Witch Blood

ELEVEN

THOMAS TRIED TO IGNORE ISABELLE’S PROXIMITY IN the passenger seat of his car, and especially the way her light musky scent filled the interior. He wanted to reach over and touch her jean-clad thigh, but she’d made it clear she didn’t want that from him.

It was almost as if last night had never happened, as if they hadn’t spent hours, first in his office and then in his bed, exploring every part of each other’s bodies intimately.

This morning when she’d come downstairs, face bright and cheerful, eyes empty of memory, acting as though nothing had happened at all, Thomas had felt more removed from Isabelle than he had since they’d first met.

Damn it, he’d been a one-night stand to her. He had to admit it pricked his pride a little.

He downshifted too hard in his agitation and the car jerked.

Isabelle braced a hand flat on the dash and glanced at him. “Be nice to your car, Thomas. It’s a Mercedes, a fine piece of machinery.”

“We’re almost there.” His voice sounded tight. “Tell me if you see a parking place.”

A moment later she pointed to a spot near their destination — Boyle’s only known residence — and he guided his car into the space. No Harley was parked outside, but that didn’t mean the demon wasn’t home.

They peered out the window at the building. It was a nice place in an upscale area. Still, it looked like any other apartment building in this part of Chicago. It just went to show you how little you knew your neighbors. These people had no idea they lived near a demon. Thomas hoped no one had tried to borrow a cup of sugar.

That morning they’d gone to Thompson’s Motorcycles, where Simon Alexander worked. Posing as detectives, he and Isabelle had managed to persuade the manager that their loyal client, Erasmus Boyle, was a suspect in the attack on their accountant.

The manager had given up all the information on Boyle he possessed — license plate number, credit card numbers, home address, and phone number. He’d also told them that Boyle was a quiet, yet disturbing man. Boyle frequented the business often, having work done on his vintage 1977 Harley Davidson Low Rider, and buying and trading other cycles.

According to the manager he rarely said much to anyone that wasn’t related to his hobby. No one at the shop knew a whole lot about his personal life and the consensus was that the man was creepy. The manager and employees could’ve had no way to know that Boyle was a demon, but apparently they’d sensed the monster in him on some level.

The manager was able to give them a few helpful tidbits. For example, a bar that Boyle liked to frequent. A bar that, not so coincidently, was a hangout for many witches. Since Boyle could mask his demoness when he wanted, none of the witches in the establishment would be clued in to his true nature. Hunting was probably easy for him.

The trip that morning had yielded a few tools to track Boyle down, if the demon could be tracked down. Thomas had sent Jack, Micah, Theo, Ingrid, and Adam out on leads he wasn’t following up on with Isabelle — places where witches congregated and might draw Boyle.

They needed to work up an area where Boyle was known to frequent, places where they could patrol in hopes of finding him. That was their only hope of locating the demon. After all, they couldn’t wait around for Mira to get another lucky break, although the powerful air witch was on constant surveillance for any other hint of Boyle.

He and Isabelle sat with the engine running while Isabelle sent her magick through the water in the building, right into Boyle’s apartment. All she needed to tap into the water in a building was close proximity and a little dampness between herself and her target. Fortunately, it had recently rained.

“There’s no one there that I can feel,” she said finally. “Either the place is empty, or he’s masking somehow. But I don’t think he’s masking because I can’t sense any sort of barrier anywhere.”

“He likely feels he has nothing to fear from us, so no barrier.”

She snorted. “We’re gnats to him.”

He shut off the engine. “Okay, let’s go in while we can.”

Isabelle opened her door. He put a hand on her leg to stop her and she turned to glare at him. “No, you’re not getting all macho and protective on me, Thomas.”

He sighed. “We need to make sure we do this carefully. That’s all.”

“We will. We’ll do it like we discussed.”

“First sign of trouble and I want you out of there, Isabelle. Understand?”

She stared at him for a long moment, then leaned in and kissed him. He had to stop himself from threading his fingers through her hair and crushing his mouth to hers. A groan rose in his throat from the pure pleasure of the taste of her, but he stifled it. He settled for the swipe of her lips on his and the light brush of her tongue into his mouth. Right now pushing for more was not a smart move.

Isabelle broke the kiss and set her forehead to his. Her sigh bathed his lips in her warm, sweet breath. “Maybe I like it a little bit when you’re macho and protective.” And then she was gone, striding toward the door of the building.

Thomas had to hurry to keep up.

The building was located in a swanky part of Chicago, but Thomas was glad to find the absence of a doorman or any added security in the sterile, polished lobby.

Isabelle called the elevator, and they traveled up to the fifth floor. When they reached Boyle’s place, Thomas set his ear to the door, just to double-check for sounds within, while Isabelle did one last check via the water through the condo.

They both came back with nothing, and Thomas pulled his magickal ace, one of the earth charms he’d brewed and stored before they’d left the Coven on this errand. He took a black pen out of his back pocket and, muttering another incantation, basically words that he’d imbued with his own power, wrote a symbol of his own devising on the door. Earth magick was all about intention and the ability to channel magick though words and symbols of the witch’s choosing. This spell was designed to muffle sound. Immediately after he’d finished marking the powerful charm, the release of the stored magick immediately diminished his strength, straining his body.

Once he was happy with his handiwork, he stepped back and drove his boot into the door until the lock broke through the jamb and swung open. Thanks to the charm, no sound alerted the neighbors.

The subtle scent of demon wafted out from the condo. Both of them flattened their backs against either side of the door at the same time in response. That smell brought back the horror of the previous night.

He glanced at Isabelle and saw her face had taken on a greenish cast. He wasn’t much better off.

When no demon roared through the doorway at them, they entered cautiously, Thomas making sure he went first. The interior, despite the odor, looked like a model home. The furniture, artwork, and area rugs all looked like they’d been selected by an interior designer. The place was spotless, too. Thomas could see not one thing misplaced, not a smear on the glass table or any of the mirrors, nothing.

“It’s almost like he doesn’t live here,” said Isabelle, taking the words from his mouth. “Where does he get his money anyway? I doubt he holds down a job, right?”

Thomas shrugged. “He’s a demon. I’m sure he’s got lots of ways. He can manipulate this dimension in ways we can’t. That’s why the Duskoff covet them.”

Thomas went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. Inside laid package after package of hamburger and steak, all past expiration. According to Micah, that was a demon’s favorite meal, slightly spoiled raw meat. “Well, he’s eating here. The refrigerator is filled with demon snacks.”

“Yuck!” called Isabelle from somewhere else in the condo. “I know Micah said that a human woman fell in love with a demon way back then…but how could she stand to watch him eat?”

“Or stand his breath,” he answered. “Or just the simple everyday scent of him when he’s not masking.”

“Bleh. No kidding,” Isabelle called from the bedroom. He could hear her opening and slamming shut drawers. “Of course way back then everyone smelled bad.”

“True.” Thomas sifted through a pile of junk mail on a small table near the front door. “At least we can tell he’s been here since the fridge is full and the place reeks of demon magick.”

“But there’s nothing here! Nothing at all. All the dressers are empty. The bathroom’s empty. The closet’s empty.”

Thomas pivoted and opened a cupboard. Empty. As were all the drawers. A further thorough exploration of the apartment yielded more of the same — empty, empty, empty.

“Damn it!”

Isabelle walked down the hallway toward him. “What were we expecting to find? A diary detailing his nefarious plans? A map leading to the person he plans to attack next? I doubt it will be so easy.”

He turned toward her and pushed a hand through his hair. “I was expecting to find something more than rotting meat. I hoped to find a book, magickical paraphernalia, something that might give us a handle on Boyle’s intentions.”

She sighed. “It’s like he doesn’t stay here. Like this place is only for show. Like he stores food here, but that’s it.”

Thomas nodded. “I wonder who the show is for. Us?” He rubbed his chin. “Maybe we’re not gnats after all.”

She turned in a slow circle in the center of the living room, surveying the place. “Maybe.” She shivered. “Let’s get out of here. It gives me the willies and I think we’re done anyhow. We’ve got other places to check, right?”

Thomas nodded. “One more. The store manager said he’d seen Boyle at a bar lots of the bikers hang out at.” He checked his watch. “It’s late afternoon. We can check it out now.”

Isabelle headed to the door. “Thank the Lady, a bar. I need a drink.”

THE BAR WAS A BUST.

Isabelle mumbled her good night to Thomas as soon as they were through the doorway of the Coven.

Thomas stopped her dead with two words spoken in his low, mesmerizing voice. “Going somewhere?” She should’ve known she’d never get away so easily.

He crowded her back against the wall and pinned her there with both arms on either side of her body. Unease at being trapped against the wall licked through her and she drew a deep, steadying breath, reminding herself that she wasn’t back in that closet. She was safe. She was free and no longer dependent on anyone else. At any time she could push away from Thomas and leave. Her fear abated with her reasoning.

His black pupils nearly swallowed up the dark-colored rims of his eyes. She watched in fascination as his jaw locked for a moment and his gaze dropped to her lips.

“What is wrong with you today?” he asked as he lazily dragged his gaze back up to meet her eyes.

She suppressed a shiver. Wrong with her? Did he mean other than the fact that all she wanted was to fuck him now, this very second? That kind of desire was dangerous.

Everything about Thomas Monahan was dangerous.

She tried to sound flip. “Nothing’s wrong.”

His jaw locked again and his eyebrows rose. “Then explain to me why you left my room last night like a thief?”

“I don’t sleep well in other people’s beds.”

He cocked his head to the side. “That sounds like such a practiced line.”

She glared at him. “I’m not lying.”

“And you’re not telling the whole truth either.”

“Look, I don’t owe—”

“Did you dislike it that much?”

Lady, no. She gave him a slow smile. “Dislike is not the word I would have chosen.”

“Then why the coldness?”

She chewed her lip for a moment before speaking. “Well, it’s not like I want to get married or anything.”

“Never thought you did,” he murmured, staring at her mouth. “So what’s the problem?”

His head drifted closer to hers with the clear intention of kissing her while Isabelle tried desperately to remember what the problem actually was….

“Thomas?”

They both jerked, startled by Micah’s voice. Thomas swore long and fervently under his breath and turned toward him. “What is it?”

Micah looked surprised once he saw whose body Thomas’s had been blocking, the one pressed up intimately against the wall. Isabelle colored, the curse of the fairskinned.

Micah blushed, too. “I’m, uh, sorry.”

“Don’t be,” answered Thomas. “What is it?”

“Just thought you’d like to know that Stefan tried to commit suicide today.”

“What?” asked both Thomas and Isabelle in unison.

“He ripped his sheets into long thin strips and tried to hang himself. He only managed to knock himself unconscious, though. We put him in an empty padded cell.”

Thomas looked thoughtful for a moment. “Gribben is getting to him a lot faster than I thought it would.”

Micah snorted. “Do we care?”

“I don’t know.” Thomas passed a hand over his face, looking weary for a moment. “Any other news from today?”

“No. You?”

Thomas gave his head a short shake. “Nothing from Jack, Ingrid, or the others either.”

“Then we wait.” Micah sighed and turned away, waving a dismissive hand. “Carry on.”

Thomas turned back to her, his eyes stormy and troubled. The sexual mood had been broken. Good thing since she’d been about to succumb. The reality of their situation had been asserted by the exchange with Micah. They were nowhere closer to finding this thing and they had no idea when it would kill again.

Gods.

Sobered, she turned to walk up the stairs. “I’m going to hit the—”

“You haven’t eaten.”

She turned back around. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve been with you all day and you haven’t eaten anything.” He paused, considering. “Well, unless you count the Snickers bar and Coke you had for breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Nonsense. You need to eat something.”

“Nonsense?” She crossed her arms over her chest, gave him a slow smile, and glanced pointedly around at the dark, quiet house. It was late. Maybe they should have stopped for pizza. “Well then, Daddy,” she drawled, “what did you have in mind? There’s no food around here I can see.”

“The kitchen is closed, but we can still find something to make a meal. They know me around here. I’m sure I can get us a table.”

“Ah. Humor.” She nodded. “All right. Lead the way.”

Isabelle followed him down one of the darkened corridors of the house, past the carefully hung artwork, the small, intimate sitting areas and the lovely carved wood tables upon which sat vases filled to bursting with fresh flowers until finally they reached the huge Coven kitchen.

He opened the swinging doors, allowing her to step through. By the small amount of light, she saw it was all stainless steel and spotless. A large middle island stood amidst the stoves, refrigerators, and countertops.

“Wow.”

Thomas went for the bank of refrigerators. “There’s a wine cave, too.”

She wandered over to sit at the island, sliding onto one of the cushioned chairs, and watched Thomas pull random items out of the fridge and set them on the counter — strawberries, a platter of leftover chicken swimming in some sort of yummy-looking sauce and a plate of steamed asparagus.

She caught sight of a bowl of ripe avocados on a nearby counter, grabbed one of the pieces of fruit along with a salt shaker, a knife, and a cutting board, and sat back down to peel it.

“Aha!”

She jerked her head up from her work on the avocado to see Thomas take a plate of something from the fridge. She leaned over to take a closer look while he pulled off the plastic covering it. “Oh, no. I’m not eating that.”

He glanced up at her. “What? You don’t like oysters? What’s wrong with you?”

She shuddered. “They’re slimy and hideous.”

“You’ve never tasted one.”

She peeled the last bit of the avocado, extracted the seed and cut a bit of the ripe fruit. “I don’t need to.” She popped a thin slice of the avocado into her mouth and let the creaminess of it spread over her tongue.

He turned to the oven with the plate of chicken in hand. He put both the meat and the asparagus over a low flame in a wide skillet. Soon the gentle scent of basil chicken wafted to her nostrils and made her mouth water. As the chicken and asparagus warmed, Thomas found a bottle of champagne in the fridge and popped it.

She bit into another slice of avocado and watched him. “Are we celebrating?” She didn’t see anything worthy of such at the moment.

Thomas only lifted a brow, theatrically shot his cuffs and then poured a few drops of the Veuve Clicquot into an oyster.

Isabelle curled her lip and tossed the half-eaten slice of avocado to her plate. “Ugh. That is such a waste of good champagne.”

He rested his elbow on the counter, oyster in hand, and leaned toward her. “You don’t know what you’re missing.” His voice rolled over her, satiny smooth and low.

Her gaze found his mouth when he lifted the oyster to his lips, lingered on the curve of his lips. As he tipped the small shell to partake of the dubious delicacy, she wished for a moment she were the oyster. Then the slimy bit was gone and he wore a rapturous expression on his face, head thrown back, eyes closed, dark hair cascading down his back.

Oh, yeah.

She closed her mouth and managed to stop drooling before he opened his eyes and looked at her. “I never thought you were afraid of trying new things. Are you sure you don’t want one?”

She bit her lip for a moment. “Hand one over, but if I puke on your five-hundred dollar shoes, I was coerced, so don’t sue me.”

He laughed low as he prepared one for her. That laugh was a silky, dangerous thing and it made her shiver. She barely noticed when he handed her the half shell and came to stand beside her.

“How should I eat it?”

“Let it lie on your tongue for a moment, just a moment, then allow it to slide down your throat.”

She studied it for a moment, and then decided staring at it was a bad idea. Pretty, it was not. “Down the hatch.” She tipped her head back and slurped it between her lips.

It filled her mouth, cool, champagne-laced and mildly fishy, before she allowed it to ease down her throat. Like him, she found her head falling back on a mmmmm of surprised culinary delight.

She opened her eyes to find him studying her intently. “Good?”

Isabelle pursed her lips and chose her words. “Unique. Interesting. Complex. Definitely unforgettable.”

His eyes went heavy-lidded and he reached out to wipe a bit of juice from the corner of her mouth. “Sounds like someone I know.”

Before she’d even known she’d done it, she’d taken his hand and licked his finger. His eyes went darker immediately, the pupils growing larger, and his luscious lips parting. They stood there for a moment in the semidarkness of the kitchen and held each other’s gazes.

The chicken on the stove popped and sizzled.

She blinked, breaking herself away from the intimate moment. “Dinner’s burning.”

He made a low, frustrated sound and backed away.

Thankful for the chance to catch her breath and snap herself out the second spell he’d put her under that evening, she rested her chin on her palm and watched him prepare two plates. He poured them both champagne from the open bottle and sat beside her to eat.

Her stomach rumbling, she picked up her fork and took a bite. Spices and tender chicken caressed her taste buds. “God, that’s good,” she said around a mouthful. “You have excellent chefs here.”

He swallowed his bite and studied her as she dug in with relish. “To a woman who lives on Twinkies and Coke, I’m sure it does taste good.”

“I don’t live on Twinkies and Coke!”

His lips twisted. “That’s true, sometimes you throw a bag of Doritos in there, or a peanut butter sandwich. Is that for protein?”

She shrugged, knowing full well her diet was less than exemplary. “I’m used to eating on the road. I never learned to cook for myself.”

“Maybe while you’re here, I could help you learn.”

She gave him a lingering glance, from the tips of his Ferragamo shoes to the cuff of his Armani shirt. Nothing about Thomas Monahan was prêt-à-porter. “You cook?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Most earth witches do. Something about cooking up spells translates to cooking up meals.” He took a bite of chicken.

She picked up an asparagus stalk and studied him as she licked the tip. His chewing abruptly stopped and his gaze locked on her mouth. Isabelle suppressed a smile and puckered her lips as she slid the stalk within slowly and took a bite. Once she’d swallowed, she asked, “What would we make together?”

“Whatever you wanted. Vegetable stir-fry or miso chicken for example. Anything you can think of.”

“Miso chicken? What the hell is that? How about something practical, like tuna fish casserole. That’s the stuff I really need to learn how to make.”

“How about meatloaf, then?”

A memory swelled. She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering. “I haven’t had meatloaf in forever. Angela and I lived with a woman named Maggie Price for a while who would cook and bake for us. She used to make the best meatloaf. On rainy days when we couldn’t go outside to play, we’d stay in and bake chocolate chip cookies. Staying with her was one of the few times”—she glanced at Thomas, realizing how much she’d disclosed and how easily she’d disclosed it—“I felt…safe.” She ducked her head and nibbled another asparagus stalk.

Thomas took a bite, carefully chewed, and swallowed before he asked, “You didn’t feel safe when you were a child?”

She tossed the half-eaten asparagus stalk to the plate and sighed. “Stop pretending you don’t know. I’m certain you looked up my Coven records after I tried to off Stefan. You know what our mother is like, how she shuffled me and Angela around to her friends and lovers all through our childhood.”

“Yes, I know all that. I did check out your records, but they didn’t reveal how you feel about it.”

“It was kind of rough sometimes, but I don’t go there. It’s in the past, can’t change the past. It’s useless to look backward.”

“Sometimes the past echoes into the present. That means sometimes you have to deal with those events in the present, so they don’t echo as much.”

She picked up her fork and toyed with the chicken, not feeling very hungry anymore. “No echoes over here.” Much. “How about you, Mr. Pop Psychology? How was your childhood?”

Thoughtfully, he chewed and swallowed. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I had siblings, a caring mother, an attentive father. You can’t ask for much more than that.”

She had a flash of jealousy she quickly squashed. It would have been nice to have even one of those things, a caring mother or an attentive father, but she was happy Thomas had had both.

“I had my sister.”

Thomas didn’t say anything for several moments. “We’ll get the demon, Isabelle. We have to.”

“I know.” She spoke with the certainty of the obsessed.