Page 8 of Fated Protector

"See? When Sasha passed on, the store passed to you. She must've had it set up that way. Not just in legal ways, Annabelle. It was meant to be yours." He doesn’t look happy with that last sentence, but it seems to be the truth.

My knees tremble. This is too much. I don’t know what Sasha was involved in, but it isn’t the life for me.

"Go on in," he says, gesturing toward the opening. "it's all yours, for now at least." His voice is comforting, but even so, all I can picture is that flung-out hand of Sasha’s, blood smearing the floor beneath it.

"I can't," I say, stepping backward.

He studies me and then holds out a broad hand. "Come on," he says, but his tone is soft. I take his hand, feeling like I’m making a crossroads deal with the devil. He guides me inside, and the pungent smell of herbs and old things smothers me.

“Is there – is there still –" I can't say it, so I gesture towards the floor behind the counter.

He sobers and shakes his head. "No,Cher. There's no trace. I promise."

"You really got the blood off of wood planks?"

He flashes a half-cocked grin. "You're standing in a magical bookstore, and that's your first question?"

I know it's macabre, but sometimes dark humor is what is needed in a helpless situation. "Do you have magical Windex?"

He laughs and shakes his head again. “I know people who deal with this kind of thing.”

"Breaking and entering?"

He hasn't let go of my hand, and he squeezes it. "Anna, your aunt wasn't killed by a burglar. Sasha was murdered by a vampire."

I bark out a mirthless laugh. "A vampire? Is that what you told the cops?"

He rubs his neck sheepishly. "Those might not have actually been New Orleans’s finest. They were people I knew. Cop-like, but not exactly the ones you know."

I reel back at this statement. “What? Then who is dealing with Sasha’s murder?"

"Me. And people like me.” He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"People like you?" I shake my head. "What does that even mean?"

He rakes a hand through his dark brown hair. “People who are, as you say,eclectic tastes.”

I roll my eyes. “Now wait for just a—”

The cast-iron bell rings out from the other room, loud and clear. Suddenly, Jack’s eyes narrow, and he yanks at my arm. Before I can make a sound of protest, he claps a hand over my mouth and tugs me into the shadows.

“There’s something out there,” he whispers, and I freeze, fear shooting through my limbs. “I need you to be quiet.”

“What if it’s a customer?” I ask, silently willing it to be true.

“That ain’t no customer. That’s someone coming back to finish the job.” His strong fingers grip my chin, tilting my head towards his. “Anna, do you trust me?”

“Not at all,” I hiss back, pushing his hand from my face.

He has the audacity to smile at my response. “Good girl. Now listen carefully. There’s a door in the back that leads out to the garden. On the count of three, I want you to run through that door.”

“There’s no door out to the garden!” I say. “The only door in and out is the front door!”

“Sure it is. And there isn’t a magical bookstore hidden behind the fireplace.”

I open my mouth to protest and close it again. “Fine.”

“Good girl,” he repeats, spinning me until I’m facing the back of the store. “One…two…three…run!”

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