"Mmm." I close my eyes, savoring the taste. "Let's do some more of these!"
"As you wish." He winks at me. Does he know that's a Princess Bride reference? Does he also know that with those words, he just melted another section of my heart?
Being with him is so easy that I forget about everything else. No zemis or madstones, no night demons, no Sages or cannibalistic spirits exist. It's only the two of us, laughing, torching marshmallows and stuffing our faces until our fingers and lips are hopelessly sticky.
I'm about to try a triple-stocked skewer of marshmallows when Ryden snarls—actually snarls, deep in his throat. The next second I see the threat.
A man stands on the other side of the barrier, dressed in jeans, a dark plaid shirt, and a black cowboy hat. I've always hated cowboy hats—they're usually an affectation assumed by guys desperate to be cooler and sexier than they are. But on this man, it fits. He's painfully thin, almost as tall as Ryden, his sharp cheekbones nearly jutting through his sallow skin. His eyes look oddly, supernaturally white, including the irises, but they must be a very pale blue. A scraping of stubble coats his bony jaw, and I can see sharp collarbones through the open neck of his shirt.
He's staring at us, hands on his hips. Slowly he reaches for his chest, picking out a pendant from the dozen or more that hang there. As he holds the amulet to his lips, it glows silver. When he speaks, his voice penetrates the barrier easily.
"You don't seem to be taking your situation very seriously," he says. "If I were you, I'd be preparing a defense for tonight. Or finding the items on my list."
Ryden gives him the finger.
The man chuckles. "Whoa there, son. No need for bad blood. You take this pretty piece of ass back up to the house with you and set her to work hunting for the Madstone." He glances at me. "Be sure you check under the beds, love. A woman's place is on her knees, after all." He grins, lips stretching to expose narrow teeth.
My anger and the scant remnants of my suppressed power churn in my chest, and I step forward without thinking, my hands moving up to send a pulse of energy at him.
Ryden yanks me back. "Watch out, Cilla! You'll get fried."
The man behind the wall cocks his head, frowning, his eyes flicking from my face to my hands. "Do I know you?" he says.
I mimic Ryden's earlier gesture, and then I let him drag me away from the barrier, toward the house.
"He's still watching us," I whisper. I'm desperate to get away from those pale eyes, fearful that if the man stares at me too long, he'll guess what I am, or who I am.
I tug Ryden's hand. "In there!" I point to a shed nearby, closer than the back door. "Let's wait till he leaves."
We dodge inside and pull the door shut. The cloudy skylight above suffuses the room with a soft glow, and by it I can see that the place is neater and cleaner than most gardening sheds—free of the cobwebs and grimy corners such places usually have. There's a metal sink with a rag hung over the side, so I wet it, wipe my sticky fingers, and offer it to Ryden so he can do the same. He cleans each of those strong fingers and that perfect mouth, oblivious to my eyes on him.
We're alone, Ryden and I. Really alone, and no one knows where we are. No one can see us here. A soft, ticklish thrill runs through my lower body.
I want him. And if I'm going to have him, it has to be soon, because the Patronage will be sending a team soon, to break up this stalemate. After that, I won't see Ryden again.
I'm not sure how to begin seducing him. I know it won't take much, but I have to start somewhere. So I clear my throat, brushing dust off a small worktable that still bears neat stacks of empty flowerpots and rows of seed packets. "Somebody took good care of this place."
"That would be Mick, the grounds-keeper," says Ryden. "We had to let him go after Dad died, along with the housekeeping staff. He got a cushy retirement package though." He sighs. "I'll miss him. He was always around whenever I visited."
"Do you plan to sell the house?" I ask.
He nods. "None of us really want to keep it up. And the taxes are insane."
"I can imagine. Besides, you're living in Asheboro, right?"
"Right. And you?"
"Charlotte. Nali and I have a loft downtown."
He quirks an eyebrow. "Professional organizers can afford downtown lofts?"
"Well, we—we do a good job, with our business," I stammer. "When people like our work, they leave us good reviews, and then we get higher-paying clients, like you. I mean—sorry."
"That's okay." He's moving closer, and I inch away, until my back is pressed against the door. "I realize that we're your clients."
"Incredibly sexy clients," I whisper.
He winces, feigning hurt. "So you think my brother and sister are sexy too?"
"No. Well, yes, but not in the same way you are."
"What makes me different?" He places the tip of his finger under my chin, running it along my jaw, over my ear. The tingling warmth between my legs intensifies.
"You're funny. Sweet. Charming, even if you eat like a pig."
He laughs. "Yeah, I guess I do."
"You have this way of being—free. With yourself. With—with me."
"It almost sounds as if you like me."
"I think I do." The warmth of his body surrounds me, like the rich scent of him. The way he's skimming my face and arms with his fingertips—I'm going to burst from wanting him. I lunge forward, trying to capture his lips, but he pulls back.
"Say it."
"I like you," I murmur.
"Louder." There's a teasing sparkle in his hazel eyes, but it's rapidly dissipating into raw desire.
I stare straight back at him, opening my heart a little. Just enough for him to catch a glimpse of how I feel. "It's stupid, and too fast, and so crazy, but—I like you."
"There it is." He kisses me deeply, and I moan into his mouth, desperate for more of him. I grip his belt and pull his hips toward me, toward the place where I need the pressure. He takes my arms and moves them up, above my head, pinning them against the door.
"Easy," he says against my lips, smiling. "Dang, girl, when you let yourself go, you're a firecracker. How long since you did this with someone?"
"It's—it's been a while," I gasp, my ability to form words shattering as my entire brain refocuses on those rough, warm lips kissing a trail down the side of my neck.
"How long?"
"Two years."
"That's a crying shame. You should be touched like this every damn day."
I flinch, my pride making a resurgence. "There's nothing a man can do for me that I can't do for myself."
"Yeah?" His lips hover over my collarbone, almost touching but not quite. The tickle of his breath over my skin is unbearable. I writhe, but his hands around my wrists are velvet and steel. "So you can do this yourself?" He kisses the hollow between my collarbones, and I tip my head back, my eyes closing in spite of myself. The next kiss is lower, and the third time his lips press right at the spot where my cleavage starts. My breasts are instantly heavier, tighter. He's waking up my body, inch by inch.
He slides his hands from my wrists down my arms, along my sides, till they cup my hips. And then he kneels before me. Lifts my dress. "And can you do this yourself?"
His fingers graze the fabric between my thighs, shifting it aside. Panicking, I seize his face in my hands and push him back, away from me. "No, I'm not comfortable with that."
"Why not?" When he looks up at me, his eyes are soft, almost pleading. Not teasing. There's a reverence in the way he holds my hips, a gentleness that dissolves me.
"Well, it's kind of unsanitary. Not that I'm not clean—I mean, I showered, but still, it's gross. Isn't it?"
He laughs. "Are you serious?"
"Yes." I scowl at him.
"Why don't you let me decide what's gross and what isn't?" he says, and before I can stop him, he's doing things to me that I definitely can't do for myself, that no one has ever done for me—and within minutes my consciousness explod
es into a thousand scintillating shards. When it's over, I'm shaking, legs trembling, almost crying with something beyond release and relief.
He rises, running that talented tongue over his lips, and cups my chin in one hand. "There is nothing gross about you. Not possible."
"You," I whisper, twisting my fingers into the curls at the back of his neck. "What are you?"
"An apex predator, baby," he says, pressing mouth to mine.
I'm sliding, or falling, or maybe running headlong into a blissful void where I am his willing heart-slave. "Your turn," I whisper, because I want nothing more in this moment than to make him feel as amazing as he just made me feel.
But a volley of panicked barks outside startles us both. Ryden stiffens with alarm, cursing. "Something's wrong. He doesn't bark like that unless—"
Adjusting my dress, I push open the shed door and step aside, letting him rush out.
The color of the magical wall is changing.
Sinuous black tentacles crawl over the barrier—hundreds, thousands of them, writhing and weaving themselves together into a solid, impenetrable mass of black. Within minutes, the last vestiges of sunlight vanish as the cracks close up tight.
It's pitch black under the dome. A few lights glow faintly from the house, as if they're struggling to push back the magical dark.
Stripping so fast that I barely notice, Ryden transforms and stalks by my side on the way back to the house, a black shadow that's menacing and comforting at the same time. Winchester paces at my other side, apparently unfazed by the enormous panther. This dog must have seen the Ashtons transform many times.
I feel strangely regal, walking between the dog and the panther, as if I'm someone to be valued and protected instead of a lowly go-fer for the Patronage. They only picked me for this job because of the raw power of my magic. I wasn't a particularly good student, like some of the other candidates—not a legacy or a strategist. I'm not even especially skilled or precise at wielding my power, since I spent so many years not knowing I had it. I was too calm, too empty inside to sense its presence.
When I finally got away from my mother—when my father stole me away—I discovered that I could send pulses of kinetic energy through the air, or strengthen the gravity in a particular spot. Physical magic, my father told me, relief in his eyes. He had been afraid I inherited my mother's gift for emotion-class sorcery.
So I went to Rathton College, where a subdivision of the Humanities Department provides training for wielders. That's where I met Nali, and where I first learned of the Patronage. Finding out about it seemed like a god-send then, the gift of a visible, tangible future in a world where I felt frighteningly adrift. The Patronage was my lifeline, and from that moment I became devoted to them, obsessed with becoming one of them.
But my job as acquisitions specialist for the Patronage isn't what I hoped it would be. It pays well, but I want to be more than a magically gifted thief and con artist. I can't tell if my objection to the job stems from my own ambition or from some scraps of moral code that society managed to instill in me, despite my mother's very loose perspective on such things.
I glance down at Ryden's silky back, his muscles flowing under his gleaming fur. I lay a hand on his head, and he turns green-gold eyes up to me and licks his lips. The action sends a little shiver through me. Too weird. I'm not attracted to a panther. I'm not. It's the man inside or beyond this form that I want.
Light floods the steps as Oakland throws open the front door. "What now?" His voice is shrill, strained, his veneer of calm finally cracking.
"I'm not sure," I say, and then I tell him about the man in the cowboy hat. "I thought we had more time before he raised the stakes, or whatever, but I guess not."
"Where have you two been?" Dae's voice is pitched about ten octaves higher than her brother's. "We've been working—what were you doing?"
"Testing the barrier for weaknesses," I answer. Ryden's muzzle bumps gently against my backside on the way up the steps. Idiot. I reach back and push him away. He bounds past me into the house, his tail whisking past my leg. "I don't know why he changed forms," I say. "There wasn't any immediate danger."
"He does that sometimes when he's worked up," says Oak. "He's the youngest and the wildest, and he needs to change more often."
"Wildest?" Dae raises an eyebrow.
"Right. You're the wildest, sis." Oakland sighs. He slams both palms onto the console table in the entry.
"Thank you," Dae says smugly, closing the door as soon as Winchester follows us in. Nali is standing in the shadows of the hallway, watching me with unbridled suspicion. I avoid her eyes, but I can feel them, questioning, accusing.
"Let's give that man whatever you've got," Nali says suddenly, sharply. "Maybe if you give him enough relics or whatever, he'll be satisfied and leave."
"Fine." Oakland marches up the stairs.
"Oak, stop!" says Daera. "You're just going to give it to him?"
"I'm giving him what we have, like she said. I'll throw in some of the spellbooks from that locked case in the study. Maybe he'll let us go. Or let them go. Or at least let us make a damn phone call. This is a nightmare, Dae, and it has to end."
He charges up the steps, and Ryden leaps after him. Daera, Nali, and I stand awkwardly in the entry, Nali twisting her ear studs, Daera rattling her nails against the doorpost, and me ruffling Winchester's ears.
Oak comes back in five minutes, carrying a bag and a large box. He strides out the front door, followed by the black panther. Daera, Nali, and I cluster on the front step to watch.
"Hey, evil bastard!" Oakland shouts, with an angry bravado that reminds me of his brother. "Here's the stuff you want, plus some extra. We give you this, you gotta let us go, okay? You need to let us the hell out of here. We got families, people out there, things we need to do. We're getting low on food and fuel."
The unnaturally loud voice answers him. "And the Madstone? Is it there?"
"We've searched. All of us. We can't find it. Come on, be reasonable. We're giving you extra spellbooks, some other talismans—we'll keep looking for the Madstone, but you've got to let us get supplies, call people."
"Call people," drawls the voice. "Who you wanna call, Oakland? Little wifey and kiddos? Interesting. I'm out here, and they're out here—but you're in there. So what if I drop by, tell 'em that Daddy'll be home as soon as he finds me the Madstone?"
Oakland's back goes rigid, and a threatening scream erupts from the dark panther's throat.
"Stay away from my family," Oakland says. "Or so help me—"
"But I'm tryin' to help you," says the voice. "Look, I'm not heartless. I'll spare you the demons tonight because of your lovely good faith gesture here. But I'm afraid that my patience is shrinking."
As the words echo in the air, the barrier advances suddenly toward Oakland. He and the panther jump backward as purple-tinged lightning lances from the inky surface. The barrier moves closer, closer. The boxes of magical supplies, abandoned on the grass, are absorbed into it unscathed.
"It's shrinking," I gasp. "The dome is shrinking."
The barrier creeps a few feet nearer, then stops.
"Tick tock," says the voice. "The Madstone. Bring it to me, or you might run out of room as well as time."
-8-
Wrecking Ball
We search.
We hunt for the Madstone until we're sweat-streaked and shaking with exhaustion, knees stiff from crouching by drawers, fingers aching from sorting through boxes and pulling contents from cupboards. No more efforts at sorting or organization—we tear through the place, ripping books from shelves, tossing clothes and knickknacks and personal effects onto the floors, clawing through piles. Every box from the attic and basement is emptied, every crack and crevice inspected.
The Sedona Madstone is nowhere to be found.
Ragged and red-eyed, we gather in the kitchen to eat and drink in silence. My sliced arm is aching, as are the demon scratches along my side. I drink two full glass
es of water without pausing and devour the sandwich Nali makes for me.
"Thank you," I tell her after I swallow the last bite.
She nods. "You look like shit."
"Thanks. You too."
She smiles faintly. "I'm sleeping down here, where it's cool. You?"
"I'm showering first and redoing my bandages, but yes, I'll probably sleep down here."
We're side by side at the end of the kitchen island, while the three Ashtons cluster at the other end, talking quietly. They look as haggard as we do.
"The Patronage team will be here by morning," Nali whispers.
"I know." I'm watching Ryden, the flex of his jaw as he chews, the press of his fingers around the glass before him, and the way his shoulders bow with weariness. I want to spread my hands over those shoulders and work the tension out of them. I want to kiss the side of his neck, all the way down to the place where those cords of muscle meet the hollows of his throat and collarbones.
He looks up and meets my eyes, holding my gaze for a second before returning his attention to his brother and sister.
"You're drooling," Nali says in my ear.
"Am not."
She sighs. "It's not a good idea, Cilla. Don't sully yourself with a shifter. You know, Jared Boggs in Research has been asking me about you, wanting to know if you're single. Now he's a worthy match."
"What is this, a Jane Austen novel?" I hiss back. "I'm not looking for a match. Just—someone to—"
"To bone?"
"Maybe." But even as I say it, I know that I want more from him—damn me, I do. I want to have stupid, normal dinner-and-movie dates with him. I want to run away to a beach with him and sit on the sand and strut the boardwalk and fall into bed with my hair smelling like the sea. I want to run through a meadow with a black panther by my side. And I want to show him all the wonderful things I can do with magic.
But I can't. Because I'm a thief, and he's a mark, and he doesn't know it.
I shove myself off the stool and stumble down the hallway to the stairs. There are many of them, too many—but I manage to haul myself up to the second floor and amble to my room for a long, cool shower.
The Panther and the Thief Page 7
