Wonderful to see you!” Elizabeth clasped her sister as if she were her last hope.
Heather hugged back. “Me too. You had me worried with your phone calls.”
“I had me worried.” Terrified some of the time, but now that she was a safe distance from her father and Laran, she could relax. “It’s okay now.” She exhaled as if she’d been holding her breath for hours.
“You’re here now, that’s what matters. Got any luggage?”
“No. I didn’t check anything. This is it. Let’s get out of here.” She couldn’t rid herself of the dread that Laran Radcliffe might appear any minute to “take care” of her.
Heather looked her elder sister up and down. “You don’t look at all good. When did you last eat?”
She had to think a minute. “Breakfast. But I didn’t finish it.”
Heather rolled her blue eyes. “The first thing you do is eat. We’ll stop on the way home.” She linked arms with Elizabeth. “It’s so wonderful to see you. Now, tell me everything about England.”
“I’m not sure you want to know!”
“Of course I do. Everything! Including what got you so upset. But first, food. You pick: pizza, Chinese, Indian, or the greasiest, best-tasting kebabs in Chicago.”
They stopped for kebabs in a narrow little shop that smelled of cooking and warm spices. After ordering, Heather insisted they share a bottle of wine. “I can’t wait to show you my house,” she said, “It’s old and needs a lot of work, but…” Heather shook her head. “I never thought, in a million years, I’d settle down like this, but when I started teaching, Mom offered me a loan of the down payment. And to be honest, I love having my own space.”
“You like teaching?”
“Love teaching. Loathe the paperwork, but the pay is regular, I have time to pot, and I have money to buy clay and pay the enormous utility bills. I do dream of one day making enough with my pots to live on, but until then it’s seventh-and eighth-grade special ed.”
“How’s the pottery doing?”
“Can’t complain. I’ve a couple of shops that take my stuff on consignment. I go to craft fairs when I have the time and the money, and Mom’s even found me some outlets. I make sacred bowls, chalices, and censers, some decorated with enamels, and sell them at Wiccan gatherings.”
“That doesn’t go against your principles?” She couldn’t resist the dig at her sister’s skepticism.
Heather grinned. “It’s money, dear sister. Good money too. I make quality articles and sell them at a fair price. If the purchasers choose to use them for superstition, that’s up to them.”
“I assume you’re not so outspoken to your customers.”
“Lizzie, when was I ever stupid!”
“Only when you scorn your mother’s calling.”
Heather chuckled. “She forgives me. Besides, she has you as a daughter in spirit.”
“I’ve nowhere near her skill.”
“Mom insists you have.”
So Adela had told her repeatedly, and Elizabeth knew better than to doubt a witch of her stepmother’s skill.
Their food arrived, and as the waiter left, Heather asked, “Okay, tell me what had you so running scared.”
“Can we eat first?” Her stomach was growling, and she rather felt a good meal might help her get her mind around the past twenty-four hours—and the two weeks before that.
Heather nodded. After a good ten minutes of chewing, and another glass of Australian Shiraz, Elizabeth’s anxieties eased.
“So tell,” Heather said with a wry smile as she refilled their glasses. “What devious plot is my wicked stepfather hatching?”
That jest was too near the truth to be anything but unnerving. “Sure you want to know?”
Heather closed her hand over the bottle. “You want the last of the bottle? Tell!”
Elizabeth told.
Their food went cold, and wine sat forgotten in the glasses.
Heather listened, jaw dropping and eyes widening as Elizabeth repeated everything. “My God!” Heather gasped as her sister finished. “If anyone else had told me that, I’d say they were making it up.”
“You don’t think I am?”
“No way! I’ve never known you tell a lie, and I heard how scared you were on the phone. I believe you. What do we do now? You think they’ll be after you?”
That thought had never entered Elizabeth’s head. It should have. “I hope the hell not. I don’t want to drag you into this.”
“Why not? I’m your sister, and my mom’s your mom too. How’s that for contacts?”
“You believe in her skills now?”
Heather gave a little snort. “That’s neither here nor there. She’s my mother. She has to help us. It’s in the mother–daughter rule book.”
“Maybe we should talk to her.”
Heather grinned. “Thought you might want to. We will. I’m taking tomorrow off as well.” She grinned. “I have this terrible bout of intestinal flu. We’re off to Oak Park for lunch with Mom.” The prospect sounded wonderful. Adela’s advice had never failed. Surely it wouldn’t now.
“That’s settled!” Heather retrieved the bottle and drained it into Elizabeth’s glass. “You finish it. I have to drive. We’ll be home in ten minutes, have an early night, and in the morning go seek advice from one of the most powerful witches in the Midwest.”
The house was empty and dark. Damn! But it was hers all right. The name Heather Whyte was neatly stenciled on the mailbox—clearly visible, even in the dark, to his vampire sight. Were they both gone? If so, where in damnation? And if Elizabeth hadn’t come here, where else could she be? He’d give it until dawn and then think again. Laran perched on the porch roof and waited. It was a cold night, all to the good: the neighbors would keep their windows shut tight.
Less than an hour later, a little red Honda, with Elizabeth in the passenger seat, pulled into the narrow drive. Bingo! One at a time was preferable, but two mortals was no challenge for one vampire. Laran closed his fingers around the gun he’d acquired from a pawnshop on his way in and jumped down as Heather locked the car. She gave a little scream but cut it off mid-breath when he pointed the gun at Elizabeth’s head and promised to shoot her if there was another sound.
Elizabeth fought back, kicking and trying to twist her leg around his. He let her waste her strength, but when she bit down over the hand that held her mouth, he hit her on the side of her head with the gun and dragged her to the side door.
“Open it!” he hissed at Heather, but it wasn’t enough. “Ask me in!”
“Getting formal are we? What’s your name? Emilio Post?” Sarcastic bitch! He released the safety to let her know he meant business. She glared at him but acquiesced. “Come in!”
She couldn’t have been less welcoming if she tried, but it was all he needed. He stepped over the threshold and dropped Elizabeth on the kitchen floor.
He let Heather lean over her and cluck and fuss like an old hen for a couple of minutes.
“That’s enough! She’s not dead!” Yet. As if on cue, Elizabeth sat up and shook her head. “Hello, Elizabeth!” he said. She went pale enough to faint. He kicked her. “Get up!”
She managed, with Heather’s help.
“Who the hell are you?” Heather asked, her hands