Free Mark of the Witch by MAGGIE SHAYNE Page A

to turn and stare intently into my eyes. “The
goal of every demon is the same. Destruction of all that’s good. Perversion of
the sacred. Power over the world of man. He could become the anti-Christ,
Indy.”
    I just sat there staring at him, trying to determine whether he
actually believed his own words. I mean, he suddenly sounded like a
fire-and-brimstone pulpit thumper in a revival tent. I wondered if that was him
talking or if he was channeling his precious Dom, and I decided on the latter.
“Uh-huh. So we’re going to Ithaca to face and annihilate the anti-Christ.”
    He sighed, lowered his head. “You don’t believe me, do
you?”
    “Not so much, no.”
    Traffic was at a standstill. His hands gripped the wheel,
bumping each other right on top, and I could tell he was squeezing hard.
    “And none of it really seems to tie in with what’s been
happening to me. The dreams. The marks.” I touched his shoulder, and he picked
his head up fast. “Can you tie it together for me? ’Cause I’m kinda lost.”
    He nodded. “You and your two sisters lived during the time when
he was cast into the Underworld. And you’re the only ones with the power to
destroy him.”
    “So it’s past life stuff. Destiny stuff. That kind of
thing.”
    He nodded.
    I drew a deep breath, blew it out again. “This is scary as
hell, you know that?”
    “I know.” He turned and looked me in the eyes, reaching out to
clasp my hands in his. I sucked in a breath and stared down at them. I knew he
was only trying to comfort me a little, but it felt like way more. And he felt
something, too, I knew he did. The way my hands fit inside his, the warmth of
them, and their size and shape and strength. The strangest feeling washed over
me as we sat there, facing each other in the comfy front seat of the old Volvo,
our eyes locked onto our joined hands as we both began to tremble. It was vivid.
Surreal. Dizzying. Like déjà vu.
    “Tomas?” My voice emerged soft and raspy, and it didn’t help
matters. He looked up, into my eyes, and I knew he was as shaken as I was. What was this?
    Behind us, an idiot laid on his horn, and we jerked apart.
Traffic had moved on without us. I blinked and sat back in my seat, looking
anywhere but at Tomas. He pulled the car back into motion, but it bucked and
stalled. So he was as flustered as I was. Then he quickly started it again and
got moving.
    I wanted to change the subject—because really, no matter what
was happening to me, it wasn’t that big. It couldn’t be. I was just…me. Not some
soldier in a war between God and the Devil or whoever. “I never had breakfast
this morning,” I said. Damn, my voice had this funny little tremor underneath
it. “And I’m starved.”
    “Okay.”
    * * *
    She was afraid, Tomas thought. Scared to death of the
horrors he was likely to reveal to her if they kept on talking, and putting off
that moment of revelation for as long as she possibly could.
    She’s arguing for the demon’s side, and
probably trying to ensorcell you while she’s at it.
    That was not his own inner voice. That was Dom, lecturing him
on the powers of the witch. And while he might have changed his mind about
disbelieving the rest of this, he was standing firm on that.
    Food was an agreeable distraction, and when he located an IHOP
about an hour later and pulled in, he knew by the look of rapture in her eyes
that she hadn’t only been making excuses to end the
conversation. She was, by all appearances, ravenous.
    And beautiful.
    Difficult for him to believe she was one of the three witches
whose souls were allegedly bound to a demon. And that was only a small part of
what was unbelievable about all of this.
    Dom had warned him repeatedly these chosen witches were cagey
and clever, and might or might not be aware of their mission, but that he must
always presume they were and guard against their tricks. They were powerful
women, all three of them. They would sense a man’s weakness and use it