Arcane Kiss (Talents Book 1)

by Knight, Angela

  After tossing a medium-sized suitcase on the bed, she unzipped it, then started bustling around the room. Her movements economical, she collected jeans and tops in vivid blues, greens, and sunny yellows that complemented her dramatic redhead’s coloring.

  When she started picking out underwear, Kurt glanced away. It probably wasn’t a good idea to watch, especially not with a bed so close.

  Genevieve ducked into the bathroom and emerged five minutes later with toiletries, a tackle box, and a hairdryer.

  “Planning to do much fishing?”

  She gave him a dry look. “It’s makeup.”

  He grinned back. “I thought it might be.”

  She started to pick up the suitcase, but he shot her a look and nudged her aside. “This all you’re going to need?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve got to pick up the supplies for casting the wards. Then I need to shoot a photo of the spell I sketched to send to my mom.”

  Oh, that’s right, Genevieve’s parents were Arcane Corps career military. They might even have encountered Fred when he was active duty; the Corps wasn’t a particularly large branch of the military. “Wonder if they knew my dad?”

  Gen shrugged. “It’s entirely possible. They were in the field during the first Gulf War at about the same time.”

  As she headed to her studio to collect her spell supplies, Kurt claimed the suitcase and headed off to put it in the SUV.

  “I gather by the lack of cursing there were no bears lying in ambush,” Dave observed dryly, emerging from the bushes as he popped the trunk and stowed the suitcase away.

  Kurt slammed the hatch. “Not so far. I’ll let you know if that changes. You spotted anything?”

  “Nada.” Dave looked around at the surrounding homes, all of which looked fully as expensive as Gen’s. “Nice neighborhood. Looks like our girl has money.”

  “Considering what Dad said she charges everybody but us, she ought to.”

  Dave snorted. “Lucky us. I think I’ll go sniff around a little more. Make sure we don’t get any murderous visitors.” He padded off, big feet silent on the lush grass.

  “Stay out of sight while you do it,” Kurt called after him. “We don’t want the neighbors to call 911.”

  Returning inside, he found Genevieve in a huge, high-ceilinged room that served as her studio. Skylights and an entire wall of windows poured natural light over an easel, a drafting table, and a computer station mounted with two huge flat screen monitors.

  Genevieve stood working at a table with a pair of lights mounted over it at forty-five degree angles. The same metal frame held a camera pointed straight down at the table. She was shooting pictures of the sketch she’d done of the Arcanist spell.

  As he watched, she turned to the computer and switched it on. While it booted, she went to the corner to a cylindrical tank with some kind of bulky gear attached.

  “Let me get that.” He walked over and lifted the tank’s handle, tilting it onto its rear wheels. “What is this thing?”

  “Air compressor. I need it to run my airbrush.”

  He gave her a teasing grin. “Planning to make T-shirts?”

  “I can’t exactly use pastels around your house. I’ve got to draw the wards with something.”

  “Most of the Arcs I worked with did that with a brush.”

  “Not for a ward that big.”

  He frowned. “So what did the assassins use? If they’d used an airbrush, we would’ve heard it.”

  Genevieve shrugged. “Maybe not. A regular air compressor makes a lot of noise, but this one isn’t much louder than a refrigerator. Plus he probably used stencils to make the work faster.” She pursed her lips. “Must have used ultraviolet paint, since I didn’t see any visible marks on the sand.”

  He frowned as a new thought occurred to him. “Wouldn’t he have had to use his blood? Because if he did, once the cops catch him, they’ll have all the DNA they need to convict his ass.”

  “You don’t have to use your own blood to cast magic. You can use a sacrifice’s. Probably an animal’s to set the trap spell in the arena gate, then your father’s blood to activate the main casting.”

  “I’m going to kill that fucker when I catch him.”

  “Might not want to joke about that.”

  “Who’s joking?” Pushing the compressor, he headed outside to the SUV as Genevieve picked up her cell phone and started dialing.

  When he came back, the call wasn’t going well.

  “Dad, I’m not trying to play hero here.” Her voice was raised, her tone hot and frustrated.

  Kurt’s tiger hearing easily picked up the male baritone on the other end of the call. “We saw the press conference on CNN, but I didn’t realize you were there. What the hell are you doing getting involved in something like this?”

  “Look, they had a sick cat, a tiger. I was at BFS trying to heal the animal when that bear Feral showed up and started roaring. Fred Briggs went out to investigate…”

  “And you just went out there with him? Are you out of your mind? You know what that thing could have done to you?”

  “Give me credit for a little sense, Dad. I stayed in the clinic.” Her voice took on that note of anguished guilt he’d heard before. “But if I’d gone with him, maybe he wouldn’t have died. Maybe I could have broken that spell and helped him escape. Instead he got trapped, his son got shot, and he ended up a human sacrifice.”

  “Which wasn’t your fault, honey,” a woman said, in the strained tone of someone trying to be the voice of reason. “The killers are the ones who are at fault here.”

  “And if they could kill a Feral lion and a tiger Familiar, what chance do you think you’d have?” the colonel demanded.

  “He has a point, dear. This isn’t a good situation.”

  “And that’s aside from this Briggs character. You don’t even know the man.”

  “Dad…”

  He ignored her attempt to cut him off. “Your mother and I have served in the Corps for thirty years, and we’ve worked with a lot of Ferals. Briggs could be every bit as big a danger to you as that bear.”

  “Oh, come on! The man is a decorated war hero…”

  “Which means absolutely nothing! If his tiger just died, at this point they’re barely melded. He’s got zero self-control right now, even without his father having just been murdered. If he loses it, you’ll be screwed.”

  Kurt froze, staring at her. Everything her father was saying was the absolute truth; he should be rooting for Colonel Reyes to talk her into leaving.

  But he didn’t want her to go.

  Stoli’s anxiety echoed his, exacerbating his frustration and anger. He drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly.

  “It’s too late for me to cut and run, Dad. I broke the spell. They’re going to be targeting me now.”

  “You don’t know that. But if you stay there and keep involving yourself, they will target you. You’re going to end up getting yourself killed.”

  “And what if I leave and they come after me anyway? Dave and Kurt can do a hell of a lot more to defend me against that freaking bear than I can. Kurt asked me to stay at his house and I’m going to do it.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he has.”

  Kurt felt his face go hot at the insinuation in the colonel’s tone. Never mind that the man was right. Or at least not completely wrong. He did want Genevieve, more than he should. Enough to put her at risk?

  “If you need a bodyguard, we can hire one for you. We’ve got connections.”

  “And just stand back and let the assassins cast whatever spell they’re trying to cast -- kill whoever they want to kill? If Kurt trips some kind of spell and gets killed the way his father did when I could have prevented it, it’ll be my fault.”

  “No, it’ll be the fucking Arc’s fault,” her father snarled.

  “If it was you, what would you do? And don’t tell me that you’d put your tail between your legs and run, because I know better. If you’d been that kind
of man, you wouldn’t still be in the Corps.”

  “I’m a man. You’re not.”

  “Sexist much?”

  “I’ve served with plenty of women, including your mother. You don’t have the temperament for combat, Genevieve. You’re not good with confrontation. That’s why you let those assholes in high school give you such a hard time.”

  “So now I’m not just female, I’m cowardly.”

  “Of course not. You always put the worst possible interpretation on everything I say.”

  “Oh, for God’s sakes, Martin,” her mother snapped. “You’re not helping. Genevieve, I need to take a closer look at the spell. I’ll call you back as soon as I get something figured out.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “We can still hire a bodyguard.”

  “I don’t need a bodyguard. Look, Dad, I’m a grown woman. You’re the one who’s always told me to stand on my own two feet.”

  “Not against a polar bear! And not by staying with that damned Feral! Those men are dangerous, Genevieve. The military spends a lot of time and money making sure they are just as deadly as possible.”

  “Exactly. So I’ve got more than enough bodyguards. Mom, give me a call when you get something figured out. I appreciate all the help I can get.” Her tone softened. “I love you guys. ‘Bye.”

  Her father began another hot interruption, but she hit the END button and sank down in her chair, rubbing her forehead as she muttered, “Well, that could have gone better.”

  Kurt stepped around the corner, and she looked up as he said, “He’s worried about you.”

  “I know that, but sometimes they still make me crazy. My dad’s first reaction to any conflict is to take over.”

  “Believe me, I feel your pain.” His voice dropped to a muttered, “And I’d give anything to still have that problem.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Genevieve sat cross-legged in a circle she had drawn in chalk on the cement of Kurt’s drive. The afternoon sunlight turned her long hair into a cloak of copper fire as she sat there, eyes closed, slim and straight in cream shorts and a T-shirt. Her long, long legs looked tan and lovely, with the kind of elegant muscle that suggested she ran or lifted weights. Maybe both, given her military family. Her full lips moved as she chanted something in Latin. For once, he couldn’t feel the spell she was casting. The magic was contained by the circle.

  Three containers of paint sat in front of Gen’s knees, and she held a glass vial full of dark brown powder -- her own dried blood.

  Still chanting, Genevieve tipped the vial over each of the paint containers and tapped out a careful quantity of the powder. Her gestures smooth, she picked up a glass rod engraved with intricate magical sigils and stirred the mixture with precise circles of her wrist.

  When she was finished, she picked up one of the containers, rose to her feet and stepped out of the circle, leaving the other two inside. The circle would maintain the power of the spelled paint while she worked.

  Kurt handed over the airbrush gun -- a wand-shaped device attached to the coil of tubing. She screwed the container onto the brush, and turned on the air compressor. It started with a soft sigh as she walked to the circle she’d sprayed on the ground with non-magical paint. The design was nothing more than a guide to the placement of the actual spell. It needed to be as close to round as possible to avoid irregularities that would create weaknesses the Arc could exploit.

  Kurt followed her, playing out the tubing as she started painting symbols along the circumference of the circle in sweeping strokes, creating the intricate sigils that comprised the language of magic. She chanted as she worked, her voice rising pure and clear over the hiss of the compressor. Each step and sweep of her hand seemed more dance than anything else, and her eyes stared into the distance, as if she gazed at something only she could see.

  It took more than two hours to lay the spell -- three complete circuits of the house, one for each of the three colors.

  It was a hot afternoon, and the sun beat down on their shoulders. It wasn’t long before sweat streamed down Kurt’s spine and dewed Gen’s skin as if she’d been oiled. Yet she didn’t pause, never seemed to let her concentration flag.

  With every sigil, the strength of the spell grew, until it felt like a second sun beating on his face. Genevieve had given him a charm designed to fool the spell into thinking he was a part of her, or the spell would have shoved him right out of the circle.

  God she really is powerful, he thought. Something about the feel of her magic lapping against his skin felt intensely erotic. His cock throbbed, thick and heavy behind his zipper, and his balls ached.

  Kurt tried to remember the last time he’d felt so aroused for so long. Memories kept flashing through his mind of Genevieve sitting slim and naked astride his lap, her blue eyes shining like gemstones with power, a wicked little smile on her lips.

  Stoli wanted to jump her. Just pounce on her, taste her pink nipples and sweet mouth. He had to keep reminding himself if he interrupted her, he’d disrupt the spell. They’d have to start all over again. And she’d kill me.

  Kurt dragged his gaze away from her lushly tempting ass and tried to think of something else.

  He needed to make a call to the American Association for Feral Rights. If anyone knew whether there had been similar crimes, it would be someone at AAFR, which collected statistics on crimes committed by and against Ferals. Then he’d need to start making funeral arrangements for his father. That thought sent a wave of such grieving pain through him, his lingering arousal instantly vanished. I think I prefer blue balls.

  Genevieve bent to paint another sigil. He let his eyes drift back to her sweetly curving ass. The need was maddening, but it was better than the pain.

  * * *

  Gen had to use her left hand to steady her right as she painted the last sigil.

  With a mental pop that felt like the sensation her ears produced inside a climbing plane, the spell activated. Magic swirled around her, and she closed her eyes to watch the sigils revolve, intricate symbols of blue, red and green swimming through the air.

  Her sense of the magic radiating from the surrounding life of BFS -- the cats, the Ferals, even the plants -- muted as if someone had turned the volume down on the world.

  Gen took a staggering step to one side, abruptly exhausted. Her legs gave out and she went down. Before she even hit the ground, muscled arms closed around her for the second time in two days. Or was it the third? She couldn’t remember.

  “You can’t keep making a habit out of this, Kurt,” Genevieve muttered into his warm, sweating neck.

  “I can if you keep falling on your ass,” he told her tartly, striding toward the front door.

  Dave emerged from the bushes to join them. “You do know how to sweep a girl off her feet, Rhett,” he said in a dead-on Vivian-Leigh-as-Scarlet drawl.

  Genevieve chuckled and closed her eyes. Her head ached with a kettledrum throb.

  Kurt lengthened his stride, forcing even Dave to break into a trot. “I don’t think I like your coloring,” he told her grimly.

  The world made a slow, sickening revolution around her, forcing her to close her eyes and admit, “I’m not feeling great.”

  The air-conditioned house felt like a freezer after so long in the hot sun. She started to shiver as he deposited her on a chair in the kitchen. Leaning her elbows on the kitchen table, Genevieve rested her aching head on her hands and let herself savor the numb relief of doing nothing whatsoever.

  Kurt’s hand appeared in front of her face holding a bottle of water. “Drain that.”

  “Thanks.” She took it gratefully and drank it down.

  Dave studied her. “Think she’s got heat exhaustion?”

  “Nah.” She pressed the cool bottle against her face. “I’m a little hot, but most of it is magic drain.”

  Kurt got her a bottle of Gatorade, then filled a bowl for Dave before dropping into a chair with his own drink. For the next ten minutes, t
hey all concentrated on hydrating.

  “I can’t remember the last time I felt this whipped,” Gen admitted. “Too many major spells too close together. I seriously need to recharge my psychic batteries.”

  Kurt flashed her a wicked smile. “Need some help with that?”

  “Uh…” Genevieve felt her cheeks heat. Usually you recovered from a big magical effort the way you would any other kind of exertion -- rest and sleep. But there was another way. Sex with another Talent could be an effective way to recharge. The theory was the interplay of auras acted to reinforce each other, along with the positive effect of all those hormones on the brain. There was a saying in Arc circles: Nothing charges like a good orgasm.

  Evidently taking mercy on her blush, he smiled faintly. “What you need is food. How does a sandwich sound?”

  Dave looked up. “Not as good as ten pounds of cow.”

  “I’ll get you your cow in a minute.” To Gen he continued, “Sandwiches? Or would you prefer something else?”

  She smiled at him, grateful he’d resisted the temptation of innuendo. “Sandwiches sound good.”

  Ten minutes later, Kurt plunked down the plate in front of her. It held a thick sandwich piled high with ham, cheese, and assorted vegetables between slices of wheat toast. She demolished it while he got a roast out of the refrigerator for Dave -- donated by one of the volunteers -- before fixing his own meal.

  “Why don’t you go take a nap?” he suggested between bites of ham and cheese. “You’re done in.”

  “That might be a good idea,” Gen admitted with a sigh. “What about you?” It hit her after the words were out of her mouth that he could take the question as flirtatious.

  Sure enough, Kurt’s gaze heated until she felt the impact of that very male intensity clean to her toes.

  Then he looked away. “I’ve got to go to the funeral home, start making arrangements for my dad. Fortunately, I have a pretty good idea what he wanted. It shouldn’t be all that tough.” Which was, she suspected, an outright lie. “Then I’m going to check with my Feral contacts, see if anyone has heard about any attacks like the one on Dad. After that, I’ve got an appointment with Sawyer to discuss the case. I just need to get a shower.”