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“You mean make them into dolls?”
“No. The time of blood hasn’t come.” Job’s smile was borderline insane. “They cannot transform yet, but we are willing to sacrifice one. The girl.”
Katie squawked and tried to flinch away from Ruth, but the old woman was surprisingly strong.
“I'm not going to kill her.” Clara was not going to do that underanycircumstances.
“Do not worry, dear; we can find plenty of others who can make the transition.” Job gave her a smile she thought was intended to be soothing. “Once you learn how, you will be able to help many become eternal.”
“No,” she shook her head violently. “I won't hurt her. I won't. And there is nothing you can do to make me.” The calm she’d been clinging to was rapidly evaporating. Job was crazy and Ruth was evil—a terrifying combination. Jonathon was coming, but she had no idea how long it would take him to find her. It seemed like the Lincolns intended to keep her alive for a while at least, but not the children. If she didn’t kill Katie, would they?
“You will.” Ruth released the children and moved out of sight, returning moments later with a red-hot poker.
Clara knew what that meant and her body convulsed in fear.
“You need to take on their marks, to properly understand, to make them part of you,” Job explained somewhat apologetically.
“No, please,” she begged, trying to pull her arm away as Ruth held the branding iron so close she could feel the heat pouring off it. Of course, she was powerless to move her arm as it was still firmly secured in place by duct tape.
“Their marks will bring you enlightenment,” Job assured her.
Although she promised herself she wouldn’t, Clara couldn’t help but scream as the glowing iron burned her flesh.
* * * * *
9:52 P.M.
It was quiet up here.
And not a good kind of quiet. It was too quiet. Eerily quiet.
It was like Clara’s house was crying out for her. Missing her. He certainly was. Now that work was done for the day, all his fears about Clara had nothing to hold them back.
Jonathon had been afraid that his fears would overwhelm him, so he’d offered to come back to Clara’s house and clean it. Naomi’s blood was all over the kitchen floor. Of course, there were people who specialized in that sort of cleanup, but he’d needed something to do, something that would keep him occupied for as long as possible, and it had taken him at least an hour to scrub the blood from the floor and kitchen counters.
It also had the bonus of giving him an excuse to spend time at Clara’s house.
He felt closer to her here since it was pretty much the only place where they’d spent time together. He liked being surrounded by her things; her home was such an embodiment of her that it almost felt like a part of her was still here.
Right now, he was sitting on her bed. He loved her bedroom; each of the walls was painted a different color—pink, purple, green, and blue—all pastels. The colors reminded him of flowers—beautiful and delicate, yet strong. Just like Clara. Like the downstairs, the furniture up here was also a mishmash of different wood types. The dresser was a pale yellowy brown, the wardrobe a medium brown, and the bed was a dark wood canopy bed, with an intricately carved headboard. The bed had dainty white lace curtains, tied with satin ribbon around the bedposts, and was spread with a colorful patchwork quilt that looked like it was homemade. Jonathon wondered whether Clara had made it herself.
There were so many things he didn’t know about her. Sure, they'd talked about some major stuff because of the case, and he was glad that Clara had trusted him enough to open up to him about her guilt over deliberately walking away from her mother, but he wanted to knoweverythingabout her. Even the smallest most incidental of things. He wanted to know her favorite color, her favorite food, her favorite movie, her favorite music, her favorite season, her favorite holiday destination—he wanted to know it all.
That he might never get a chance to find those things out was a very scary, and yet unfortunately very real, possibility.
He picked up her pillow and held it to his chest. He could smell her on it. Slipping off his shoes he climbed under the covers, desperate to feel as close to Clara as was possible. The whole bed held her scent, a delicious mix of vanilla perfume and apple shampoo.
Jonathon remembered lying in her bed, just forty-eight hours ago, with her curled up in his arms. His attraction to her was strong. He’d wanted more than simply holding her, but she hadn’t been ready, and when they made love for the first time, he wanted it to be perfect. Now part of him wished that their bodies had been joined that night; he might never get another opportunity. And yet, even as he wished it he knew he wouldn’t have changed anything. He would never do anything to hurt Clara, and if they'd had sex that night, then she would have wound up hurt.
Closing his eyes, he concentrated, tried to focus on Clara, tried to connect somehow with her. He needed to know that she was okay, that she was still alive, that she was holding it together, that she knew he would come for her.
He needed her to know that he would find her.
And he would find her.
He couldn’t accept anything less.
Hewouldfind her.
