by Alisa Woods
But every taste made it harder.
The true horror was just dawning on Jankov’s face.
“Your operations,” Pennies said coolly, examining his manicured nails. “I want them.”
Jankov’s face was still flushed. Sweaty. “Is that why you’re poisoning my customers?” He was struggling to put the menace into his voice he surely meant to bring with him.
Zane flicked a look to Pennies. Addicts had been overdosing at random for months, and not just on Midnighter territory—but Pennies hadn’t strung anyone up for it, so Zane figured it was just a bad batch of something. That someone might be messing with the enhancers on purpose… lacing them with something deadly… it didn’t make any sense.
“Lies!” Pawel spat at Jankov. “It’s you who’re doing it!” His jitters were cranked up to full-finger-twitch mode—he almost looked like he was conjuring—and Zane could feel the magick gathering around him. But Pawel’s mind was fried. His words meant nothing.
“My brother feels you’re behind the unfortunate deaths that have been plaguing our customers.” Pennies sounded almost bored, which was fucking strange. He’d killed people for far lesser crimes than messing with his drug supply. He had to have some inside knowledge on this—enough to keep him cool.
What was the body count on this now? Dozens? If the drugs were being messed with, it wasn’t like people could complain to the cops—but it might build momentum for legalization. There’d been talk of regulating enhancers before—precisely to keep people from overdosing on bad magick—but legal enhancers would devastate the cartel’s money supply. What would Pennies do to stop that? Anything. Literally. Whatever he knew about these overdoses, Zane needed to find out… and get evidence that would hold up in court. Before Pennies killed Jankov for whatever. But none of it made sense—both men needed to keep the magick-enhancing drugs flowing through Chicago like the breeze off Lake Michigan.
A fierce calculation lit Jankov’s eyes, but he was outclassed by Pennies, and Pawel’s rep for instability was well known. And then there was Zane, the suddenly new threat in the room.
“Why would I spike my own damn drugs?” But Jankov’s left eye twitched.
Pennies shrugged. “Once we’ve consolidated, I’ll find the source of the problem and eliminate it.”
Jankov visibly swallowed. “I came here to work a deal.”
“And I’m offering one.” Pennies gave Zane a glance, and the twitch found a home between Zane’s shoulders again. Pennies turned back to Jankov. “Only one.”
Jankov’s men had never put away their guns, but their gazes were flitting more and more nervously between Pennies and Jankov.
“My men know I’m here,” Jankov said, but even Zane could hear the fear in his voice. “They’ll avenge me. Your whole operation will burn.”
A tinkling bell sounded from the front.
Jankov whipped around, but the door between them and the front of the bakery had swung shut. The small crease on Pennies’ brow said he was in the dark about this, too. Zane reached out into the fields of wild magick…
Holy shit. Whoever was coming through the bakery crackled with the energy of a Level One mage. Or stronger. Maybe even a sorcerer. What the fuck? He’d never tasted anything like it.
“Boss…” he said quietly.
Pennies whipped a look to him just before the door swung open.
Two of Pennies’ men—lookouts from outside—shoved a woman through the doorway, frog-marching her into the room then stopping just inside the door. A witch. A dark-haired, slender, crackling-with-magick witch more powerful than any Zane had ever met. And yet she was dressed like the plainest of simples—cropped jeans, a white blouse that draped over her curves, leaving her arms bare. Maybe mid-twenties, but her long brown hair swept back in a ponytail left her looking even younger. It was a hell of a disguise for what she really was.
“What?” Pennies hissed at his men.
“Sorry, boss, but she was snooping.”
“Why the fuck did you bring her in here?” Pennies was livid.
Zane just blinked. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. This woman—no way she could be taken by two of Pennies’ goons. They were simple, all of them, except for Jankov-the-charmer and Pawel-the-wildcard. She wanted to be here. What was a powerful mage doing slumming in a drug lord’s underground bakery?
Her gaze was locked on Pennies, fury burning in her brown eyes. “You’re him. The one who killed my father.”
Pennies momentarily regarded her like a bug who had spoken … then his mystification gave way to something… else. Something darker. “Is that right?” A smile slithered across his face. The man hated adepts with a passion that only a burning desire to be one could elicit. Did he realize she was a witch? Was he simply glad to cause her anguish?
Jankov and his men were looking between the two, mystified. “Who is this?” Jankov demanded. Unwisely, in Zane’s opinion, but he kept that to himself.
Pennies jerked his chin, waving off his men from holding her. “Do tell us,” he said to her. Then he slid a look to Zane.
Everything in him tensed. If he was loathe to feed off Jankov, that was nothing compared to the danger of feeding off a woman like this. Bursting with magick. Beautiful and arrogant and walking into a den of low-lifes like a Queen.
His inner demon wouldn’t stop. Zane didn’t know if he could stop. Or would want to.
The woman’s fury turned uncertain. She flicked a look at Pawel who was salivating in her general direction, fingers twitching. Could she sense his short-circuit magick? Could she feel Zane’s disruption? Most adepts felt uneasy around him even if their Talents weren’t mental—it was the natural response to a predator in the room.
Her roaming gaze settled back on Pennies. She lifted her chin. “My name is Ever Strange.”
Pennies eased forward. “Ev-er Strange.” He said it like he was tasting it, and his smile just grew. “Now where have I heard that name before?” But he was playing with her. He knew.
Zane’s brain pinged around, trying to place it. Nothing.
She stiffened. “My father is Asher Strange. He—”
“Oh, yes!” Pennies snapped his fingers as if it had just occurred to him. “The Family Strange. Powerful adepts all the way back to the beginning of High Magick, if I recall correctly.” He was creeping closer to her.
Zane tensed. What the hell was Pennies doing?
The woman—Ever—glared at Pennies. “My father OD’d on skitter. Your skitter. I traced the chemical composition back to your gangs. Your pipeline. Your supply chain.”
Pennies froze. “So what? Your father’s an addict like any other.” But he wasn’t playing anymore.
“He’s no addict! He’s a world-famous researcher—”
Pennies sneered. “Who kept his ugly little addiction a secret from his naïve and stupid daughter.” He smiled, but it was deadly—then he gestured with one hand to Jankov, who seemed baffled by the whole exchange. “See what I’m saying, Jankov? We need to consolidate our operations, so these terrible tragedies don’t keep happening.”
“He’s dead because of you!” Zane could feel the pressure building. She had powerful field magick—several Talents; he couldn’t even taste them all as they smeared together. The magick gathered to her, as it did with Pawel, only this witch could control it—of that Zane was certain. Yet she was holding back, not turning her anger into magick that could rip Pennies apart. Why?
“I want him back,” she said tightly, gaze intensely focused on Pennies’ face.
He laughed outright. “Well, if I had the power of necromancy—”
“I want his body!” Her voice rose, sharp.
Pennies just frowned, giving her a look like she’d gone stark, raving mad.
“His body,” she breathed, her chest now heaving like it was everything she could do to put this into words and not magick. “You stole it. From the morgue. I don’t know why. I don’t care why. I just… I just want him back.”
“You’re mistaken.” Pennies glowered at her, a sudden edge in his voice. He lifted his chin to his goon, Anton, by the door behind her. His thug eased a gun from his jacket.
She wasn’t paying attention. “Please. I’ll pay you whatever you like.”
Pennies turned his back. Anton raised his gun.
Fuck. “I want her.” The words were out before Zane could stop them.
The woman whipped her gaze to Zane like she’d just discovered he was in the room. Anton hesitated and looked to Pennies.
The drug lord raised his eyebrows.
“I want to keep her,” Zane elaborated, tightly. “For a while. She’ll be no trouble to you when I’m done.”
“No one’s keeping me—”
Zane slammed his mental magick into her mind, breaking all restraint in one swoop. Ever gasped, and he flinched as the lust surged back to him. The images that played through her mind, fantasies of one strapping young man after another, had her crumpling to the floor in an instant.
“No, no, no,” she whimpered. She was fighting him, uselessly.
Zane’s fight was entirely with himself—to not devour her immediately.
Pennies watched her torment, and a slow smile grew on his face. Then he shook his finger at Zane and chuckled. “I should have known The Lover would want this one. Take her.”
She cried out, and the rocketing wash of her pleasure nearly undid him. He crossed the room to where she lay, gritting his teeth under the onslaught.
“Get up,” he hissed through them.
She twitched but stayed down, whimpering, eeking out cries of no—as if the endless stream of lovers in her mind weren’t causing her pleasure at all, but some horrible kind of pain. He bent down, slipped an arm around her waist, hauled her up from the floor, then scooped her into his arms. He was careful not to touch her skin with his bare hands, not to breathe in her scent, not to in any way add to the overwhelming sensuality rocketing off her. With an iron will he’d labored to perfect, he focused entirely on the mechanics moving her the hell out of there. If he didn’t, if he dwelt for one instant on the boundless magick of the woman squirming in his arms, that would be the end.
He would feast. She would die. And he would be finished in every way.
“Well,” Pennies said, “now that that’s done.” He flicked his fingers in Jankov’s direction. Before Zane could think to speak—much less fight through the massive need to feed that was shutting down his mind—Anton turned to Jankov and shot him between the eyes. A flurry of rapid pops and his men were lying on the floor too.
Zane staggered back, his arms tightening around the moaning, writhing woman in them.
“Clean this up,” Pennies was saying to Pawel. “I want this store up and running product by tomorrow.” He turned to Zane and grinned. “Go on. Have fun. But when you are done, return her to me, incubus. Alive. Leave me that final pleasure, yes?”
Zane gave a curt nod and turned to shuffle toward the back of the bakery, the way they came in, Ever’s magick still hazing his mind. He told himself he saved her because she was an innocent. She didn’t deserve to be shot in a mob bakery. That there was something about her story that was wrong. The missing body. The dead father. The overdoses that were riddling the city. That it absolutely wasn’t the hungering need to consume her that was wracking the depths of his soul.
By the time he reached the back door and stumbled out into the noontime sun, her moans were loud enough to echo down the alleyway.
And he suddenly wasn’t sure of anything.
Chapter Two
Ever suddenly awoke—
From an erotic nightmare. She gasped in air, flailing at the dirty pavement, the rusted-out dumpster, and the brick wall behind her. Pleasure and terror throbbed through her body. Boys. From her college years. Every one she slept with during that lusty, liberated time before… before…
Terror quenched the fog in her mind.
She wasn’t alone.
A man loomed over her, his eyes hard and devouring. She tried to scrabble away, but she only bounced off the dumpster, and her face nearly smacked into the brick wall.
He stepped back, still staring at her. He was large, broad-shouldered, dark haired and dark eyed. He was one of the mobsters’ thugs. Only now they were in an alley. How did they get here? What happened? Her mind raced, pulling up blanks. Her heart pounded, her body still wracked by that insane, erotic nightmare that came out of nowhere and—
Her mouth fell open. “You,” she gasped. “You’re—”
“I know what I am.” He practically hissed it at her… but then took another step back.
Incubus. Her heart seized. Mental magick. The darkest kind. Not regular sex magick, where everyone recharged in the heat of the act. Incubi were one-way—and they drained you faster the more sexually charged you became. He’d conjured that nightmare in her head… and used it to feed off her. And now he’d brought her out to the alley to suck her dry.
Ever shoved her back against the dumpster and raised her shaky hands. What spell blocked mental magick? It was so rare. She fumbled with the motions, her fingers twisting but too clumsy—
“Don’t,” he barked at her.
Her heart froze again. The magick fizzled from her fingertips.
He squeezed his eyes shut and turned to the brick wall… and punched it. Hard. Twice. Ever gaped as blood ran from his knuckles and dripped to the alleyway floor. He stepped back and pulled gloves from his long black coat, roughly shoving his hands into them. She could see the tremor. Only once the gloves were on did he look at her again.
“The pain helps,” he whispered. Almost like he was saying it to himself, but his eyes were locked on her. They no longer had that wildness in them. The rough-cut lines of his face and the hard set of his jaw—not to mention the taut bulk of his body—still said he was a dangerous man. But not an out-of-control one. Maybe.
Ever braced one palm against the cool metal of the dumpster and the other against the crumbling brick wall. “You can control it,” she offered, as much a hope as a statement. She lurched up onto unsteady legs. “You don’t have to feed.” Off me. But that was obvious. She was prey in an alley with a predator. Keeping him calm seemed the only real option. She was a powerful witch, but that was all field magick—she had nothing against mental magick. Now that the panic had cleared, she remembered: no one did. That’s why it was illegal.
But this man wasn’t concerned about such things.
He dropped his gaze and ground his fist—the one still dripping blood inside his glove—into his palm. “We have to move.” He looked up, and some of the hardness in his eyes was gone. “He would have killed you. I had no choice.”
She nodded before she realized what he was saying. That he saved her? From the cartel boss, what was his name? Her mind was still fuzzy. Pennies. “I could have handled him,” she said, but it was weak. She couldn’t even remember… had she resorted to magick? She’d vowed not to. They were simple, no match for her—
A chuckle. The incubus was laughing at her.
She gave him an indignant look. “I’m a Level One mage—”
“I know.” The humor died on his face. His dark eyes dilated; the hunger was back. “Don’t remind me.”
She swallowed. What the hell was she doing, arguing about her powers in an alley with an incubus? “Right,” she mumbled. “I’m an idiot.” Then she remembered she was dressed like simple, on purpose—because that was such a clever idea and obviously fooled everyone, including the incubus holding her hostage.
The intensity of his expression dimmed. “I was going to say naïve. But sure.” A smile tugged at his lips, briefly, then faded. “We need to leave before he cleans up the bodies.”
Bodies? She hesitated only briefly. If this incubus wanted to kill her, she’d already be lost in a haze of lust and halfway to dead. Right? Maybe. Her head was still swimming from the after-effects. “Where are we going?”
“This way.” Then he turned his back on her
and stalked down the alley, past a black car parked against the wall, and toward the open street.
She automatically jerked into motion to follow him, almost like she was compelled—was this part of his Talent? Incubi and succubi were almost myths, but not quite. She knew they existed, but their powers weren’t exactly chronicled in the Official Registrar of Talents. And she’d never bothered to look them up on Witchipedia. Why would she? They were monsters that were supposed to be locked up. Like drug cartel bosses…
Ever’s foot caught on a crack in the alley, and she scuffled to a stop. What was she doing? She’d risked everything to find her father’s body, and she was walking away with this monster with nothing? No body. No autopsy. No way to prove her father didn’t OD like some street junkie. He was brilliant and respected and kind, more kind than any man she’d ever known. And he was a Strange. He would sooner die than tarnish the family name. She knew that better than anyone.
The incubus was stopped at the edge of the alley, glaring back at her. His hand curled into a fist and twitched once but remained at his side. “Don’t make me carry you.”
Her throat closed up. No, he wasn’t compelling her—but he could. He wasn’t killing her right now—but he could do that, too. Maybe he was taking her somewhere more secluded. I want to keep her for a while. That’s what he told his boss. Holy fuck, she was in trouble. Her legs twitched, a familiar adrenaline amping up every nerve in her body. But this wasn’t cliff jumping with only magick to fly down or combat training against automatons with the safety off—this wasn’t the kind of adrenaline she sought to remind herself that she was still alive. Despite the past. Despite her sorry future. This incubus could kill her for real.
And she couldn’t clear her father’s name if she were dead. Or slowly dying, lost in a weaponized, erotic nightmare the incubus could turn on like a switch. She might only get one chance to break free, and her gut was telling her that wasn’t now.
