happen, not when her man was finally home. In an instant, she arched up and looped her arms around his neck, pulling him close until they were chest-tochest, lip-to-lip once more. She thrust her tongue into his mouth, de4

Stephanie Beck manding without words that he ravish her. One of his hands moved from where he braced himself to her hip, taking a tight hold and helping her to move just right. She cried out again as he pumped deeper and harder into her aching center. She’d spent so many nights alone, loving him, wanting him, sometimes finding substitutes for him, and now he was here. Tears welled, but she fought them back. They weren’t what she wanted, not with Marcato bringing her precariously close to climax. He moved faster, thrust harder, and she knew he was just as close. So close. “Come for me, Elisabeth.” His growled command was all she needed, and the lust and desire she’d bottled for years exploded along with him in a tempest of pleasure. She felt herself twitching and wriggling to get closer, trying to absorb every part of him into her. As she gasped for breath, the climax ebbing and flowing, but mostly ebbing, she felt him try to move away. She grabbed him tight and held him to her breasts, his hands moving to hold her as well. “Welcome home, Marcato.”

5

Chapter Two

Elisabeth. His Beth. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Sitting in her kitchen as she fussed around with tea, sherry and cakes, Marc still couldn’t wrap his mind around her being alive. He’d loved her. Growing up down the road from her, their mothers best friends, it was inevitable that they would be friends. But with Beth...she’d captured his soul when he was barely into his teens. Her kitten had died, and her damn bastard brother had taken it away and was mutilating the poor dead beast. Marcato had been about to go fetch the cat for Beth, sweet Beth who had been only ten at the time, when she’d come screaming across the porch and launched into her brother. She’d scratched his face and broken out a tooth before her brother began to fight back. Marc remembered stepping in then and giving the blighter a kick to the chest for even considering raising a hand to his sister. Marcato and Beth been inseparable after the altercation, or at least until the war. He’d left her, a beautiful girl of fifteen, to go fight a war 6

Stephanie Beck he hadn’t wanted any part of. No, he’d wanted to finish school so that in a year they could marry and, with their fathers’ help, buy their own home to live happily ever after. Life hadn’t allowed that. “This is the house, isn’t it?” he asked, looking around the kitchen before he indulged in memories so dark they had no place in the sudden light his life had taken. She smiled, so soft and sweet, just like the last time he’d seen her. “I’m surprised you noticed. But yes, it is. Well, as close as can be in modern times. I’ m rather fond of my gas stove, microwave, refrigerator and blender, so I allowed for those changes.” He laughed; her slight sarcastic wit was also as he’d remembered. She’d been a spitfire for their time, and she still was. “I also enjoy refrigeration. Though with the privies right inside now, even one or the other would be a blessing.” “Oh Marcato, what would your mother say about that kind of humor?” she asked, shaking her head with a light chuckle. She placed a rose-patterned china cup and saucer in front of him before sitting across from him. Her hair wasn’t long as it had once been, but he liked the modern cut and how her blonde hair framed her beautiful face. She’d been gorgeous in the 1800s, a picture of all that was feminine and healthy. By today’s standards she was still pretty, though she looked incredibly young and pleasantly plump. In his mind’s eye he’d seen her just like this a thousand times. “How is this possible?” His voice was a bare whisper, not at all what he’d expected when the thought formed, but as the reality hit him, he felt his throat tighten. He hadn’t cried or attempted tears in over two hundred years...but they were close. “I could ask the same thing,” she replied, and he saw the tears in her eyes, glistening in the overhead light. Candles would have been better. The stray thought showed him how close he was to losing it. “Marcato, may I sit in your lap? I really can’t stand not touching you right now.” He pushed his chair back, and an instant later she was astride his legs. Their earlier sexual activity had his rod jumping for attention, but he didn’t indulge, despite feeling her heat easily through her cotton pants. “Tell me how this is real,” she demanded, and he felt her tears now, wetting his shoulder as she clung. “Um, demons and witches, I suppose you could say,” he replied, coughing hard to clear his throat enough to speak. “About six months 7

Cross-Stitch and Brimstone into the war, I came across a party camped out near a river. A group of demons, whom I mistook for renegades at the time, were harassing them. When I went to help, I learned what the word ‘demon’ meant.” “Oh, you poor thing.” She reached back, and though she was the one visibly upset, she stroked his face and neck just as she had years ago to comfort him. “What happened then?” “Well, they tortured me for a few days and left me for dead. But while they were after me, the travelers got away. They came back for me, and it turned out they were a band of gypsies with old magic. One of the witches called her gift a blessing and a curse. A blessing for the world and for me to finish my business against the demons. And a curse for the same reasons.” “So all these years, you’ve been around fighting demons?” “Yes, though an occasional vampire and rogue werewolf have seen my blades as well.” The admission wasn’t one the boy of long ago would have ever dreamed of making, but it was a fact of life that Marc Sanders was no longer and would never again be little Marcato Saunderson. He waited for the admission to settle into her mind. His sweet Beth, who had been so peaceful and kind until her temper and sense of injustice were riled; he had no idea what her reaction would be. “Thank God you’re alive.” Her lips crushed to his before he could even sigh in relief. His hands moved around her, hefting her generous bottom higher to his crotch. She was so soft, so incredibly sweet to taste and feel beneath his hands. He couldn’t wait to get her in bed and kiss, lick and suck every inch of her body, but she seemed to have other plans. Her hand wiggled between them and deftly unbuttoned his fly. His cock, already hard and at attention, sprang loose at her command. She used his shoulders to lift slightly, and he pulled aside her sweatpants, her flexibility amazing as she settled back, taking him deep within her warm, wet sheath. The extreme urgency wasn’t as strong, but Marc still knew he wasn’t going to last. With her doing all the work and pumping up and down, bringing him first deep, then teasingly all the way to the cusp of disengaging, he didn’t even want to try. “Oh, Marcato...oh, I love you,” she gasped with her strong fingers laced through his hair, tugging as she shoved harder and harder. He was going to blow, and he knew she was close too. He grabbed her hips and pumped her hard and fast until she screamed in his ear, 8

Stephanie Beck leaving it ringing long after his cock was depleted of all he had to give. At least for the moment. “Marcato, Marcato...” “I actually go by ‘Marc’ now,” he told her, as he strove to stay in the chair and keep her steady while having his brains screwed out. “But I loved Marcato—it always seemed more special than ‘Marc,’” she protested weakly. “Then you can call me Marcato, if you wish,” he replied. “Are you still my Beth?” She pushed back in his arms, her eyes full again with the tears that he hated to see but completely understood. “I was always your Beth. When you left, I was your Beth, and when you didn’t come back, I buried you and stayed your Beth for many, many years.” Jealousy for those lovers she must have taken over the centuries threatened to rise, but he tapped it back. The past had to remain in the past, considering the circumstances. “Good,” he replied and rubbed the tip of his nose to hers, sharing a droplet of sweat. “I want to hold you now and hear your story.” “I want you to hold me,” she replied and hugged herself to him again; the softness of her body was something he had never forgotten and would never take for granted. “But my story isn’t nearly as interesting as yours and can wait for the morning. Take me up to our room, Marcato, so we can finish our reunion.”

9

Chapter Three

Marc fingered the quilt on Beth’s double bed. It was handmade, he had no doubt, and in the early morning glow, he could see the colors were just so. Just like Beth. She’d been a sweetheart hellcat who had liked things a certain way. In their time it was an easy indulgence. In this time...well, he was plenty man enough to have a room full of rosebuds with pink walls and lace curtains. “So, how are you still here?” he asked after he felt her stir. He would have rather started the morning any other way, but he needed answers. “I’m not sure,” she confessed through a yawn. “The best my family could figure, it happened while I was sewing. Do you remember that I liked to do my stitching in the kitchen?” “Of course.” He smiled at one of his favorite memories: holding her yarn skeins as she rolled them into balls to work with. “Well, Father took in a new servant not long after you left. She said her plantation had been burned and she needed work, and she agreed to work for lodging and food. She’d sing in the kitchen and I’d 10

Stephanie Beck sew, and after a while, I started to sing as well. On the night of the full moon in August, I was working on the sampler, one I wanted for our home, when something happened. Agnes and I were singing, and I was nearly finished. As I put in the last stitch, things became blurry. So blurry that I still can’t tell you exactly what happened. But the next morning, Mother woke me from where I’d been asleep on the floor. Agnes was dead...a terrifying death...and I never aged again.” Her words left him cold to his soul. It sounded like black magic, but how could that be with Beth so pure and light? Was he so blinded by his love for the girl he remembered that he’d missed the blackness? “Describe the death,” he replied, trying to keep the grimness out of his voice, but she stiffened in his arms and he knew he’d failed. “It was horrible. Mama tried to keep me from seeing her, but I did. Agnes had been a plump lady, well fed, healthy. But not that morning. It was like the life had been sucked from her. Her hair had gone lightning white, and...she held a little sock in her hand, one that she’d been knitting while I stitched. She was always odd, but kind enough. After that, I felt like she haunted me for years.” “She probably did,” he said without thinking. “You know about these things?” she demanded. “I’ve never found anyone who could explain it all. Some people knew bits and pieces, but every group had their own folklore and no answers for me.” “I do know,” he replied and sighed wearily. “I’ve worked for the Demon Hunters’ Guild for years. We’ve come across dark magic and things of the sort. It sounds like this Agnes was trying to steal your soul, probably to have the immortality you have. Your work just had more heart in it than hers.” “I don’t understand.” She pushed up, and he could see the truth in her eyes. She really didn’t know. Relief unlike anything he’d ever experienced washed through him. Beth was an innocent in it all. His company must have gotten faulty information, and he would stake his life on it. In fact, as he was in bed with her still, her head still intact, he was staking his life on her not being evil. “You sang the same song, the same inflection, words, rhythm?” he asked. “Not always,” she replied. “Agnes used to laugh and say I did it nearly right.” “And that night you must have done it just right.” The scene was coming more clearly in his head, and as it did, he saw a side of Beth 11

Cross-Stitch and Brimstone he couldn’t have appreciated as the young man he’d been. She’d been strong, and, what’s more, her love had been so pure that it overpowered whatever Agnes had driving her to steal a soul. “Beth, I don’t think you understand the magnitude of what you did that night.” “I already told you that I don’t,” she exclaimed, frustration building with every word. “And obviously you do, Marcato, so explain.” “Okay, you countered the spell. Agnes was going to steal your soul that night, had probably planned it from the moment she came into your father’s house. It was tied to creation, her creation being the sock. But she didn’t consider your fancywork as anything more than a pretty picture, so she most likely didn’t see it as a factor in the spell. When it all came together that night, you had a completed work made with love on your side as well as a pure heart. Those things reversed the spell.” “Oh...” Above him, her irritation turned to thoughtfulness for a moment before she paled. “Agnes tried to kill me and take my soul. Well, what about God? I was at church every single Sunday, and I believed then as I do now.” “I can’t explain that one fully, Beth, because I’m not God. But the fact that you are alive and not dead says something to me,” he told her, wishing he had the answers, but he didn’t. “I’d say keep on believing as you have. There have always been wizards and witches and powers greater than humans, but I happen to know an earth angel who kicks ass in the name of right and justice.” “Earth Angel? Like the song?” she asked, skeptical. “That song was written for a different earth angel, according to my partner’s friend, but same principle,” he answered and realized he hadn’t thought about Pammy or New York City, or anything but Beth since they’d reunited. “Did I tell you how happy I am to see you?” She smirked. “You told me six times last night.” He flipped her to her back, letting her giggle wash over him, just as it had when he’d caught her in the apple orchards when he was nineteen and they’d tumbled in the long grass. She smiled up at him, and in the morning light he could see he was right in his judgment. There was no darkness in her, only the beauty and love he’d known since their first meeting. “You sure grew up well,” he told her, and she smirked again. “So beautiful.” “Did you know I had offers to be a model in the 1950s, but according to fashion standards today I’m huge?” 12

Stephanie Beck “Morons, all of them,” he said, and kissed the sides of her mouth, feeling it turn up more with each tiny press. “I told you two hundred years ago that you were the prettiest girl in Savannah, and as I’ve traveled the world several times and seen all the great beauties of the last two centuries, I can say you put them all to shame. Two hundred years worth of women and you’re the only one who has haunted my dreams.” She raised her hand and traced his cheek. When she opened her hand he pressed his face to it, savoring her touch once again. “Two hundred years worth of men and only one has meant enough to leave me heartbroken. I wish you had come home, Marcato. I would have loved you just the way you were.” “I see this now,” he admitted. “And I was a fool. Please forgive me.” “Will you stay with me?” she asked. “How do you mean, ‘stay’?” He had obligations he’d sworn to. The world couldn’t afford one less demon hunter. Not now, when things seemed to go from sugar to shit without cause or reason. As much as he wanted the life he and Beth had planned, he wasn’t that boy any longer. “Hunting demons is your cause,” she said slowly. “I understand that. It scares me, but with your immortality and experience, you’re the best for the job. I wouldn’t ask you to change that. But will you come home to me when you can?” “That’s all?” “It’s more than I’ve had in over two hundred years, Marcato,” she said with a sad laugh. “Just being able to talk to you, or write or text... Do you know how many letters I wrote in the months after I found out you were dead, just in case the report was wrong?” “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be. You did what you thought was best. I can respect that, but what I can’t condone is letting us go again. Please don’t do that, Marcato.” He thought of the little apartment he kept in New York City. It was functional and a place to land between missions. Then he looked around the room, surrounded by flowers; even the scent of roses lightly permeated the air. The woman he loved was beneath him, already loving him again, holding him, feeding him, worrying over him. “I’ve always liked Wisconsin.”

13

Chapter Four

The demon matter still bugged him. Marc walked the streets of Hartville with Beth, enjoying the fall fair before Halloween. It was a crisp day, cool, and fresh with the scent of fried cheese in the air. They passed another stand with fried cheese, and, preoccupied or not, he couldn’t stand it any longer. “I was wondering how long you’d hold out,” Beth said and giggled when he pulled out his wallet. “The cheese curds are so good. Of course, they are the bastardized, fried kind, but even the old timers make an exception to the rules during festivals and special occasions.” He accepted the basket of golden-fried cheese, and his mouth watered hard. He didn’t have to eat much, but he did to keep up his muscles. Steam showed the cheese curds’ heat, especially in the cool air, but he tried to nab one anyway and got burned for his impatience. “Here, let’s sit down,” Beth said and led him to a picnic table near the craft and local business booths. “Oh no, they spelled my name wrong.” 14

Stephanie Beck Marc looked up from frowning at his finger, and sure enough, he saw Elisabeth, but with a “z.” “What’s that for?” he asked and blew on the cheese curds. The big inhale stopped him mid-breath. Demon. “Oh, just for my roses. Along with the, um...magic that did this to me, sometimes when I cross-stitch, the picture comes to life and stays alive. I have a damn cat I made by accident, and my garden. I didn’t anticipate the dying season enough, and now my roses are the talk of the town. I won a gardening award, as you can see.” He looked left and right, scanning the area the best he could, considering the number of people and scents. It took a second pass, but he finally narrowed in on two beings covered in the black soot of evil.

***

“Beth, I need you to get inside the building.” Marcato’s quiet words froze her fingers’ descent into the cheese curd basket. “What?” she asked, sure she hadn’t heard him right. “Get inside, now.” She followed his line of sight and saw Sebastian and a strange man. “Oh, that damn cat. Should I go get him, do you think?” “Beth, get inside right now.” Marcato exploded from her side and sprinted toward the cat and the man beside him. He was crazy, she thought, jumping away from the table and heading toward the building. The man she adored was crazy, but she couldn’t hope to stop him head-on. The people around them seemed to freeze in suspension. All but the man, the cat and she herself were stuck in place. Beth stopped running and looked more closely at the man, and her blood ran cold. He was not a man, and while Sebastian was her cat, something about him was different. “Why isn’t she dead?” the man screamed. Even from the distance, Beth could see his eyes were bright red, nearly as red as the flabby skin of his face. “She’s black magic. Kill her, Marc!” Marc? Her Marc? That awful beast knew him? “She may be a product of black magic, but she is not black magic,” Marcato said, so calm that his tone made her shiver in fear. “You, on the other hand, Jefferson, are a demon.” “I haven’t done a damn thing in years,” he scoffed, the demon’s voice becoming thicker and more ragged with every word. “Until that bitch came to town and stole my prize. I grow the best roses. I do!” 15

Cross-Stitch and Brimstone It was all about roses. Beth cringed into the side of the building, trying to be smaller. Lord in Heaven, she was going to die because she’d forgotten to cover her plants. “Jefferson, I know you’ve stuck to your probation, but calling in a hit on an innocent?” Marc asked, still so calm that his demeanor in turns terrified and comforted Beth. “That’s a flagrant violation. And calling in a familiar was also against the rules.” “Well, you might as well kill me, then,” the demon said sourly, as he grew inches taller and noticeably more bulky. Beth could see how the killing might not be an easy task for her much smaller, though undoubtedly capable Marcato. The clothes ripped off Jefferson’s body, and he growled, “Because that bitch will not beat me next year. I refuse. I’ll kill her and take her magic before I allow such to happen!” Where he’d hidden the twin knives, Beth would never know, but when Marcato pulled them out and engaged the demon, she was grateful he had them. As they hit and dodged and smacked one another, it soon became apparent to Beth that Marcato was by far the better fighter. But that didn’t make the demon any less strong. She cried out when she watched the love of her life fly across the street. She started toward him automatically when she saw the demon shift his focus toward her. He was coming right for her, and there was nothing she could do. Beth looked left and right, then grabbed a long, heavy pipe from a plumber’s booth beside her. She hefted the pipe to her shoulder; though she shook with fear and she longed to get to Marcato and make sure he was safe, she was determined do her best against the demon. It was the most she could do to give her love some time.

***

Hell. Marc jumped up, shaking away the stun Jefferson had administered. The bastard was slow, but definitely strong. Marc looked for the demon again and thanked God for the slow part as he lumbered his way toward Beth, who stood outside instead of safely out of sight. She held a length of pipe in her hands, but they were going to have a long, long talk later about what it meant when he told her to do something. Marc ran across the short distance separating him from the demon, and with his short swords out, he engaged Jefferson long before he reached Beth. “Would you just give up and let me cut off your head?” Marc demanded, dodging another blow of Jefferson’s meaty fist and parrying 16

Stephanie Beck with a hard strike to his gut. Green goo poured out of the wounds, but it didn’t slow the monster. “My roses are Lady Diana’s,” Jefferson growled. “Grown from seed for a decade. They’ve won national prizes, magazine spreads, and recognition by the World Rose Federation. But that...that black magic whore wins because hers bloom in October.” He was nuts; that was all Marc could think of to excuse the behavior. Too long in the mortal realm did that to demons, and Jefferson had officially cracked. That meant he had to go. Marc took a split second to look right, and the dumb beast fell for it, lunging hard to the left to avoid the strike. With him off balance, Marc jumped and struck hard and fast with both blades, feeling the moment of resistance when the twin pieces of metal struck the wiry cord that held the demon’s body together. But even that was severed with one last jerk. Green goop spurted from the carcass, contaminating the street below the demon. Marc let his swords rest at his side, taking a moment to breathe before he had to think of containment. “Sebastian, no!” Claws sank deep into his shoulders, and Marc tried to arch and fight, but the beast, Sebastian, whatever the hell it was, held tight. He remembered the cat then—Jefferson’s familiar. The beast knew it fought a losing battle, but with its master dead, the animal would fight to the death. “Beth, stay back,” Marc commanded. “Damn it, woman, listen to me.” “You can’t kill it,” he heard her yell as he finally caught the scruff of its neck and pulled it from his flesh. “And why can’t I?” he asked, holding it away from his body though the cat continued to fight madly. “Because it’s one of my creations,” she explained, guilt on her face as she looked from him to the cat to the demon. “I never meant for this to happen. If I’d just covered the roses...” “Jefferson was a ticking time bomb,” Marc said, breaking into her confession. “If it hadn’t been the roses, it would have been something else to set him off. So, even taking off the cat’s head won’t kill it?” She shook her head. “No, it’ll fuse like fabric,” she explained, and deeper sorrow etched itself on her face. “But I can finish him.” “What do you mean?” “I mean...I can do it,” she said softly. “But what do we do here? With the, um, body and goo?” 17

Cross-Stitch and Brimstone “Well, I guess it’s too much to ask for a rainstorm.” Just as he said it, the bottom dropped out of the sky. “Oh, do they disintegrate?” she asked, keeping a fair distance from the scene. “Unfortunately, no,” he replied, looking between the possessed cat and the carcass. The rain washed away the goo, but it wouldn’t make a dent in the carcass. “Can you find a carrier for this thing? I need to dispose of the body before anyone remembers.” “Okay.” She ran quickly into an office that was marked as a vet clinic and returned with a pet carrier. The demon cat’s claws dug through his jacket and into his skin, and Marc winced as he pulled the beast away. The creature still tried to attack as Marc shoved him inside the case and locked it in tight. “Don’t let it out,” he warned. “I won’t,” she promised, holding it well to her side so the cat’s claws couldn’t scratch her. Marc hefted the demon’s body, still in its grotesque form, and grabbed the head as well. The good thing about demons was their decomposition rate. He could throw the body and head in a dumpster, and it would be gone before the night was out. Even if the police were to find it, human preservation methods didn’t work on demons, and all evidence would disintegrate. But it was easier to have it all done before humans saw and asked questions. Beth fell into step beside him, her face pale, eyes wide, but still beside him. Once again she was showing her colors. His Beth had never been one to run. Two hundred years later, she was still his girl.

18

Chapter Five

“Marcato?” “Marc,” he said automatically. Trick-or-treaters had been coming around all night for their treats, and he wished she would turn off the light so he could have his treats for the night. His boss hadn’t been thrilled about the Jefferson situation, and Marc had had to do some quick explaining about Beth. It had all turned out well enough, but still, he had a job in Cleveland in three days, and he wanted to make the most of their time together. “Why Marc?” she demanded, and he laughed when she unceremoniously plopped on his lap. “Your mother named you Marcato because she loved it so much. You always went by Marcato. Don’t you remember how you used to pick music for me on the pianoforte?” He let his hands roam up and down her back, settling on the sweet swell of her hips. “Of course I remember,” he replied. “Your father begged to have you play anything else but those dark loud hits. He said it was like a thunderstorm in the parlor after I chose your music.” 19

Cross-Stitch and Brimstone “And I always thought of you.” She petted her hand through his hair, and he reached his neck to feel it more. He loved how she touched him. It felt right. “Always.” “You may always call me Marcato,” he said, giving up the battle. To tell the truth, after so many years, it was nice to hear his given name said with love and affection. “Good.” Her smile made him smile, and only the howling of Sebastian broke their sweet moment. “What do we have to do with him?” Marc asked. He’d felt ill at ease leaving the beast’s head still attached the whole day, but Beth had insisted. “I’d already been working on it because he’d changed,” Beth said, sorrow filling her eyes again as it had whenever he’d brought up the cat situation. “I had no idea he’d been possessed.” “How could you?” he asked, trying to comfort her. “Very few can see evil. They sense it at the time, but until the blood starts flowing, the cause isn’t always clear.” “I know, it’s just...well, I wish things were different.” She rose off his lap, and he was sorry to see her go. It was nearly ten o’clock, and she turned off the porch light as she passed. He watched her go up the stairs and return only moments later with her sewing basket. She worked on something nearly constantly, and every new thing he saw was more beautiful than the last. He stood and moved to the loveseat so she could sit beside him. When she sat and he realized the light was low, he stood and turned on the lamp. “Now what, love?” She pulled out a wooden round with a piece of muslin in its clasp. With a heavy sigh, she positioned it to sew. On the cloth a tombstone sat beneath a beautiful tree with several flowers around it. On it was written “Sebastia.” “All that’s left to do is to finish it,” she said with a sad sigh and pulled out her thread. He watched her nimble fingers create more flowers, more detail on the tree, and finally, just as the clock struck, she finished the final “n” and Sebastian’s howling ceased. Marc looked to the clock and frowned. “Eleven? I would have thought the magic hour was midnight,” he said. She unclasped her wooden frame and smoothed out the creases made by the holder. The piece was lovely in a morbid sort of way, 20

Stephanie Beck and he had no doubt the peaceful scene would find a home on one of Beth’s walls. “Different time zones,” she muttered as she flicked a tiny piece of string away. “Since the first magic was done in Savannah, I’ve always found that the timing has to match the time there, no matter where I am.” “That’s crazy.” She looked up, and though there were tears in her eyes, she smiled too. “Yes, I know, but I don’t make the rules. And though I’d like to change that fact on occasion, I don’t think I ever would. If I made the rules, I don’t know that we would have found our way back to each other. I’ll take fate on this one.” He leaned down and kissed her mouth, lightly, so lightly. “Me too.”

21

Chapter Six

Fourteen demons. What the hell was headquarters thinking, sending him with only one other guy to destroy fourteen Hell beasts? Then to make it worse, he’d had to attend a budget meeting while he was in town. He’d have rather faced fourteen more demons than talk bottom-line figures. Marc swore as he tossed his keys into the bowl near the door. He kicked out of his shoes, left his tie on the banister and dropped his suitcase in the laundry room. The actual clean-up could wait until things had cooled down a bit. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and, on second thought, nabbed the pitcher of sweet tea as well. Headquarters was getting a firmly written “eat shit and die” letter, and things were going to change before he went out on his next mission. But as Marc stepped into the back yard he and Beth had planned in their youth, complete with roses and bleeding hearts, he set the anger aside and took a deep breath. He still felt the irritation, though it was much less intense with the spring scents all around. Water trickled from a fountain near the back 22

Stephanie Beck of the property, and birds tweeted sweetly. Peace was returning, but it wasn’t until he opened his eyes and saw Beth sitting on their favorite bench, beneath a cherry tree that always seemed to bloom, that he finally knew where he was. Home.

23

Biography When Stephanie Beck’s mother told her to quit whining about endings that weren’t quite right and to write her own, neither of them could have guessed what would happen. Ten years later, that advice has become a full-time passion and occupation. With a wonderful husband and two beautiful girls, the fulltime status makes for very long days, but Stephanie breaks up the romance and steamy scenes with knitting, walking, sewing and reading. Steph’s debut novel, Poppy’s Passions, is available through Lyrical Press and she has several new titles coming soon. To get the full scoop on the Freak Sorority and all things Steph Beck, check out www.stephaniebeck.net or www.facebook.com/StephanieBeckAuthor or www.twitter.com/ stephbeck123. You can also email her at stephaniebeckauthor@gmail. com.