Devil's Pawn (Devil's Pawn Duet 1)

Any remaining color drains from her face.

I take her arm and walk her to the Mausoleum to point out the names of my ancestors, uncles, aunts, and cousins. I see Zoë’s marker. I take a moment to read the dates. Sixteen. Even younger than Mary St. James. I see Isabelle’s eyes on that marker. It’s the only one with a bunch of rotting roses that were probably laid here a week or so ago. I turn her away before she can comment.

“And we come to why you’re here. Why I initiated The Rite.”

I hear her swallow and, as if on cue, the rain picks up suddenly and gloriously. It soaks us both through, but I walk at the same pace to Kimberly’s grave marker. I’m not in a rush. She’s not in the mausoleum. We weren’t married. Only those who carry the St. James name can be laid to rest in the mausoleum.

I stand before the stone, see the roses about the same age as those on Zoë’s laid in front of it. But thinking of Zeke out there picking roses and walking them to the cemetery is too lonely an image so I shove it aside.

“This is Angelique’s mother,” I say flatly. “Kimberly Anders.”

I watch her take in the dates and when she looks up at me it’s with something strange in her eyes. Something like pity. I want to wipe that pity off her face.

“How did she die?”

“She was murdered.”

She winces and I’m not sure she’s aware that her hand has just moved up to that scar on her collarbone. Her parents and brother were killed. Parents in a car accident. Brother in a break-in. Does that count as murder? I guess so. Even if it’s not the intent of the robbery. I realize that’s when she must have gotten her scars. They’re not from a fall. But they could be from a push.

A gust of wind blows so cold that it breaks into my thoughts. I blink, look at Kimberly’s name on the stone. Too young to be dead. Too young to be bones in the earth. And I harden myself. Because my mother is wrong. Kimberly would want this. She’d want revenge.

“Carlton?” she asks, then shakes her head. “He’s not capable of something that like. It’s not in his DNA.”

My eyebrows rise to the top of my forehead. “No? I think you may be surprised what your brother is capable of. What’s in your DNA.”

She stares up at me and when she doesn’t argue, I wonder what she truly believes.

“But that doesn’t matter for you. It makes no difference. We have other business tonight.”

“What business?”

“Come, Isabelle. It’s time to spill the first drops of Bishop blood.”

16

Isabelle

Another cold gust accompanies his words. I’m not sure if it’s that or his words that turn my blood to ice. When he faces me, the look in his eyes sends a shiver down my spine.

It’s time to spill the first drops of Bishop blood.

I take a step backward. My feet hurt. These shoes weren’t made for a stroll in the woods much less what we’re doing tonight.

“We’re going to play a game, Isabelle Bishop.”

“I don’t want to play any game, Jericho St. James.”

He grins at that. “You’re going to run. And I’m going to chase you.”

“I said I don’t want to.”

“You need to find the well where Nellie’s body was found.”

“What?” God. I feel sick.

“If you get to it before I catch up with you, you’ll be safe from me tonight. But if I catch you or get to the well before you,” he continues, stepping toward me. “I will bleed you.”

He shifts his gaze to his watch, turns the knob on it casually like we aren’t standing in the middle of a cemetery while rain pours down on us in the middle of the night talking about an idiotic game. About bleeding me.