Dylan's Witch: 10 (Supernatural Bonds)

by Jory Strong

  He’d been an easy mark. She didn’t consider the moans and screams of pretended orgasm hard work any more than a Broadway actress found it difficult to speak the required lines after having done the same play night after night for weeks or months or years. She’d fucked uglier, meaner men than him to get what she wanted.

  And women. She knew how to play them too, though they often offered more of a challenge.

  Helene—Mistress, as she preferred to be thought of—would be pleased with tonight’s work.

  Camille smiled, sly and wicked as she carried the athame to her lips and very carefully touched her tongue to the flat of the blade, claiming a drop of blood for herself. She would enjoy using this blade again. And again. And again, because Helene believed the blade would be more powerful if it was blooded first before it was used on the sacrificial offering necessary to summon a demon lord.

  But now to dispose of Robert. His work was done.

  She giggled though she knew it was time to get serious. Very serious. Dead bodies needed to disappear and stay that way. She knew just the place.

  Not wanting to put the knife down, she used her foot, pushing, sliding Robert to the deck’s edge. She paused, eyes going to the ring box in his trouser pocket.

  The temptation was there, to see his little offering. But if she saw, she might take, and that was too much risk for a trinket she wouldn’t value nearly as much as his death.

  With a kick she sent him over and into the smaller boat tethered to the yacht for just this purpose.

  Thud. And dear Robert was one step closer to his final resting place.

  She took the knife into the cabin and put it in the case Helene had consecrated for it. She lingered over it, reluctant to separate until finally, with a sigh, she closed the lid. She couldn’t risk losing it in the swamp.

  Returning to the deck, she stopped next to a lounge chair and stroked the diaphanous wrap she’d worn earlier. After handing over the prize, dear Robert had intended to go down on a knee and ask her to marry him, not that he’d said as much but she knew men.

  He’d turned his back at her command, anticipating their making a memory together, one in which she was naked. One in which he surprised her by proposing—and oh, there had been a surprise, though it hadn’t lasted nearly long enough.

  Lucifer’s Blade was no ordinary knife. It was meant to kill. She suspected it would cut through bone as easily as it slid through tendons and muscles and cartilage.

  She lifted her face to the moon. Its light bathed her, caressed her, embraced her. And she didn’t want to cover her skin.

  She laughed. Joyous. Amused at the thought of being naked as she navigated the small boat through the swamp. But then, wasn’t such a thing appropriate? This was her rite, her event, and so much more satisfying than the ones Helene insisted she attend, a naked acolyte meant to tempt and tease lesser demons while her mistresses was a robed, hooded figure.

  Turning her face from the moon, she moved toward the deck’s edge, smiling as she neared the blood sprayed across the expensive wood like black ink. She wondered what that long ago school counselor would see in this pattern.

  With ease she dropped into the skiff next to Robert. At the feel of the tarp against the soles of her feet, and beneath that, the weight disks, she frowned, regretting the dramatic, victorious impulse that had led to her kicking Robert off the boat.

  The skiff was small and she’d just made her work harder. She should have retrieved the tarp and rolled Robert in it before dropping him.

  Next time, she’d remember.

  She started the engine. And though it was a quiet motor, the swamp in front of her went silent.

  The silence lasted for a second. Then the insects and frogs resumed their incessant noise.

  She shivered. It increased the risk she might be noticed but she refused to travel by moonlight alone. Grabbing the flashlight she’d stored beneath the seat, she turned it on and entered the swamp.

  To her left an alligator bellowed. In front of her, eyes caught and reflected with the sweep of the flashlight.

  A chill crawled over her skin at seeing a python swimming, sliding through the water. It was a primitive, horrifying creature evoking a visceral fear, like the demons her mistress summoned.

  Go! Go! Go! Instinct screamed, though not as loudly as it’d screamed for her to run that night she’d been with Senator Harper when he’d used Lucifer’s Blade.

  Never again would she risk herself in that way. It’d been one thing to seduce him while serving as his wife’s personal assistant, to play the naïve witch with an interest in black magic so she’d be able to inform Helene when James and Nicole got possession of the athame. But to be present when the inept handled the blade—

  A hard shudder gripped Camille, along with the memory of arriving for their little tryst, only to have the senator lead her into the ceremonial room. The whore he’d acquired had been drugged and lying on the altar, a pathetic creature already used up by drugs and selling her body to get them.

  A nearby splash had Camille’s heart rushing, fear of what lurked in the swamp pounded against her chest, adding to the relived terror that had followed James’ use of the athame.

  She’d peed herself when the first demon arrived. And fled when the second stepped into existence, so panicked she hadn’t used the opportunity to grab Lucifer’s Blade.

  Anger surged to the forefront at remembering the hot wash of urine down her thighs. I’ve rectified that mistake.

  She glanced down at Robert. Pleasure crept in, insidious warmth as she felt the phantom weight of the knife in her hand, the smooth slide of it across his neck.

  Now to be done with him once and for all. She wondered what other corpses Helene had ordered brought to this location. It was the place Helene had told her to dump the senator’s dead whore, after Camille had been summoned back to the house when Nicole returned home to discover her husband’s stupidity.

  Camille smiled. It had been a sight to see the oh so cold Nicole panicked, frantic to get the blood and gore cleaned up and the woman’s body disposed of quickly so she could call the police and play the shocked wife, all the while cursing her husband for his idiocy, his inconvenient and deserved death at having believed himself skillful enough to summon a demon lord on his own.

  Camille hated the swamp but she would obey her mistress. It was somehow fitting she use this same dump site after wielding Lucifer’s Blade far more successfully than Senator James K. Harper had. Pompous, thin-dicked asshole.

  The euphoria of success wore off the farther Camille got from the yacht and the athame. She regretted not taking the time to dress.

  She jerked as something slapped the water, tightened her grip on the flashlight as an alligator bellowed close by. She wondered if the scent of blood and cooling meat would be enough to incite an attack when she stopped the skiff to unload Robert.

  Temptation crept in, to dump him and escape the eerie, predator-filled waters so she could hurry back to civilization. She pushed forward. Just a little bit farther. And finally the mangroves loomed ahead, silhouetted in the night sky like a cluster of gallows.

  Dismay crowed in at reaching them. White bones and a gaping skull caught the light, reflecting it back toward her in accusation.

  Camille opened her mouth in silent scream, frustration’s escape rather than fear’s. The corpse she’d wrapped in plastic and carried to the car with Nicole had come free of its moorings, the shroud loosened and tugged so flesh had been stripped away, the frenzied feeding lifting the gas-filled body and carrying it, other predators dragging it through exposed roots.

  Rebellion rose. This wasn’t her mess to clean up.

  The slap of water quickened her pulse. It drew her attention from the collection of bones.

  She swept the area around the skiff with the flashlight’s beam. Assessing eyes returned to the senator’s discarded whore, then dropped to Robert.

  Why bother fighting dead weight? Why struggle to wrap and sink him
when it would only be wasted effort?

  She set the flashlight on the seat. Carefully, slowly, she rid herself of a lover who’d left her with only one memory to savor.

  Anticipation bubbled upward like expensive champagne as she turned the skiff toward the yacht. Tomorrow she’d hunt for pliable prey, live prey for her mistress. And by the following morning, with a demon lord at her beck and call, Helene would want yet another. Lucifer’s Blade would need to be blooded again, recharged by a death that would create a second exhilarating memory.

  Chapter Three

  Sapphire blue lit the cave. Warm arms slipped around Miguel’s waist and soft-capped breasts pressed against his naked back.

  He glanced down, smiled at seeing the jeans. Thank god.

  He slept. He knew it and yet he was more aware in this dawn dream, this spirit approach to Talocan, than he’d ever been before.

  It’s because of the bond we share. Words spoken, mind to mind, from Ianthe to him. It’s because you accept it, and this, your birthright.

  He grimaced at that. Dios, he wasn’t at the place yet where he was glad not to have his spirit locked firmly into his body. But…

  Maybe there was an advantage, as Seraphine had suggested. Maybe he could use this to help the dead.

  His heart skipped, pounded as it occurred to him that maybe, just maybe he could find his cousin Julio here, or someone who’d known him, someone with a clue as to who Julio had been with that night he was bludgeoned to death in a sleazy hotel room.

  It’d probably been a john he’d picked up to support the drug habit that had started after being kicked out at announcing he was gay. But that was supposition. Speculation.

  Ianthe pressed a kiss to his neck. You should focus on finding your great-great-grandfather.

  I know. And yet he couldn’t shake the image of Julio or the driving need to find justice for him. He’d idolized Julio. They’d been close despite the five years of separation in their ages.

  Julio was the reason he’d become a cop, or part of it. The day he’d joined the force, he’d asked to see the murder book. Before then he’d dreamed of solving the case that had been cold for years.

  The walls around them spun. It made him queasy as the spinning continued as if they drilled downward, toward the center of the earth.

  Despite the lack of a true physical body, he felt the warning swell of impending puke. Let’s walk.

  Ianthe released him. She stepped to his side, distracting him with the view of smooth, uninterrupted skin.

  The spinning stopped. Stillness descended, a crossroads formed but he could barely manage a glance at it.

  Dios, she was beautiful. His cock hardened as he looked at her naked body, throbbed with hungry, remembered pleasure.

  The desire to slide into the heaven of her body became roaring demand. He nearly returned to the real world, preferring to rouse and make love rather than continue on this particular journey.

  Lips curved in a sultry smile. Sapphire-colored eyes glanced downward, caressed his jeans-covered cock from beneath thick black lashes. You can do both. After the shooting yesterday, and solving Ricky’s murder, I doubt your captain will expect you to arrive early. We can linger in bed. Let’s continue. I’m curious about Talocan.

  He found he was too, with her at his side. Though not so curious he minded a delay.

  He pulled her against him, moaned at the press of her breasts and the lust burning in her eyes. He touched his lips to hers, his cock swelling further at their ready parting.

  Lust raged through him. From the first moment he’d seen her, he’d been enthralled, lost to carnal fantasies and a fever to get inside her. His desire for her had only intensified at having experienced her mouth, her hands, the hot clamp of her channel on his dick.

  As well as what you’ve experienced with Ian, she purred. Reminding him of the exquisite ecstasy he found in having one lover able to embody and fully satisfy his sexual needs.

  He pulled her more tightly against him. Plunged his tongue into her mouth. Conquering. Claiming. Commanding her response and savoring the victory of having her cling and whimper, of gaining her submission in this form, where her masculine one was far more dominant.

  He paid the price of contact with a cock that grew harder, more demanding. Dios, he couldn’t get enough of her.

  Panting, he ended the kiss and touched his forehead to hers. “Maybe you should imagine yourself in clothes. That’ll cut down on temptation, and I’d just as soon no one else see your body since it’s one hundred percent mine.”

  Her smile at hearing his claim was a purr against his senses. “I tried to clothe myself, but I can’t.”

  “You can’t?”

  “No. Seraphine restored my mortality, but my essence remains succubus, incubus. I cannot hide that here.”

  Jealousy rippled through him, surprising him with the discovery of just how much he did care about any other guy—even a dead one—seeing her naked. But on its heels came protectiveness. Crazy, probably, because even exposed she was no doubt far safer in Talocan than he was.

  He nearly asked her to transform, to become Ian. That would be a lot easier to handle. The possessiveness wasn’t there, not in the same way, and Ian was a show of muscle and strength. But when he imagined encountering his great-great-grandfather, he refrained.

  Heat rushed up his neck and into face. Soon, he promised.

  His eyes met Ianthe’s, conveying the truth of his intensions, though the bond allowed her to feel them. In the future, when he was more comfortable with the thought of others knowing he had both a male and female lover, he’d ask Ian to accompany him.

  I know. I understand.

  Embarrassed heat flowed downward to fill his heart. He grasped her hand, twining his fingers with hers. Let’s go.

  He thought of Julio as he stepped forward. The cave expanded on that movement, leaving the impression of great distances covered with each stride, though it thankfully wasn’t accompanied by the sensation of traveling in a dizzying rush of speed.

  When daylight appeared in front of them it came with a cacophony of sound. Bubbling, churning, sucking. And by heat that left them drenched in sweat.

  They reached the cave’s edge and looked out over a land of boiling springs.

  Steam rose, creating a mist. Through it Miguel caught glimpses of green and brown, as if there were myriad paths laid out before them. “Any ideas?”

  “Only the one I expressed earlier. It would be best to find your grandfather first, and let him guide and teach us.”

  He laughed. “In other words, ‘I told you so’.”

  Her smile nearly drew his lips back to hers. “In other words,” she agreed.

  “It might be too late this visit. Seraphine said I should concentrate on my tatarabuelo prior to falling asleep.” Not that he actually had. Hell, he’d barely had the energy to roll off Ianthe before he’d been sucked under. His last thoughts had been something about how good it felt pulling her into his arms, and how the leg thrown over her thigh was a throwback to caveman days.

  “I think you’re more aware than she assumed you’d be, more in control of your spirit journey than even a shaman who has been trained from childhood to do this would be. Perhaps something of your innate ability changed when I died in the human form I’d taken, and you were all that kept me in this world.”

  The sucking sounds grew louder, as if its source grew closer. Fear pricked Miguel’s skin but enough humor remained to say, “Don’t get used to hearing me say this, but I think you’re right. I’ll concentrate on finding my grandfather now.”

  He closed his eyes and pictured his tatarabuelo as he’d seen him the last time he’d traveled—very unwillingly—to Talocan. His grandfather had been on a small island, one of several in a vast expanse of water.

  The impression of steam, the bubbling cauldron of the springs that underscored the waves of heat striking him didn’t abate.

  “New plan,” Miguel said, remembering rough wooden f
looring and the smell of copal as he’d sat next to his dying grandfather, only half listening to lessons he’d thought had no bearing on his life. “We back up until there’s only darkness. We start over. Caves serve as entranceways to all the regions of Talocan.”

  Intention created distance. One step. Two. Three. Four and they were in a darkness cut through by the sapphire-blue of their familiar bond and Ianthe’s supernatural essence.

  This time he thought only of his grandfather and his need to find him. He poured all his determination into the quest, accepting the swirling and spinning that came with loss of control rather than attempting to get them where they wanted to go on foot.

  Rather than reaching the cave’s mouth and stepping out, he and Ianthe were spat from warm waters and onto an island shore.

  His grandfather waited there. He stood in shallow water. Pants and shirtsleeves rolled, elderly body bent forward, hands and arms wet as though he’d been trying to grab fish.

  He straightened. “So you’ve figured it out.”

  “Yes.”

  His grandfather left the water. “There’s a woman who’s been coming around when I’m in the North. She’s looking for you.”

  Miguel jerked, shivered at the thought of dead people seeking him out. His thoughts flashed to Sixth Sense, a movie he’d loved at the safe distance of believing stuff like that couldn’t happen. “Me?”

  “Yes. She says she needs your help. Her body didn’t get a proper burial. Her people don’t know to say goodbye.”

  “What’s her name?”

  His grandfather shrugged. “She didn’t say. It might not mean anything anyway.”

  But Miguel thought her asking for him must mean she’d died in his jurisdiction. He shared a look with Ianthe. She nodded, agreement and encouragement.

  “Can you help me find her?” Miguel asked his grandfather.

  “I can help you. But we don’t have time to travel on foot.”

  Miguel glanced at the water. His grandfather shook his head. “You step back into it and you’ll wake.”

  “Then how will we get to where the woman is?”