Free Rest For The Wicked by Cate Dean

say I was talking to you, ass—”
    “Enough.” Claire picked up the tray, pausing in the doorway next to Marcus. “Come to a truce or don’t talk to each other. I don’t care which, but do it now. Eric needs our help, and I don’t want you two sniping in front of him.”
    She strode out of sight, leaving Annie alone with Marcus. Crossing her arms, she glared at him.
    “You make the apology sweet, pal, and I’ll think about not chopping your hair off while you sleep.”
    Marcus brushed one hand through his hair, clearly unsettled. “I can never change what happened between us, Annie. But I can offer amends, if you will give me the chance to make them.”
    His words deflated her anger. How could she smack out at him when he was so humble? He took all the fun out of tormenting him.
    “Yeah, we can work it out later.” She stepped up to him, almost at his eye level with her three inch heels. “Marcus? You so much as blink wrong at Claire and I’ll cut you into tiny pieces.”

 
EIGHT
    E ric leaned his head back on the sofa cushion. It throbbed, even when he blinked, and moving just made him want to throw up.
    Claire came in with a tray of food. After setting it on the coffee table, she moved to him, lowered herself to the sofa. The light movement of the cushion had him swallowing the bile in his throat.
    “Don’t try and remember, Eric. It’s hurting you. I believe it was her intention that you not survive after you—completed your task.”
    “Who the hell are you?” He lifted his head, ignoring the vicious throb that resulted. “I didn’t agree to do any—” He cut himself off and grabbed his head, pain slicing through it. “God—”
    “Hold still.” Gentle fingers slid into his hair, and warmth radiated from them. He could almost see it, breaking through his pain, smoothing away the ragged edges. When she freed him he finally took his first easy breath. “Better?”
    “Much—thank you. Now I’m going to ask you again: who the hell are you?”
    She smiled. It lit the unusual silver blue eyes, calmed his anger.
    “Even if you haven’t admitted it to yourself yet, Eric, your mind already knows. I am a witch.”
    “Right.” He wanted to run, panic building in his chest. “So where’s your broom?”
    “In my shop, with my cauldron and my crystal ball.” Amusement wove through her voice. “You don’t remember that, either, do you? Being in my shop—”
    “The Wiche’s Broom.” His head still throbbed, but nothing like before. “Your last name? That or you’re a lousy speller.”
    Her laughter washed over him.
    “My name. I like you, Eric, and if you let me, I can help you.” She laid her hand on his chest, and his panic eased. “You are safe here. I promise you.”
    The panic accelerated again when a man and another woman walked out of the kitchen. Shock jolted him as he recognized the woman. Annie, the gorgeous blonde from—he couldn’t remember the where, just her. The man with her was tall, angry. And familiar.
    Claire touched his hand, brought his attention back to her. “Who did this to you?”
    “I don’t—” Images scraped at the edge of his mind. Ugly images. He stood and backed across the room, away from her influence. Claire followed, one hand held out. He knew if she touched him again he’d remember—everything. “Stay back—I don’t want to hurt—God—”
    “Eric—” She caught him when his knees buckled. He tried to recoil—instead his body convulsed. “I’ve got you, Eric. You’re safe here. Whoever did this can’t touch—”
    With a pained gasp she let him go. The man leapt forward, halting when she shook her head. She sank to the floor, her face shock white against the rich brown hair.
    “She—” Eric cleared his throat, tried again. “She wants you, alive. I’m the one who needed you dead. She made me believe you killed my sister. Katelyn.”
    Her name tasted like ash on his tongue—and with the taste came the memory.
    “Eric.”