All the Rules of Heaven (All That Heaven Will Allow #1) - Amy Lane Page 0,119

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“What do I say!” Rae shouted.

“Something just!” Tucker shouted back.

“I hope you feel every assault you ever perpetrated in the pit of your soul!” Rae screamed, her desperation, her fear, screeching through the howl of the dispossessed spirits around them.

Tucker was distracted for a moment, hearing the familiar note of Damien Columbus over them all.

“Tucker!” Angel screamed on the outside of the figure. “Tucker, finish it!”

Tucker closed his eyes. “And when you’ve suffered for your sins, I hope you find peace!”

He closed the link then, and the energy of Daisy Place, of the old figures of safety and entrapment, of the combined psychic gifts of Tucker and the entire Greenaway family, bolted through the silver tracings on the ground. Conklin felt it, too late, and tried to charge out of the center of his pentacle, only to fall back screaming, cradling his hand, trapped.

“Tucker!” Rae wept. “Tucker, he can’t get out!”

“That’s not just Josh!” Tucker called back. “That’s both of them. We need Josh to concentrate. Move to the inside. You’re protected.” He stood, dizzy, and stumbled to the outside of the figures, now glowing in blue-white light on the ground. Then he removed his necklace and clenched it tight in his hand. He was going to have such a short window to do this. God, Goddess, whoever was listening, let him do this right.

“Now talk to him,” Tucker called when they stood, three in a row, separated by silver, blood, and curses. “Make him remember who he is.”

“Josh! Joshua Cambridge Greenaway. You listen to me,” Rae screamed. “You know who you are. You know who I am. I need you back, you big stupid moo, do you hear me?”

“He’s whimpering like a fool,” Conklin replied. “Why would he listen to a whore?”

“Who’s the fool?”

The voice was new, and Tucker looked in surprise. “James?”

James Beaufort stood, close enough to the trap for his face to be illumined in silver. “Who’s the fool, Conklin? You were killed by a railroad man and buried in an unmarked grave. Nobody came looking for you—do you know that? We waited. We were terrified. Someone should have come looking for you. But your wife was glad to be rid of you. Your son was off getting the pox, which killed him. Nobody came looking. Nobody cared. Your son’s wife lived a happy, long lifetime with her lover, with nephews and grandnieces and grandnephews. They were surrounded by children their entire lives, some of whom are alive today and bear their names. Who was the fool, Conklin? Who lived the good life? Who had the power to leave this world and wasn’t forced to live and relive their final moment of bloodshed? You were bested by women the minute you raised your hand to them, Conklin, and you’ve lived in torment ever since!”

Conklin snarled and lunged for James while Josh reached out his hands for his own wife.

Tucker saw the split between them, saw Josh’s flesh and blood go one way and Conklin’s poisoned spirit go the other.

He lowered his head, squared his shoulders, and charged Josh Greenaway like a football player and a freight train in one. Conklin’s agonized scream rent the air as the power of the silver trap peeled his essence from Josh’s body like squashing potatoes through a masher to get rid of the skins.

Josh was the skin.

He and Tucker fell to the earth next to Rae with a thud. While Rae ran her hands over her husband’s flesh to see if he’d been burned or wounded—besides what she’d inflicted herself—Tucker fumbled with the pendant in his hand and looped it over Josh’s neck. And then, oh God, still dizzy, woozy as hell, he stumbled to his feet.

They weren’t done.

“Rae, get him out of here. Take the truck—get him home.”

Rae scrambled up, offering her husband a hand. Josh looked at her with a pained expression on his already confused face. “Honey, you’re naked.”

She stared blankly back. “You were just possessed by a serial rapist, and you’re worried about my tits?”

“But you’re naked,” he said, his lower lip wobbling, and for a moment, Tucker felt a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“He’s not worried about your modesty, Rae,” Tucker said, feeling wise. “He’s worried that you’re vulnerable. Fasten your bra and put the shirt back on. It’ll make him feel like he protected you.”

Rae’s laugh was mostly tears, and she wiped her face with her palm before wrestling into her bra and shirt. “Better?” she asked her husband. “Now come on. We’re