Dylan's Witch: 10 (Supernatural Bonds)

by Jory Strong

Dylan whistled. “Fast work.”

  “What do you know about her?” Trace asked.

  “She was a prostitute.”

  Another one. No surprise at this point. When it hit, the news media was going to latch onto the serial killer angle and play it for all it was worth.

  “It took your DB for her street-walking sisters to open up,” Miguel said. “I went looking for a disappearance right around the time Miles Terry was killed with Lucifer’s Blade—we assume by either the senator or his wife—after stealing it from VanDenbergh’s collection.”

  He turned the monitor. “Meet Lupita Perez.”

  “She’s got a different vibe than our Jane Doe,” Dylan said. “Not just race. Our victim is fresher while Perez looks like she worked the streets a lot longer.”

  “Probably killed by one or both of the Harpers, possibly even the senator and his mistress or sons while the wife was out of town. Storm is looking into that right now. She caught a whiff of there being some tie to magic when it came to one of the senator’s illegitimate sons, which has got her digging on that whole family.”

  Trace leaned against a desk. “Can’t be a coincidence where Katcher was dumped, and conveniently Nicole Harper isn’t around to tell us who knew they had the knife or who might have helped them get rid of a body. Assuming of course, that someone at the VanDenbergh estate hadn’t taken it out for a trial run before it got stolen.”

  Miguel sighed. “Yeah. Hard to know who to suspect given it’s almost impossible to know for sure whether someone practices this type of magic. The only solid we have is that Lucifer’s Blade was used on both your Jane Doe and Lupita Perez.”

  “What, you’re psychic now?” Dylan joked, because without a blade to match to the marks found on Perez’s skeletal remains, they had no proof.

  “Khemirra was with Conner,” Miguel said.

  “And that’s important how?”

  Miguel shared a look with Trace, warning enough Dylan wasn’t going to like what came next.

  “Khemirra sensed magic on the bones.”

  Dylan wondered what the fuck he was supposed to do with that. Then again, Miguel had bought into Aislinn being the real deal right from the start. And the two of you rushed into a burning building and saved a kid’s life because of it.

  There was no shaking the underlying uneasiness as it got harder and harder to deny the possibility there was more out there than could be bagged and tagged and collected as evidence.

  The phone on Trace’s desk rang, for which Dylan was grateful.

  “Be right down,” his partner said, hanging up and turning toward him. “Front desk. A homeless guy just walked in. Won’t talk to anyone but you or me.”

  “Commander Joe?” Had to be, though in all the years Trace had been trying to get the Vietnam-era vet off the streets and shoehorned back into society, Joe had never sought him out even if, from time to time, he’d passed on information.

  “Probably. Coming?”

  “Yeah.”

  They went to the lobby. The officer working the counter said, “He’s waiting outside. I think being in here made him claustrophobic.”

  Maybe. But Dylan figured a different reason. Commander Joe wouldn’t want to leave his cart unattended.

  They found him next to a shopping basket filled with the treasure he made out of other people’s trash. Dylan managed to avoid looking at the green stone in his ring, though even thinking about it was enough to bring images of Seraphine rushing in.

  What next? He’d believe they were heartmates destined for happy ever after?

  He forced the door closed on the thought. But in doing it, the hum, the burrowing whispers and chilling, low-level screams took center stage in his head.

  Christ. He concentrated his attention on Commander Joe.

  The homeless vet was blinking away tears, saying, “Old Tomas is dead. I found him in the alley off Alee Street. The one next to where the shoe repair used to be. There’s blood all over his front. Somebody used a knife on him.”

  Dylan’s gut went tight. His heart rabbited and before he could stop himself, he was touching the charm that was once again on the chain and against his skin. Icy sweat broke out on his skin at the prospect of being near a dead body made that way by Lucifer’s Blade.

  “You see anyone in the alley?” Trace asked. “Anything out of place?”

  “I saw someone walking toward the other end when I was making my rounds. They were past where I found him next to the Dumpster.”

  Some of the tightness in Dylan’s gut eased at possibly having a break. “Can you give us a description?”

  Commander Joe shook his head. “They had one of those hoodie things on. Gray. I thought maybe a woman at first, only it could have been a slender boy, someone from the university. I couldn’t tell.”

  “Or a tourist cutting through and not wanting to get involved,” Trace said. “Did you go right into the alley?”

  “No. Not until after I’d cashed out at the thrift shop and got something to eat.”

  “So maybe an hour passed,” Trace said, more familiar with Commander Joe’s pattern than Dylan was.

  “Maybe.”

  They headed out a few minutes later, after Trace had bargained for a stuffed lion in Joe’s cart and passed him some bills, a reward for coming in that the old man’s pride allowed him to accept since it was masked by the other transaction.

  Dylan knew the moment they entered the alley that they’d find the body still there behind the Dumpster, and that Lucifer’s Blade had been used in this case too. His steps faltered. His skin got clammy.

  Trace glanced at him. “You going to puke again?”

  “No.”

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  The whispering is louder. The wails. Like someone opened a door to hell.

  “It’s nothing.”

  Trace reached out, vise-gripped his arm. “Talk to me.”

  He jerked away. “I’m getting there.”

  Jesus. It wasn’t just the craziness going on inside his own freaking head. It was the way things were changing now that he was the last homicide detective left single and unattached. He wasn’t looking for further proof of just how far things had strayed from normal, though Trace seemed determined to demonstrate it.

  “Might help if you press the charm against the cut.” Trace said, calmly accepting what he was having a hell of a time coming to terms with himself. “Seemed to work for you this morning.”

  Dylan resisted until they reached Old Tomas. Then he unclasped the chain and stuffed it and the charm beneath the gauze and wrap Trace had slapped on him.

  It helped, at least with the whispers and screams and vibrating, the underlying terror that accompanied them. It knocked them into the background almost as well as when he’d entered Seraphine’s house.

  Not going there.

  The hum remained, leaving him with the feeling he might burst open, filling him with a sick dread.

  “At least tell me when we’ve wrapped for the day that you’ll go see Seraphine,” Trace said, not letting the weird die a natural death.

  “I’ll call this in,” Dylan said, avoiding answering.

  Chapter Ten

  Seraphine closed the last of the volumes the librarian claimed might aid her. He’d doled out the various books one at a time, finding some excuse to orbit in her general vicinity as if she were a patron suspected of defacing or stealing library books in the past.

  “Thank you for your assistance,” she said.

  Her impending exit smoothed his expression and pulled his lips into a genuine smile. It allowed her a moment of humorous relief. She’d never considered a dragon could share his hoard, but clearly the human Malik had put in charge cared for the books as though they belonged to him.

  He escorted her to the library door, the boundary of his domain, and as if her passing into the hallway were enough to summon him, Malik stepped into sight.

  The dragon prince was gorgeous. Elegant and menac
ing in the same way Arioc was, though instead of pale hair, Malik’s was flowing darkness, with eyes to match and skin that made hers seem luminescent by comparison.

  “Was your hunt successful?” he asked.

  She suppressed a shiver. “Yes and no.”

  He didn’t press for clarification. She didn’t offer it.

  At her car she said, “Call when I can assist you.”

  “Count on it.” He pressed a card into her hand. “Contact me should you require further help. The blade must be recovered.”

  She left the estate, her outward calm a complete lie, though she needed it to be truth before she summoned Arioc and bargained for answers.

  The shiver she’d held back came, sliding in like the leading edge of an avalanche and sweeping through, freezing everything in its wake. She wanted to call Dylan, to ask him if in addition to the cut opening, he heard whispers and screams. If he feared he was going insane.

  She wanted to believe—desperately hoped—the charm she’d strengthened kept them at bay. It should, for a little while. But not for long. Not when the blade was being used.

  Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. Even that didn’t completely eliminate the trembling.

  There’d only been the one obscure reference, in that very last book. Maybe she was wrong…

  She wasn’t wrong. There was no disagreement in the type of demon lords summoned by use of the blade. Every source referenced the high lords, those so powerful few humans could either reach them where they resided deep in the dark realms or successfully pull them through a portal created by a spell-working.

  Arioc had come of his own volition. To satisfy his curiosity perhaps. To amuse himself. To explore or set some far-reaching plan in motion. She could attribute any and all of them as his motive.

  He’d given her a piece of his name, enough of it to use. Barely.

  Her debt to him would be called tonight. She knew it, and yet there was no avoiding it.

  Lucifer’s Blade was tied to a portal. Sacrificial death opened that portal.

  She went directly to her casting room upon arriving home. She lit incense and candles. The ritual involved in her preparations calmed her.

  She paused to find her center before offering the necessary blood to call upon Arioc.

  He shimmered into existence, beautiful and deadly.

  “This is a surprise,” he said, a purr in his voice as he glided forward, circling like a large cat. “You’ve been with your human policeman. Did he fail to please?”

  “Lucifer’s Blade.”

  Arioc halted behind her so she couldn’t read his expression. “What of it?”

  “Is it a focus point for creating a portal?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “There’s been a sacrificial murder.”

  “Hmmm. Interesting. But surely you didn’t call me simply to verify a bit of the arcane. Your kind has always known it was a summoning blade.”

  Soft lips brushed across her ear. “Did he disappoint, Seraphine? Are you now ready to let me demonstrate what I can do for you?”

  “It’s said a human who cuts himself on the athame creates a binding to the dark realm. To the blade itself? The portal? Or does that human become Gressil’s to claim?”

  “Tedious questions, Seraphine.” And his intonation was like the touch of a knife along her spine. “What you really wish to know is how Lucifer’s Blade affects humans. It kills them, in one manner or another.”

  She couldn’t suppress a shiver. He moved to stand in front of her, eyes hooded. Features carved into arrogant lines. “Your fear is an intoxicating bouquet. When I was far younger and weaker than I am now, I would have made a feast of it and not been sated until I’d devoured all of you.”

  He took a strand of her hair. It curled like fire around his fingers. “Your policeman has done the unthinkable, though humans are well known for it. He cut himself handling Lucifer’s Blade.”

  Was she so obvious? Or had he known from the very beginning?

  “Yes.”

  “It would be unwise to let it be known what you’ve learned about the blade. But I will offer you a bargain. Find it and inform me of its location and your debt to me, as it exists in this moment, will be considered paid in full. Take possession of it, and I will assist you in unbinding your human from the portal.”

  She had no choice, even if Dylan never accepted that supernatural law had to trump human law in this, Lucifer’s Blade needed to disappear. It couldn’t be surrendered to the police as evidence to convict the guilty.

  A nod indicated acceptance of Arioc’s terms. He lowered his hand, its slow retreat making her hair lick over his skin.

  “Now I believe I’d enjoy being outside under your night sky. Perhaps I’ll even insist on a stroll.”

  She stepped away from him, breaking the physical contact. This was part of their existing bargain, promises and magical binding serving as leash even if it was very much like taking a lethal, predatory cat for a walk.

  * * * * *

  Jealousy clawed through Dylan’s gut at seeing Seraphine with another man. “Son of a bitch!” he cursed when the blond turned to face her, stroked the back of his hand across her cheek in an unmistakable caress and she didn’t react except to stand, eyes seemingly locked to her lover’s.

  Fuck, payback was hell, even if he deserved this.

  “Fuck!” He jerked the ring off his finger and tossed it onto the floor.

  Its absence howled through him. He gritted his teeth and pulled into the next driveway, backed and turned, driving in the opposite direction, though it didn’t stop him from watching until she disappeared from the rearview mirror.

  He didn’t need her. Yeah, he wanted her. No surprise there.

  He’d had a thing for redheads since the first time he’d stumbled on his father’s porn stash. He’d been easy pickings for that first redheaded witch.

  Jacqueline. He forced himself to acknowledge her name.

  Christ. Old pain and guilt flooded in, layering over the raw places at seeing Seraphine with the blond.

  It suppressed the jealousy and sliced through his guts and heart as he remembered what it’d been like to have Heather walk in when he’d been pounding away, fucking the witch as if his life depended on it.

  He rubbed his chest, forcing the memories back. This was for the best, he told himself, same as he’d done then.

  He didn’t stop to retrieve the ring on the passenger-side floor though he felt guilty because of it being a gift from Aislinn, handcrafted by her and given to him because she wanted him to find his heartmate.

  What total bullshit. Like all the rest of it.

  Like most of it, he qualified, aware of the charm against his skin and unwilling to take it off.

  His phone rang just as he pulled into the parking spot in front of his apartment. A glance and he frowned at seeing the call was from Mettes.

  He cut the engine but didn’t get out of the car as he answered by asking, “How was the blonde?”

  “Your loss, my gain.”

  The image of Seraphine had blood rushing south. Not a chance in hell Mettes had found anything better with a badge bunny. “You calling to kiss and tell about your adventures in the land of silicone?”

  “Freeman is in the hospital.”

  Dylan straightened on a surge of adrenaline. Everything in the periphery disappeared. “What happened?”

  “Doctors don’t know. He missed his check-in. Backup went in and found him comatose.”

  “Drugs? Poison?”

  “Nothing that pops on any of the tests they’ve run. No sign of force. No sign of intake, willing or otherwise. Based on the condition they found him in, the doctors think he dropped at about the same time Booker was killed.”

  “Good reason to look at rival dealers.” Though even saying it, it didn’t ring true for Dylan. Booker’s murder was heat of the moment and involved a woman.

  Mettes’ sudden tension hummed through the line and Dylan’s p
ulse skittered. It was all the warning he got before Mettes said, “Word is that you and your partner consulted with a witch on the Vorhaus and Harper cases. I want an intro.”

  Everything inside Dylan rebelled, and not just at putting Mettes, with his surfer looks, together with Seraphine. He forced himself to confront the deeper dread. “You can’t seriously think the voodoo doll had something to do with this.”

  “Does it matter? At the end of the day, I want to know I did everything I could for Freeman, and if that mean getting into bed with a witch, I’ll do it.”

  Fuck no he wouldn’t. Not Seraphine.

  Dylan’s gut roiled. His hand tightened on the phone.

  There was no turning down Mettes’ request, but damned if he wasn’t going to be there when he put it to Seraphine. “I’ll call her.” And if this took her away from the blond, all the better.

  “I’ll stand by. Any place she’s willing to meet me, I’ll be there.”

  She answered breathless and sent a burn of jealousy through him. “Voodoo dolls, any experience with them?”

  He felt her surprise, heard a touch of pleasure in her voice when she said, “Some. Why?”

  “Another cop wants to talk to you about them. Can you meet at that twenty-four hour coffee shop on Ashford and Broad?”

  Away from temptation.

  Liar. Only moving across the country might be far enough for that to happen.

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. See you there in a few minutes.”

  He relayed the message to Mettes.

  Fuck, what was he getting himself into?

  He dropped the phone on the passenger seat. His gaze caught on the ring on the floor.

  The urge to pick it up and put it on was strong. Christ, not just on, but on his wedding band finger. That feeling hadn’t dissipated since the day he’d opened the velvet bag Aislinn gave him and dropped the damn ring into his palm.

  He balled his fist, refusing to pick it up even when he got to the coffee shop and saw Mettes was already there with Seraphine.

  Seraphine’s heart tumbled in her chest at seeing Dylan. It had to mean something that he’d come rather than just passing her phone number to Matthew.