All the Rules of Heaven (All That Heaven Will Allow #1) - Amy Lane Page 0,83

do?”

The apparition snarled like an animal, and as Tucker watched, it crouched. “You watched me die!”

“You were hurting them,” Tucker snarled. “I would have killed you myself!”

The ache in his chest, the one that had dogged him all day, exploded, and he crouched, mirroring his opponent. He wasn’t sure what he would have done then, enraged by pain, but another shadow stepped forward.

“You wouldn’t have. I wouldn’t wish it! Let me take it back. It’s ridden me these years, every day another twist in my heart!”

Tucker straightened, trying to put this new contender into context. Tall and broad, with hair that might have been blond in his youth, James Beaufort had been a true railroad man in life. His hands were rough and bore the scars of working with hot metal and sharp iron, and his biceps bulged, as did his chest and thighs. He had a mustache too, trimmed into his goatee, and something about his weathered face, some curve of his lip or line by his eyes, suggested that here was a man capable of great tenderness.

Which made the anguish in his eyes that much harder to bear.

“You had to,” Tucker told him. He pushed with his feet to make sure the ground was solid beneath them. The women had strolled right by, not sparing him a glance, but these men, the ones bound by violence, they were squaring with Tucker as though readying for a fight.

“He was hurting her. You came to rescue her, right?”

“She was my baby sister,” James pleaded. “And he was… he was….”

Tucker closed his eyes against the memory—Bridget, sprawled against the wall, Sophie on the floor, skirts hiked up over her head.

“Violating her,” Tucker whispered. “I understand. You had to.”

“She was a whore!”

Tucker and James Beaufort turned toward the cry, and James launched himself at Conklin, ever the protector, even in death.

Whatever metaphysics were at work, James flowed right through the man, and Tucker reached for his pendant automatically, holding it in his palm, hoping for protection, any protection, as the maddened ghost surged forward, ready to dive into Tucker’s body and live inside his skin.

The idea of feeling what this monster felt, being this monstrous human being, terrified Tucker right down to the pit of his balls.

Whatever he hadn’t done with his life, whatever he’d become instead, he was his own person, forged in the crucible of his gift, given the most basic of imperatives: help people, however you can.

This thing rushing at him was the bitter corruption of a man who caused pain because he could.

James rolled across the lawn toward them, bounding to his feet in a way that told Tucker all he needed to know about violence and being a railroad man back when a man’s body was his livelihood and fighting wasn’t a sin. Tucker squared his feet and held on to his symbol of protection, offered casually by a woman whose family had slid under his skin with their kindness.

“C’mon, Conklin, c’mon. You think you can hurt me? You think you can hurt me?”

With a roar, Conklin was upon him, a wiry, enraged hurricane, battering with fists, kicking, biting. Tucker let go of the necklace and fought back.

The connection of his fist with Conklin’s jaw rang up Tucker’s arm like a bell, and Conklin fell back with a grunt.

“You hit me!” he growled, and Tucker didn’t care about metaphysics.

“Felt good,” he snarled. “Let’s do it again.”

They squared off then, opponents in the ring, and James Beaufort bounced on his toes by Tucker’s side.

“He’s vain,” he muttered. “And afraid of pain. Go for his nose.”

“I’d rather knee him in the balls,” Tucker growled, sick all over again at what Sophie had endured. “C’mon, man!” he shouted. “C’mon. If we’re gonna do this, let’s do this, ghost to psychic. Let’s see who walks away!”

“Tucker, don’t!” Angel called, and Tucker turned his head.

Conklin attacked, his first punch getting Tucker in the stomach, the second breaking his nose. He howled in pain and struck back, his muscles, honed in hours of boredom at the gym, finally getting to do something interesting.

He could hardly see through the pain-blossom in his nose, and he was having trouble breathing as well, but each blow filled him, invigorated him, gave him purpose.

“You like causing pain, motherfucker!” He threw a hard right to Conklin’s ribs. “I’ll give you pain you’d fucking die to escape!”

James Beaufort laughed heartily at that, the hysteria in the sound reminding Tucker that he’d lived over a hundred years with the pain