Dylan's Witch: 10 (Supernatural Bonds)

by Jory Strong

  “And I will collect.”

  With a final glance at the medallion, he stepped away from her and back into his own world.

  Tension flowed from Seraphine with his departure, though safety was an illusion when dealing with demons and spell-workings like the one she’d soon attempt.

  She took a steadying breath, then a second one before removing Arioc’s name and the circle containing it.

  A knock at the door announced Miguel’s arrival.

  She lit incense meant to soothe before answering it and leading him to the casting room.

  “There’s choice here,” she said. “Reanimation. Or exorcism. I can sever the bond, casting the demon’s essence from this world and freeing you from—”

  “No.”

  She hadn’t thought he’d answer otherwise. She handed him the medallion with its restored workings. He put it on without hesitation.

  “Now what?”

  “Stand in the center of the circle. And try to relax.”

  Her conscience wouldn’t allow her to proceed without giving him a final warning. “There’ll always be risk with this choice. Death is the only thing that’ll end the familiar-bond. The demon—”

  “Former demon.”

  She smiled. “The former demon will still need to feed the magic tethering it to mortal body and to life.”

  “I figured as much. I can handle it.” He blushed as he added, “I trust Ian and Ianthe.”

  Incubus. Succubus. Two sides of the same coin, and in this mortal world, a shapeshifter able to change its human form.

  “Then we’ll start.”

  She closed the door, leaving the room in darkness except for the candlelit circles. “Focus on the form you want the former demon to take.”

  She began speaking softly, for a second time slicing her fingertips and dripping blood into the heart of a sigil so her power flared through the others, spiraling inward and ultimately joining the one that would reach through the abyss to Arioc, so he could join his magic to hers.

  Lust pulsed through the room, roaring carnal hunger, the signature energy of a demon who feasted on sex. It was accompanied by phantom, flickering naked images. Male. Female. Ian. Ianthe. Ian. The mortal forms of Miguel’s lover.

  In the center of the circle the detective panted. He closed his eyes, head tilting backward in what should be a private moment but couldn’t be, not if she was to continue to feed and monitor the spell.

  Ian reformed, still ethereal body and hungry spirit though real in her eyes. He was as beautiful as Arioc but far less lethal when measured against his own kind.

  As she watched, he became flesh and bone and muscle, his body pulled against Miguel’s. Claimed in a ready embrace and with the rub of cock against cock, hard organs separated only by the material of Miguel’s pants.

  Seraphine’s flesh dampened. Her nipples tightened and her cunt wept. Her body reacted despite the hollow ache expanding outward from her heart at witnessing their reunion. Seeing it served only to highlight the loneliness she found in her own bed.

  Male form gave way to female, a dark-haired, voluptuous woman with the same smoldering sensuality as the masculine version. She possessed a draw that was more than human though she was now mortal.

  Seraphine ended her murmured incantations. The last part of it broke the link between the former demon and the medallion.

  The kiss between Miguel and Ianthe ended. “Let’s go home,” he said. Stepping back, reality descending with a muttered, “Mierda. I didn’t bring clothes for you.”

  His hands went to the front of his shirt. Seraphine intervened. “I’ll loan Ianthe a sundress. That’ll draw less attention if one of my neighbors happens to see you leave.”

  Miguel laughed. “Good idea. No point in starting rumors of wild orgies.”

  She smiled. “No. Though I suspect the retirees making up the majority of this neighborhood would enjoy the speculation.”

  She left the room, retrieving the promised garment and returning with it. Miguel touched the medallion as Ianthe pulled on the dress. “What about this?”

  “It’s just a piece of jewelry now.”

  He slipped it beneath his shirt, hesitated then asked, “Have you heard of Talocan?”

  “Yes. It’s a spirit place, not part of the dark realms, though the lords and ladies who rule there are said to have originated in the dark realm.”

  “You mean they’re demons.”

  Seraphine shrugged. “That word covers a lot of territory when you consider there are more hells than can be counted in total. The Christian religion has one, the Buddhists anywhere from eight to several thousand, the Hindus several million.”

  Ianthe took Miguel’s hand. “Humans have a long history of vilifying the gods of conquered people and labeling them as demons. A name doesn’t make it so, though no mortal would wish to visit the place I left. Even one rife with evil would soon go insane.”

  “And what about a witch who visits Talocan?” Miguel asked.

  Seraphine could hear the worry in his voice, the lingering resistance to more fully entering a world where the supernatural was real and not the stuff of horror films or fantasy novels.

  “I’m assuming you don’t intend to hang out a shingle and practice witchcraft.”

  “Hell no.”

  But she could tell her response had eased him, so she added, “Talocan exists primarily for those who are aware of it, people with cultural roots reaching back to the Aztecs.”

  “Hispanics. Mexicans mostly.”

  “Yes. Have you considered that being able to spirit walk could be useful for a homicide cop?”

  He startled, but understood the implication immediately. “You mean talk to the dead?”

  “Understand, their memories might be fragmented or completely lost. But if you learned to navigate Talocan, there might be times you could find victims and speak to them about what they remembered of their death and what led up to it.”

  “It would be totally inadmissible in a court of law.” Truth, but his tone didn’t argue against pursuing the advantage.

  “Each of us has to find our own way when to comes to balancing the supernatural against our everyday world. There will be times when the laws governing them conflict. You have a guide in Talocan?”

  “My great-great-grandfather. I went to Mexico with my mother when she got the call. I was by his side when he died. He’s the one who claimed I was a witch. Before then…” Miguel shrugged. “The last time I dreamed of Talocan he said until I sorted things out in the living world, it was too dangerous for me to be there.”

  “It would be if you were in denial of your own truths.”

  The blush returned to Miguel’s face. Seraphine guessed it was lingering discomfort about his bisexuality.

  “Yeah. I was,” he said.

  “And now you’re not. The bond you have with Ianthe, Ian, makes it far safer for you to visit Talocan than it would be for others. It’s not a hell, per se, but it’s just like the living world. There are beings who enjoy doing harm.”

  She looked to Ianthe for confirmation. “You can accompany him?”

  “Yes.”

  “But unlike Miguel, you’re aware? Not sleeping.”

  “That is so. And because of my nature, I can see through illusion and recognize threats.”

  Miguel frowned. “Isn’t there a way I can be aware too?”

  “With years of study, and only then if you could reach a deep meditative state. That’s why the use of hallucinogens or some type of physical trial is the more common way to spirit walk.”

  “I think I’ll pass on those. My grandfather said I’d have to find him if I needed him.”

  “Think of him and Talocan when you fall asleep. An exhausted sleep works best.”

  Ianthe’s smile promised sex. “I believe I can help achieve such a state.”

  Seraphine laughed, then accompanied them to the front door.

  Miguel said, “Dylan doesn’t stand chance. Not once he spend
s some time around you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No. Thank you. For doing this for me.” He shot a look at Ianthe. “For us.”

  Seraphine opened the door and stepped out with them to discover her niece sitting on the stoop. It was joy and euphoric rush immediately followed by the crash of impending hurt.

  Chesna jumped up and charged into Seraphine’s tight hug. “I felt you doing the magic. That’s why I didn’t knock.”

  A cold tide of fear swept in at just how powerful a witch her niece would be, trained or untrained. She kissed the top of Chesna’s head, rubbed her cheek against red hair the same color as her own. “Give me another second.”

  Chesna pulled away, rushing down the hallway calling, “Patches.”

  Seraphine said goodbye to Miguel and Ianthe. He pulled her into a hug. “Thanks again. Dylan’s not going to be able to avoid his fate much longer.”

  It lightened her heart that Dylan’s friends wanted to see them together. But she put daydreams of romantic love and marriage aside as she caught up with Chesna in a living room filled with plants and, at the moment, birdsong.

  Color flashed as the finches housed in a birdcage spanning the length of one wall fluttered and darted, greeting Chesna with a flurry of activity.

  They were rescues. A joint project abandoned when her relationship with her sister Electra spiraled downward because Chesna, at turning nine in February, had come into some of her power and was now consumed by interest in magic and witchcraft.

  Chesna sat on the couch. Her arms were tight around the calico cat that was her familiar, her face buried in Patches’ soft fur.

  Needing the contact as much as Patches did, Seraphine joined them, putting her arm around Chesna’s shoulders. Her throat tightened at hearing a fur-muffled sob. Her eyes burned.

  Pain radiated through her chest like an echo. But she didn’t hasten its end, not when that end meant separation again.

  The finches settled on perches created out of tree branches. They fluffed their feathers and closed their eyes in deference to the darkness outside.

  Eventually Chesna lifted a tear-streaked face. Seraphine hugged her closer. With the taste of fear already in her mouth, she asked, “How did you get here?”

  Lips firmed in a mutinous expression. “I snuck out and then I caught the bus.”

  Oh, Chesna. “That’s not safe. Not at night. Your mom is probably frantic.”

  “She’s not home. Mom’s friend from work has been bugging her to go out and have some fun.” A scowl replaced the mutiny. “By have fun, what Denise really means is meet men. Anyway, Alice is supposed to be watching me but she always talks on the phone for hours. She won’t even miss me.”

  “I’ll drive you home.” It was the right thing. The hard thing.

  Tear-filled eyes sought hers. Chesna’s bottom lip trembled and her voice held all that Seraphine felt. “Can we make cookies first? Please.”

  It was more than just a request to linger in the warmth of the kitchen. It was a pleading for knowledge, their private code for talking about witchcraft and magic.

  Denial was Seraphine’s knee-jerk reaction, but only because she didn’t want to worsen the already bad relationship with Electra. Fear for Chesna argued that some risks were worth taking.

  The icy chill returned. Trained or untrained, her niece was going to be a powerful witch. Being able to sense the spell-working inside the house tonight was just the latest and most alarming demonstration of it. Given the wards in place, protections strengthened by a demon lord, she shouldn’t have been able to.

  “One small batch,” Seraphine said, reaching over and stroking the calico cat. “Then I’ll drive you home.”

  Chesna’s smile was radiant. “I can sneak back in. Alice will never even know I was gone.”

  Seraphine let the comment pass. They went to the kitchen, slipping into a familiar routine only to have it interrupted a short time later by fierce pounding on the door.

  Chesna’s shoulders slumped. “Mom.”

  “Yes.” It didn’t require magic to verify.

  Seraphine turned away from the counter where the baking pans were now dotted with cookie batter. Chesna slammed into her, arms going around her, transmitting a desperation that crashed through Seraphine.

  “Can’t you make Mom understand?”

  “All I can do is try.” And try. And try. To no avail.

  “Please, can’t we pretend we’re not here?”

  “You know we can’t.” Even without her car sitting in the alleyway, it would be a mistake. Seraphine’s hug was every bit as fierce as Chesna’s. “Let’s go.”

  They went. Steps slow, like the hopeless cadence of a death march.

  Seraphine opened the door, taking the brunt of her sister’s fury when Electra demanded, “Did you put her up to this?”

  The blow hurt. It always hurt. “No.”

  Electra’s angry focus shifted to Chesna. “You know you’re not supposed to come here. Get in the car. Now.”

  “Mom—”

  “Now.”

  A final hug. A final pleading glance at Seraphine, and Chesna shuffled away.

  “You should have called me immediately,” Electra said. “The very instant she showed up here.”

  “Electra—”

  “No! She could have been kidnapped and we’d never know what happened to her or even if she was still alive. She could have been raped. She could have been killed. This is your fault. All of it. When you tell her witchcraft is all pretend, when you swear not to practice it, then we’ll talk about Chesna being allowed to visit you. Until then, you call me immediately if she comes to you. You put her in your car and bring her to me.”

  Electra stormed away, leaving her anger and fear pounding against Seraphine like a jackhammer, widening the already existing chasm of loneliness. How could two sisters now be so different?

  She could pinpoint when it had begun, that summer when she’d been sixteen and Electra had graduated from high school and taken off with friends, backpacking through Europe and staying in hostels. Coming home pregnant with Chesna, though she hadn’t revealed it until it became obvious.

  They’d been close until then, sisters who’d always shared secrets. But rather than confide, Electra had hidden the truth of her pregnancy and had never revealed anything about the father of her child.

  Electra denied that something beyond getting pregnant had happened in Europe. She refused even to talk about it, but by the time she came home, she’d turned her back on the magic she once believed in and no longer openly used her own gifts.

  Seraphine stepped into the house and closed the door. The oven beeped, announcing it was hot enough for the cookies she’d now make alone.

  She rested her forehead against the cool wood. The green heartmate stone in her bracelet caught the light like a spark of hope and promise. She covered it with her hand, raw from the encounter with Electra, not wanting to think about Dylan Archer and all the weeks that had passed without him finding an excuse to contact her.

  Another man, one who believed in magic, and she wouldn’t have hesitated to call him. But given Dylan’s disbelief in the supernatural, and her own hectic schedule, she’d thought if he sought her out himself…

  I can wait for him, she’d told Arioc, but there was no guarantee it wouldn’t bring only pain.

  What if she was clinging to the mere possibility of a future together?

  She had no idea what Dylan was thinking, or if he even thought about her at all.

  Need hummed through her as she remembered that first and only encounter. She’d opened her door to admit Aislinn’s Trace, a consultation done as a favor, and had her future crystallize in the moment her eyes met Dylan’s.

  Searing attraction, an intensity of desire she’d never experienced. Arioc might eventually have been able to rival it, but that was the draw of magic and the deadly fascination of demons, where Dylan was a connection with the human, the compulsion to share the ordinary in life a
s well as the extraordinary.

  Somehow she’d managed to answer Trace’s question about the symbols found at a murder site. But it had been a struggle against being distracted by the heat pouring off Dylan, the scent of his cologne, the sight of his erection and the hunger in his gaze when it settled on her lips, the hardened nipples pressed against the front of her blouse.

  The barest, inadvertent touch of their hands had been all that was necessary to send an erotic charge traveling through her. She hadn’t been able to stifle the gasp, and he in turn had escaped on the pretext of needing some fresh air.

  I can wait for him. But should she continue to? Wouldn’t it be better to face her fears, that she and Dylan couldn’t overcome the hurdles that came with her being a witch and him being a cop?

  She realized then how the estrangement with Electra had spread, bringing with it the desire to avoid confrontation and possible loss, to cherish hope rather than to act on it.

  The emerald-green Elven stone was cool against her palm. Would it still burn in Dylan’s presence?

  Her heartbeat tipped into a race at the prospect of finding out tonight, her pulse gaining speed with first the decision, and then the determination to act.

  She’d visit Jasmine. No one was better at scrying.

  The heartstone should be enough of a link for Jasmine to locate Dylan. And when she did…

  Seraphine wet her lips and silently acknowledged it was a toss-up as to whether the gesture was one of nervousness or anticipation. If Dylan wasn’t working, then tonight she’d go to him rather than continue waiting for a call that might never come.

  Chapter Two

  In the homicide bullpen, Trace Dilessio slammed the murder book shut. “Our work here is done.”

  Dylan snorted. “Not that it actually required much work. But I’m not complaining. No psychics coming out of the woodwork. No so-called magical artifacts. Nothing that gave off even a whiff of weird. Just an understandable crime done by the usual kind of loser criminal element, and miracle of all miracles, no public interest. No reporters. Nothing high profile about it. And that’s a huge fucking relief, if you ask me.”