The Taking (Seven Deadly Sins #3)(25)
Author: Erin McCarthy

“Houses don’t have emotions.”

“But people do.”

“More than they should.”

“Are you a cynic?”

That was a label he could definitely own. “Oh, undoubtedly.”

But she shook her head, a small smile playing about her mouth. “I don’t think I believe you.”

“Believe it.” He opened the damn journal so that he wouldn’t have to see that optimism, that misplaced belief and trust in him. She had no f**king idea what she was staring at.

“You’re not going to try to do any of these spells, are you?” he asked her.

His spells. Taught to him by his mother, and peddled to bored society ladies who had paid him piles of money to cures their illnesses, to increase their sex drive, and to capture that certain special man.

He had never believed in what he was doing, but had reveled in the reward of their attention and all that cold, hard cash. Now seeing his so-called magick written in Camille’s handwriting just made him feel anger at himself, at the disgusting man he had been, using all those women for material gain.

But those were not new feelings. Guilt, anger, and bitterness were his closest and dearest friends, walking every step of his endless existence right alongside him, arms entwined with his.

“No, of course not.” She played with the black rope necklace she was wearing. “That would never even occur to me.”

“Good. Now I need to head out,” he told Regan, slapping the book shut and standing up. He couldn’t do this anymore, just sit here and talk like they were two normal people in a normal world.

“Okay, sure,” she said, looking a little bewildered. “Umm, thank you, for meeting me and for the information.”

Felix handed her the book. “Why don’t I e-mail you those book titles? You can read about voodoo and I think that will help you read the journal. My guess is she was just a bored socialite dabbling in it for something to pass the time.”

Regan nodded. “That would be great, thanks.” She pulled out a business card and handed it to him. “Here’s my contact information.”

It was a black-and-white card. Felix was not the least surprised. Then a perverse impulse had him saying, “Take down my number. In case you need to call me.”

There was a pause where she stared at him, then she picked up her phone. “Great. Thanks.”

After he gave her his number, Felix moved closer to her to let a man past him in the aisle. His knees brushed her and she pulled away, shifting her legs to the opposite side of the table leg. He couldn’t leave it, her, like this.

“Regan.”

“Yes?” She looked up at him, clutching her phone.

“I will do readings at your party. If you still want me.”

It was meant to be an apology for his rudeness in cutting their conversation short. But he didn’t lie to himself. He wanted to see her again, despite the risk.

Maybe because of it.

For whatever reason, Regan Henry had been pulled into his and Alcroft’s world, and yet she had no idea she had been. It wasn’t fair to her, and Felix wanted to understand why she was involved, to learn what her role in the odd triumvirate of Camille, Alcroft, and himself was. Felix didn’t believe in coincidence and she was here, dragged unwittingly into their world, with no way to defend herself.

He didn’t know if he could, but he felt compelled to protect her.

She gave a small smile. “Yes, I still want you. At the party.”

“Good. And if you feel nervous in the house, you can always call me. I can give you some herbs to calm you even if you don’t want to remove the spirit.”

“Okay, thanks.” Her head tilted.

He had the oddest compulsion to kiss her. If not on the lips, then the forehead.

She would accept it, he knew that instinctively.

But Felix knew it would be greedy to take anything from Regan, and if there was anything he fought against, it was his own greed. The flaw that had brought him to subjugation.

“Have a good day,” he said softly, and fought the urge to sigh. There was something so painfully innocent about her, so inherently good, and he wanted to just sink into her, soak up that hope and joy, and restore all the noxious holes inside of his soul.

But down that road lay disaster and disappointment.

And he’d already had enough of those.

Without another word, he left her alone in the coffee shop.

Chapter Seven

Camille had been lax in wearing full mourning, and she knew the ladies had remarked on it. But honestly, it was the height of summer and who wanted to be wrapped in layers of black crepe? Besides, the dark color sallowed her complexion, so she had chosen to generally wear white with black ribbons and to hell with anyone’s opinion. But on this day she was calling on a poor Miss Janise, who had not been seen about in days and was rumored to be ill, so she was dressed in full black for effect, the grieving Miss Comeaux.

Everyone had spent the summer staring at Camille with pity and mortification, Miss Janise being a veritable ringleader of such social strikes, and she thought it quite satisfying that now it would be her turn to cast sympathy at the wretched cow.Her maid knocked on the front door of the Janise household, and the butler who answered informed them that Miss Janise was not accepting visitors.

“Oh, but I must see her,” Camille declared, brushing past the butler. Being thought of as eccentric and outside the boundaries of social propriety allowed her delightful liberties. “I must see for myself that she isn’t as ill as everyone is saying.”

“She is expected to fully recover,” he told her, blustering along behind her as Camille strolled toward the stairs.

Mounting the steps one at a time, her boots making a delightful sound of authority as they rang on the marble flooriag, Camille shot the butler a look over her shoulder. “I am sorry, but I just have to see for myself. She is such a dear friend, and I cannot think of what I would do if she were to die. All my family died, you know, and I have no one but my friends,” she told him, knowing that would shame him into shutting up.

It worked. His jaw dropped, then he nodded, stopping at the foot of the stairs. “Yes, Miss Comeaux, I am most sorry for your great loss.”

She was damn sorry, too, the miserable little jackass, a tick starting in her eyelid. But she recovered, thrusting aside her anger. “Thank you.”

The sight of Annabel in bed, covered in an oozing beet red rash, washed away the rest of her animosity. Fighting the urge to laugh, Camille affixed her expression into one of sympathy and horror. “Oh, my dear! I had heard you were ill and so I came right away.”