Jackie Kessler: The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance 2

She had been there two months ago when Jesse had first stolen Caitlin’s looks. And her credit cards.

Caitlin stared at her sister in flesh: Jesse Harris, the former demon Jezebel.

For a long moment, Caitlin fought the urge to kick Jesse. Hard. But no matter how she felt about her twin, she had to protect her. All witches did, by the decree of the Hecate. That was why Caitlin had given the one-time succubus her name after turning her into a mortal two months ago: names had power, especially when offered freely.

She hadn’t told Jesse why the Hecate was so invested in her. Caitlin wanted to give her sister more time as a normal human first — a couple of years, maybe, for her to be together with Paul, to learn how to truly love. Then she would tell Jesse about her destiny.

But first, Caitlin had to figure out why Jesse was unconscious and glowing.

She squatted next to Jesse and created a magical probe, one that would tell Caitlin more about the magic in play. It shimmered, lit up like a miniature nova, and incinerated. She murmured, “The spell that did this is still active.”

“The glowing sort of tipped me off,” said Paul.

She ignored the sarcasm. “Between the faintness of the glow and the colour, it looks like this has to do with dreams.”

Paul hunkered down next to her. “You’re saying she’s sleeping?” He squinted at Jesse’s face as if he could will her awake.

“No.” Caitlin peered at the small open box in Jesse’s hand. The patterns in the wood were intricate and beautiful, etched by someone with skill. Staring at those symbols, Caitlin remembered the last time she had seen anything like them before.

She felt the blood drain from her face.

Stop, she told herself. Don’t jump to conclusions.

The torn envelope was on the floor next to Jesse. As Paul had said before on the phone, the package was padded and white, with only MS HARRIS on the front. No address. No information about the sender.

Ms Harris. Not Jesse Harris. Ms Harris. Written in black marker — by a hand that Caitlin recognized.

“Caitlin? What is it?”

Grimacing, Caitlin said, “This package wasn’t intended for her.” She turned to face Paul. “It was supposed to go to me.”

He stiffened.

“That’s a memory box she’s holding,” Caitlin said, pointing at the open box in Jesse’s hand. “When the proper recipient opens a memory box, that person gets to experience a particular memory like it was happening now. It shouldn’t open for the wrong person. Technically, it can’t. It’s made specifically for a particular recipient.”

“But Jesse opened it,” Paul said slowly.

“Maybe it’s because she’s my twin.” More likely, it was because Jesse had been made Caitlin’s twin by magic. “The spell wasn’t meant for her, so what should have been passive instead became aggressive.”

Paul’s mouth pressed into a hard line. “Once more, this time in words I can understand.”

“She’s trapped in a memory.” Caitlin gritted her teeth. “The spell within the box became corrupted when she opened it. If you’d touched her, you would have been sucked into the memory too.”

“Can you help her?”

“Not without also getting pulled into the spell.”

Something dangerous flashed in Paul’s eyes. “We have to do something. We can’t just leave her like this.”

“We won’t,” Caitlin said, dreading her next words. “There’s someone I can call. He’s proficient in memory magic.” Goddess knew, he’d said that very thing too many times to count. “If anyone can free Jesse, it’s him.”

“Who is he?”

Caitlin sighed and closed her eyes. “My ex-husband.”

Aaron Lighter had intended to spend a quiet night at home — just him, a couple slices of pepperoni pizza, a few beers, and both volumes of Kill Bill. Nothing like artful slaughter to cheer him up. He’d been in a funk ever since that afternoon, when he’d finally made the decision to send Caitlin the memory box. He’d crafted it months ago, from selecting the proper solid cedar board and making the initial cuts to bend the corners all the way to etching the outer designs with complex wards.

Every cut he’d made, Aaron had thought of Caitlin Harris.

Adding the memory had been the easy part; he was no master woodworker, but his subtle magicks were his strong suit. And memory was extremely subtle. Malleable.

Maddening.

He laughed bitterly as he popped open the beer bottle. Sending the memory box was supposed to be cathartic for him. Cleansing. Instead, it had left him feeling oddly hollow, and painfully lonely.

Which, when he thought about it, was no different from how he’d felt when he’d been married to Caitlin.

No, that was unfair. She’d been the one to leave him, after all. One too many fights, and both of them too proud to admit their egos had smothered their affection. She’d left him, and he’d thought at the time it was good riddance. Two years later, she had still infected his heart.

When you compared love to a disease, it was time to take drastic measures. And so, he’d crafted the memory box.

He was on his second bottle and his second slice when his cellphone rang. He checked the number and took a healthy swig of beer before he answered. Of course she’d be calling. Probably to thank him, and then make some small talk, ask how his rituals were going, that sort of thing. That’s all she was to him now: small talk. If he told himself that enough, he might actually believe it.

Swallowing his beer, he took the call. “Caitlin,” he said by way of hello.

“Aaron.” She said his name like she was spitting nails. “I know you sent the memory box.”

He wasn’t the sort of man to think Well, duh. But in this case, it was damn close. “Given the memory that was inside, I’d certainly hope so.” He’d chosen it specially, out of all the time they’d had together. Goddess knew that after twelve years, there had been quite a few choice memories.

She let out an exasperated sigh. “Aaron. ”

“Listen, you caught me right in the middle of something, so enjoy the present.” He really wanted to watch some righteous murder right about now. Uma Thurman in a tracksuit was a bonus. Not that he was into tall, blond women with a thing for swords; he was much more about small brunettes with untamable curly hair.

He wondered if Caitlin still kept her hair pulled back in a ponytail, or if she let it go loose around her shoulders.

“Don’t hang up,” Caitlin snapped. “You messed up, Aaron. The box didn’t go to me.”

Aaron rolled his eyes. He didn’t mess up, not when it came to memory boxes. While he enjoyed working various subtle craftings, the one area he truly excelled in was memory. Current actions defined a person only for the moment; memories defined them forever. “Of course it went to you,” he said. “I was very specific when I crafted the package. I infused it with the essence of your dazzling smile and sharp tongue, dearest.”

She sighed, clearly exasperated. “Aaron—”

“It couldn’t not go to you. Besides,” he added with a smile, “I felt it when you opened it.”

Oh, he’d felt it, all right: the initial surprise, then a flood of lust so powerful it had given him a raging hard-on. He hadn’t known Caitlin could feel any emotion that strongly. Maybe he wasn’t the only one doing without sex.

“That wasn’t me,” Caitlin growled. “Jesse got the envelope. Jesse opened the box.”

Her words hit him like ice water in the face. His mouth worked silently for a moment, until he finally spluttered, “You’re joking.”

“I wish I were. But I’m looking at Jesse right now.” Caitlin paused, and Aaron could hear her grind her teeth. “She’s trapped. Something went wrong, and she opened the box, and now she’s trapped.”