Dylan's Witch: 10 (Supernatural Bonds)

by Jory Strong

  His rational mind shied away from looking too closely at the demon-familiar thing going on there. Live and let love was his new motto.

  Jesus. Pathetic.

  He called Aislinn when he was a couple of blocks out. Heat and need exploded in a burst of sensation just from hearing her voice when she answered the phone.

  “I’m about to pay you a surprise visit,” he said.

  Her laugh made him smile.

  Next to him, Dylan snorted.

  Yeah, buddy, laugh all you want because you’re next.

  “A couple of reporters have been by,” Aislinn said, and that eradicated Trace’s amusement in a heartbeat.

  “Rehashing the Vorhaus and Harper murder cases?”

  “Yes, Sophie called. She said it was on the news the senator’s wife was killed in jail this morning. She wanted me to know the dragon princes have guards keeping an eye on the shop and to ask me if they should prevent the reporters from coming in.”

  All of Trace’s protective, possessive instincts blazed to life. “You better have told her yes,” he said, letting the dominance he usually reserved for sex thread through his voice.

  The catch of her breath was intensely satisfying, though it was enough to have his cock screaming and banging against his zipper in a demand to get out. That and having the shop come into sight and knowing he was about to have her in his arms, her body pressed against his.

  “I see you did,” he said, spotting the guys standing on either side of the door like a couple of deadly bouncers. He wouldn’t be able to tell which prince they owed liege service to even if he saw the dragon tattoos they’d be sporting. “Be with you in a minute.”

  He hung up, his excuse for getting Dylan inside popping. He and Brady were on the same page when it came to favoring a money motive, but fuck, what if this had something to do with the magic the Harpers practiced?

  He slid into a parking place. “News about Nicole Harper getting killed is out. Aislinn might have something for us.”

  Oh yeah, totally smooth. He suppressed a smile when Dylan reached for the door handle. Am I good or am I good?

  Oh yeah, I’m good. The sparks starting flying the instant Dylan stepped into Inner Magick. Poor guy looked like he’d been poleaxed.

  A trail of lust blazed straight to Dylan’s dick. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! And yeah, every repeat had his balls pulling up hard and tight and his cock throbbing.

  Look away, the instinct for self-preservation screamed. This problem has already been handled.

  Pounce, countered the instinct for procreation. And that voice was a hell of a lot stronger, locking his eyes on Seraphine.

  Jesus. Knowing what she tasted like, how she felt against him, only made this encounter worse. The guilt came swarming back. He never should have touched her in the first place.

  Despite the haze of lust currently choking off most of his ability to think, he was still detective enough to catch the flash of surprise in her eyes at his appearance, followed by the walling off that said he’d hurt her with his abrupt departure last night. This setup was Trace and Aislinn’s doing.

  Dylan jammed his hands into his pockets. It was that or be a repeat offender and close the distance with the same urgency Trace demonstrated, getting to Aislinn and pulling her into his arms then slamming his mouth down on hers in a kiss that screamed ownership.

  Seraphine’s expression at seeing them was like a fucking neon sign shouting her desire to be in a committed relationship. Possessiveness growled through him with a promise that a night in his bed would erase the possibility of her finding it with any other man.

  Christ. What’s wrong with me?

  The ring on his finger burned in answer.

  Not going there. Not believing in that shit.

  But it was all he could do not to crowd into her personal space. He forced himself to stop near, but not next to her.

  There was a jar of black stones on the counter separating showcases and shelves from the cash register. He reached in, lifting and letting them cascade through his fingers as a way of keeping a hand busy and off her, because do that and his lips would follow.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, low, for her ears only.

  “For what happened? Or for the abrupt way it ended?”

  Jesus, the husky timbre of her voice was like having her hand wrap around his dick. He couldn’t lay the blame all on her being a witch. “The second one.”

  Her lips tilted up in a small smile. Locking his gaze there and threatening to bring a rush of fantasies.

  Time for the big head to take charge.

  He drew a blank. What was he going to say, What brings you to Inner Magic? Oh yeah, he really wanted that answer when he was very carefully not looking too closely at the stuff all around him.

  Come on, come on. Mettes and Patterson would laugh their asses off if they were on scene. But hell, with his attention zeroing in on her lips, words were the last thing he cared about.

  “Can you give me a reason?”

  He glanced down. A traitorous part of him willed her hand to where he wanted it despite having his gaze catch on the emerald-green stone at her wrist. It was a match to his ring and the thing looked alive.

  He immediately blocked out the shit Storm had told him about heartmate stones. She’d never been a rabid disbeliever when it came to the supernatural, but falling in love had further eroded her rational thought processes. Same with Trace.

  “It’s complicated.” And nothing good would come of stirring the past into the present. It wouldn’t change the kind of man he was or alter the future.

  He shifted his attention to his partner, needing some help from that direction. “Christ, weren’t you two with each other only a couple of hours ago?”

  Trace ended the kiss—with obvious reluctance. “Newly wed. You ought to try it.”

  Heat crawled up Dylan’s neck to match the blush spreading across Seraphine’s cheeks. Jesus, Trace, why not whip out the baton and slam us upside the head to make it even more obvious what’s going on here?

  Seraphine’s laugh broke the tension inside him. It released him.

  Fuck. He knew his way around women. He could handle his attraction to her, especially now that he’d done the right thing and warned her off.

  He dropped the black stones he’d been playing with into the jar on the counter. “I guess you heard about Nicole Harper’s murder.”

  She nodded. Without her help explaining the significance of the symbols at the Vorhaus murder scene, and giving them cause to look closer at the senator and his wife as suspects, they might not have ended up with the confession they got from the senator’s wife. The way Trace spun it, Seraphine was the reason they’d gotten a confession.

  Dylan firmly suppressed the niggling sense of something being off there because in his experience, people with the kind of financial resources the Harpers had didn’t willingly go down for the crimes they committed. Whatever Trace had said to Nicole Harper, it’d done the trick.

  “I heard,” Seraphine said.

  He watched the words leave her mouth and wanted to taste them, capture them, exchange them for soft moans and whispered pleas for him to pound into her as he held her pinned to the bed.

  “I’ve seen a number of documentaries, isn’t it fairly rare for women to be killed by women in jail?”

  There was a tiny delay as the words pieced the veil of fantasy and transformed into something he needed to respond to. “It doesn’t happen often. Trace and I are looking into it though it’s out of our jurisdiction.”

  His partner finally stepped up to the plate and took his turn at bat. “Any chance another witch is behind this? Or a victim, thinking ‘Kill Nicole and it shuts down some curse’?”

  Hearing what came out of Trace’s mouth was like being drenched in cold water. Was his partner pretending to believe, or had he crossed the line into actually believing in this stuff?

  Dylan’s gaze jerked away from Seraphine and onto Aislinn. Christ, it wasn’t in him
to hate her if she’d pulled Trace to the dark side. What did that say about him?

  “A spell or curse that would end with the caster’s death would also be one that had to be maintained by a constant draw of power,” Seraphine said. “It would be extremely costly if someone paid to have it created. If Nicole Harper’s death is related to witchcraft, I’d lean more toward revenge, or the possibility she’s somehow viewed as a threat.”

  Dylan wondered how it was she could spout that stuff and totally believe it, and he still wanted to jerk her into his arms and dive on those luscious lips before exploring the rest of her.

  “Financial means for whoever is behind the hit probably isn’t an issue,” Trace said. “Assuming, of course, Nicole Harper didn’t say or do something to cause her fellow inmate to snap. Has anything surfaced since her arrest that might point to a likely suspect?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.” Seraphine matched the answer with a shake of her head, causing the light to reflect off deep-red hair and making Dylan’s fingers flex at imaging grasping it.

  “Then I guess Dylan and I had better head out.”

  They left a moment later.

  “I shouldn’t have sprung Dylan on you that way,” Aislinn said. “Trace and I thought… I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Seraphine rubbed the bracelet at her wrist. Last night, his rejection outside the bar had caused pain to sliver through her like an icy knife mercilessly whittling away hope. She’d returned to her car, dry-eyed, but only because the tears were lodged in her throat, along with a determination to put Dylan out of her mind until fate brought him back into her life.

  Now she held his apology to her heart, though the look of disbelief on his face when she answered Trace’s question was like peeling off the thin scab covering the pain of last night’s encounter with Electra.

  “I need to head to work,” she said, giving Aislinn a hug, knowing that later, she’d go to the low-cost medical clinic where Electra worked because she’d rather risk making things worse than leave things the way they’d ended. Too much was at stake.

  * * * * *

  “What’s going on with you?” Trace asked as Inner Magick disappeared from the side-view mirror. “You were practically drooling in there. Ask her out. This isn’t exactly a high-risk situation. It’s a pretty sure thing she’d say yes to at least one date.”

  And could he settle for one? Would one be enough to finally get her out of his system?

  He had to shut this down. “If you’d seen her expression when you had Aislinn in a clinch you’d know the answer. Seraphine’s looking for happy-ever-after. I’m not happy-ever-after material.” He was too much like his old man when it came to women, untrustworthy for the long haul, though admitting it was like carving a hollow place out in his chest.

  Trace snorted. “Not buying it. Look at how things turned out with Aislinn and me. Look at Conner and Khemirra.”

  Dylan attempted another deflection. “Yeah, and that’s why I’m sticking with what works for me. It’s a hell of a lot safer.”

  Trace shook his head. “Let me get this straight, you’re telling me none of the badge bunnies are hoping for the ring and the cop husband?”

  “That’s why I suit up.” Not that he’d pulled a condom from his wallet or his nightstand drawer lately.

  “How long has it been since you’ve gone in naked?”

  Heat blazed through his dick even thinking about it. “Not reason enough to get married.”

  Trace laughed and went back to quoting from Star Trek. “Resistance is futile. For me the answer was never. Not once until the night I met Aislinn at Lily’s.”

  “TMI.” Way, way too much information, especially given he wasn’t totally convinced he wouldn’t do the same thing with Seraphine if the opportunity presented itself and all the reasons he should resist the attraction went up in flames. He was bad news for any woman wanting more than a good time.

  They parked in front of Elaine Young’s apartment. The sedan screamed cops to the occupants of the run-down neighborhood.

  A couple of kids playing soccer in the street paused to give them suspicious stares before resuming their game. The gangbangers hanging out in front of a house down the street all shifted stances, watching with an eye toward running if interest got directed their way.

  “Always good to feel welcomed,” Dylan said.

  Trace snorted as they walked up stairs made narrower by a ramp. He hit the doorbell and had to do it a second time, not that their presence hadn’t already been noted.

  Elaine Young answered with a full-body block of the doorway. “Yeah?”

  Mug shots didn’t improve on looks. But in the time since her last arrest, Elaine’s appearance had changed for the worse, going from strung-out offender to haggard.

  “Okay if we come in?” Trace asked.

  She stepped out of the way, her body language saying no but she had enough experience with cops to just want to get it over with.

  The furniture was crowded toward the wall. Dylan took Trace’s lead and didn’t bother heading there to sit.

  “We’re here about your sister,” Trace said.

  Elaine’s eyes jerked toward an open doorway then back. “What about her?”

  “She tell you she have a beef with someone in her unit?” Trace asked.

  “Why? She kill someone?”

  “So she mentioned a beef?”

  “Maybe. Mentioned some rich bitch a couple of times. I didn’t pay too much attention.”

  Dylan shoved his hands into his pockets, jingled the coins there, a message she was wasting their time with her bullshit. “Months of not visiting her and then when you finally do, you don’t listen to what she’s telling you?”

  It gained him a nasty look. “She’s family. Doesn’t mean I have to hang on every word.”

  “The rich bitch have a name?” Trace asked.

  “Not that I remember.”

  Elaine’s gaze slid toward the open doorway, but she caught herself before it got there.

  “Mind if I use your bathroom?” Dylan asked, snapping her attention to him.

  “Yeah, I do mind. Are we done?”

  He let Trace make the call in the affirmative, after a few more questions that didn’t go anywhere.

  She body blocked them back to the front door.

  They didn’t speak until they were in the car, Trace once again behind the wheel.

  “Either she made us as homicide cops by our abundant good looks and took a giant deductive leap as to why we were there,” Trace said. “Or she was expecting us.”

  “The second has my vote. Her curiosity didn’t extend to asking us again if her sister killed someone. Now the question is, who didn’t she want us to see? First time I’ve ever had anyone deny me a pee.”

  Trace laughed and flicked his cell phone open. “Who, or what?” But it was rhetorical given his quick hit to speed dial and his saying, “Hey, you and Brady still in the bullpen? Great. Do me a favor, pull up the accident report on Deana Young.” He paused, allowing for the necessary keystrokes. “Anybody else in the car with her? Thanks.”

  Trace slipped the phone back in his pocket.

  “Let me guess,” Dylan said. “You have a bona fide clue. What’d Storm say?”

  “Elaine’s sixteen-year-old son was in the car with Deana and severely injured. Report says possible spinal damage. Storm’s going to follow-up, see what shape he was in when he got discharged from the hospital.”

  “That explains the ramp. Could explain what she didn’t want us to see, a kid needing more care than she’s going to be able to provide without financial assistance.”

  “Or a chance to capitalize on her sister’s feelings of guilt.”

  “Cold.” Not that they hadn’t seen plenty of it when it came to murderers. “So a money motive for Nicole Harper getting shanked?”

  “Shanked by an inmate with no priors for violence. By one whose sister started visiting her out of the blue.”

  Dylan r
eflected for all of a quarter second. “I like it. Money works for me.”

  “Are we good or are we good?”

  “We’re golden.”

  “Feel like a visit to County?”

  “Probably a waste of time.”

  “More than probably, but what the hell, let’s go.”

  Chapter Five

  Conner slowed the sleek craft he’d borrowed from Pierce, Storm’s secret husband. Jesus. The captain would keel over if he knew what had happened to his homicide squad. Storm’s being with two guys, one of them co-owner of the infamous Drake’s Lair, would probably be just the thing to lead to a bout of fatal indigestion.

  His gaze moved to the black wolf at the helm of the boat—or not. He grinned and said, “Just a man and his dog out fishing. I could get used to this silent companionship.”

  The wolf looked at him, lips pulling back to expose a hint of very sharp canines. Her light brown eyes promised payback.

  “Bring it on,” he said.

  She snorted and turned her attention to the saw grass plane they were pushing through.

  He glanced down at Miguel’s map and knew fun and games would have to wait. They were close to where X may or may not mark the spot.

  The slight rocking of the boat had him looking up to catch that instant when wolf changed to woman in a shimmer of magic. There was a split second of awe at what she was, followed immediately by sheer male pleasure as she stood, at being the man lucky enough to snag such a gorgeous woman.

  “You going to bite me now?” he asked.

  Khemirra snapped her teeth together. “I might, if you’re a good boy.”

  “Boy? Did you shift just so you could insult me?”

  “Nope. You’re going to need another pair of eyes. There’s something freshly dead somewhere in the saw grass.”

  Conner frowned. “Fresh? I kind of figured we were looking for a skeleton given Miguel’s description.” And they were a good forty yards from the cluster of mangroves.

  “The nose doesn’t lie,” she said, tapping hers.

  He slowed the boat further. Despite what she’d said about needing another pair of eyes, given the cant of her head, she guided him using her sense of smell. Not that he needed directions once the breeze shifted. Heat and water accelerated decomposition.