Damned and Cursed (Book 2): Witch's Kurse (31 page)

He was impressed when the man actually complied.

"Self-preservation kicks in.
 
Now, I'm going to ask some questions.
 
If I even
think
you won't answer them, I'll break your fingers.
 
Question number one—"

Question number one was put on hold.

The man with his hand under the counter pulled out an aluminum bat.
 
He swung and connected, striking Jack in the neck.
 
The force knocked him from the stool to the floor.
 
The other patrons stood up, shocked.
 
The alcoholic was the only intelligent mortal.
 
He went immediately to the door.

"Don't kill the guy," Mr. Popularity said.
 
"Just get him outside.
 
Fucking reporters.
 
It's okay, everyone.
 
Just some trash we have to kick out."

Jack shook his head as he rested on his elbow.

"Mortals."

He kicked the knee of the man closest to him.
 
It bent in a direction it wasn't meant to, and he howled as he fell to the ground.
 
Jack locked eyes with him as he rose to his feet, and the mortal's expression was easy to read.

He knew they'd made a terrible mistake.

A bottle struck him across the face, shattering.
 
Glass and alcohol flew everywhere.
 
He turned in the direction it came from.
 
It didn't hurt him whatsoever, but it did annoy him.
 
Jack didn't like the smell of alcohol, and liked it even less all over his face.

He growled when he saw the second bartender, reaching for another bottle behind him.
 
The man tossed it, but Jack lifted a stool in front of him.
 
The bottle broke against the stool, alcohol coating it.
 
Jack reared the stool back and threw it, but the man ducked.
 
The stool crashed into the alcohol and lights behind the bar.

The few people remaining in the bar ran when the fire broke out.

Mortals tripped and fell over each other trying to get to the front door.
 
Jack watched, always in awe of the power of panic.
 
He thought humanity was lost when one man pushed his elder out of the way to reach the exit.
 
But there were always little pockets, some mortals that weren't terrible.
 
The man on his third date not only didn't leave his woman behind, but held her hand as he led her.

He turned to see the two bartenders still on their feet, trying to move down the bar to the door leading to the kitchen.
 
Jack grabbed another stool and flung it.
 
It twirled in mid-air, the leg smacking the lead man in the head.
 
They tripped and fell over each other.

Jack jumped over the bar.
 
The two men kicked and struggled to get to their feet.
 
He grabbed a rag from a nearby stack and wiped his face.
 
His bad mood grew worse.
 
He expected resistance.
 
Mortals just loved to resist.
 
But why did their stupidity always end up with him having to wash his clothes?

Inspiration struck as he looked at the bottles of alcohol.
 
The fire was contained to the bar area, but he'd make sure that didn't last long.

He stuck the rag in a bottle and held it to the nearby flame.
 
He tossed the fire-bomb over the bartenders' heads, sending it crashing into the wall behind them.
 
The flame spread, and they scooted closer to Jack to avoid the heat.

"Who doesn't love a little fire?" Jack asked, lighting another bottle.
 
He tossed it at one of the pool tables.
 
"Let's do the old campfire thing.
 
Hot dogs and marshmallows for everyone."

He tossed three more.
 
The entire front side of the bar was in flames.
 
The stools, booths, pool tables.
 
The televisions in the corner sparked as fire swallowed them.

Jack stalked the two men.
 
They had nowhere to run, with a wall of flame directly behind them.
 
Fire licked at Jack's face, which he barely felt.
 
He swatted at it like a mosquito.

"I'm hoping this helps clear your heads, help with the concentration."

He pulled the second bartender to his feet and flung him through the fire in front of the kitchen door.
 
The man shouted in pain and terror as he sailed through the door, landing in the kitchen.
 
He swatted at the flame on his clothes as he half crawled, half stumbled out of sight.

Jack grabbed Popularity's foot and pulled him back behind the bar.
 
He placed a knee on his stomach and a hand on his chest.

"Let's see if he makes it to the back door."

He listened intently.
 
The sounds of Popularity coughing and fire destroying the place were all he heard.
 
It reminded him of the night of his curse, after his fellow townsfolk killed Angela.
 
Jack didn't know how many people he killed that night, how many houses he set ablaze.
 
It was also when he'd met Victoria.
 
She tried to control him, to calm him down.
 
When the mortals tried to kill her as well, out of fear, she'd joined him.

Finally, he heard the sound of a back door opening.

"Ah, sounds like he made it."

"Come on, man.
 
What the fuck is your—?"

"Many things have been said about me.
 
But no one's ever said I'm not a man of my word."

Jack grabbed the bartender's index finger on his left hand and bent it backwards.
 
The finger snapped, and the man howled.
 
Jack leaned on the man's stomach with his knee, to reduce the struggle, and slapped him across the face to bring him back to the moment.

"Did Erica Hernandez work here?" he said again, for the third time.

"Why don't you go fu—"

Jack broke his middle finger.
 
Shouting, screaming, cursing, all things Jack heard before.
 
He smiled as he watched the man suffer.

"It's been a while since I've done this.
 
I hate to say it, but I think I've missed it.
 
If we get past the fingers, we'll work on the toes, maybe some other bones."

There was a loud crash as one of the pool tables collapsed.

"This place is gonna fall on top of us!" the man shouted.

"Then you'd better speak very quickly."

Jack grabbed his ring finger.

"Yes!
 
For fuck's sake, yes!
 
Erica worked here."

Jack couldn't stop from laughing.

"You know what's funny?
 
I already knew that.
 
This place is going to burn to the ground, and I played wishbone with your hand, all over a question I already knew the answer to.
 
Imagine what I'll do with the questions I'm
really
curious about.
 
What's your name?"

"Rob."

"Okay, Rob.
 
We're making some progress.
 
Did Erica have any enemies?"

"No.
 
Everyone liked her."

"Did anyone ever harass her?
 
Stare at her just a little too long from the corner?"

"Ah, come on, man.
 
Did you know Erica?
 
Everyone
stared at her.
 
She was gorgeous.
 
Shit, even I—"

"Finish that sentence, and you'll burn to death."

"Look, the place has only been open a few weeks, and she was new in town.
 
We don't even have regular customers yet.
 
If you're looking for who killed her, I think this is the wrong place."

Jack rose to his feet.
 
He'd visited Erica's apartment and where she worked.
 
The outcome was the same for both trips.

He had no leads.

The wailing siren of a fire engine could be heard in the distance.
 
He looked down at Rob, who gingerly cradled his mangled hand.
 
He reached into Rob's pocket and took back his hundred-dollar bill.

"If you want to live, you'd better run."

"I…I can't.
 
There's only two doors to this place."

"I don't care.
 
That's not my problem."

Rob pulled himself to his feet and studied the front door.
 
It was completely blocked by fire.
 
Taking a deep breath, he dove through the flame near the kitchen door, where Jack had tossed his friend.
 
Jack didn't bother listening for the back door opening and closing.

His spirits began to sink, and it wasn't because he was standing in a burning building.
 
The thought crossed his mind once again that he may never find Erica's murderer.

At what point did he give up?

*****

Marie shot upright in bed when the phone rang.
 
She still wasn't used to the ring.
 
It was only the fourth time the phone rang since having it turned on.
 
It was probably another solicitor.

Sleep still clawed at her.
 
She'd collapsed in bed after running for hours in the woods.
 
She was still naked, sleeping in the bed upside down.
 
Her mind constantly drifted to the bar, and to Erica, but the run and a night off was exactly what she needed.

The phone kept yelling at her.

"Okay, okay," she muttered, rolling out of bed.
 
"Hold on."

She didn't bother dressing or slipping into her nightgown.
 
She nearly stumbled as she grabbed the phone from outside the kitchen wall.

"Hello?"

"Hello.
 
I'm trying to reach Marie Johnson."

She frowned at the business-like tone.
 
"Look, whatever you're selling, I'll pass."

"This is Officer Tate, Sandy Hills Police.
 
I'm afraid I've got some bad news.
 
There was a fire on your property last night."

"The bar?"
 
Marie narrowed her eyes as she went from sleepy to furious in a second.
 
Her keen ears told her it wasn't Rob.
 
"Did Rob put you up to this?
 
Listen to me, this isn't funny."

"This isn't a joke, Miss Johnson.
 
You'd better get down here."

The officer hung up.
 
Marie didn't move.
 
Her hands simply shook as she stood outside the kitchen without any clothes on.
 
Finally, movements came, but they were slow and sluggish.
 
She stepped into a pair of jeans, forgetting underwear, and slipped on the same shirt she wore the day before.

Her mind wandered as she drove across Sandy Cliffs.
 
Was anyone hurt?
 
What was the extent of the damage?
 
What caused the fire?

The scene at her bar was straight out of a nightmare.
 
The parking lot was crowded, but not with customers.
 
Police, a fire truck, reporters, and bystanders were everywhere.
 
People stood on their front porches along the street and watched.

Her eyes confirmed what her nose had already told her.

The bar was ruined.

She couldn't see the damage from the outside, but she knew.
 
Through the open front door she caught glimpses as she maneuvered her car.
 
Stools charred and black.
 
Broken liquor bottles.
 
The only solace she took was the fact that she didn't smell charred human flesh.

Marie parked on the edge of the lot and climbed out of her car.
 
She didn't move toward the bar.
 
She simply watched the human circus around her.
 
What was she supposed to do?
 
It was an entirely new experience for her.
 
Was she supposed to grab the nearest police officer?
 
Break down and cry?

Her thoughts went two directions, her employees, and if the bar was salvageable.
 
No one died, that she was certain of.
 
But where was Rob and Brett?
 
Were they hurt?

A familiar car pulled up next to her.
 
Nia climbed out, concern on her face, and jogged up to Marie, concern in her eyes.

"Oh my God.
 
Marie…."

The younger woman hugged her, and Marie didn't know why.
 
Was it to make herself feel better?
 
Marie knew a hug certainly wasn't lifting her own spirits at that moment.
 
But she returned the hug, as numb as she felt.

"The bar…." Marie said.

Nia nodded.
 
"I heard.
 
I talked to Rob.
 
He called me not too long ago.
 
Brett tried to call you, but you weren't home."

"Is he okay?
 
What about Rob?"

"They're both fine.
 
No one got hurt.
 
Rob went to the hospital, but he's already out now.
 
He wouldn't stay even if they told him to."

"Where is he?"

"Uh, you don't want to know."

Marie waited for the answer.

"He's at the other bar across town, getting drunk."

She laughed.
 
She didn't laugh because it was funny, but to avoid bursting into tears.