Dylan's Witch: 10 (Supernatural Bonds)

by Jory Strong

She returned the feverish kisses, her lips clinging to his, her tongue rubbing, twining with his in desperate hunger. His heart thundered and he didn’t bother telling himself it was from the righteous kill or the chase or anything else. He inhaled her scent, tightened his arms around her.

  Christ. If he hadn’t followed her…

  Her arms were tight around him, her body heat soaking through his clothes so all he wanted to do was get her back to her place and fuck her hard, fast and probably into tomorrow.

  He could hear the first patrol car enter the garage. Somehow he managed to take his mouth off hers.

  “Nice demonstration of self-defense,” he said, forcing himself to start thinking with the big head instead of the little one. “Any reason to believe they were targeting you specifically? Any problems with students or faculty? Any threats?”

  “No.”

  He closed his eyes. Rubbed his cheek against her hair. He had a second, maybe two of remaining contact. “What about spillover from the other stuff? The…”

  “Witchcraft.”

  “Yeah. That.”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “As positive as I can be, Dylan. Blood magic is not necessarily black magic.”

  He left her arms an instant before the first radio car hit their level.

  More followed.

  And after those, paramedics who wouldn’t be needed.

  Internal affairs. The coroner.

  Finally Trace.

  Dylan dealt with what needed to be done. Hated being separated from Seraphine as statements were taken, evidence gathered, a search initiated and his on-duty piece confiscated pending a review into the shooting.

  Through it all, the drive to get her back to her place and alone didn’t lessen.

  His suspicions about what this attempt on Seraphine was really about were need to know. He didn’t share them with Internal Affairs or anyone else until the scene was cleared and only he and Trace and Seraphine remained.

  He was next to her by then, close enough to allow physical contact. And doing his best to ignore Trace’s amusement at seeing it, though it morphed to seriousness soon enough.

  “If you hadn’t called this in,” Trace said, “you and I’d be looking at last night’s victim. The captain pressured the review board to wrap things up and clear Conner for duty. He and Miguel are on scene. Dump site was beyond the city limits. A confirmed prostitute. This one Hispanic. Slit wrists. Bled out elsewhere. No defensive wounds. I don’t like the timing of this attack. I don’t buy it as a random attempted carjacking.”

  Seraphine understood why Dylan had arrived when he did then. He must have waited for her to leave the house rather than risk being alone with her inside it.

  Ache spread. But it couldn’t gain ground against the heat that still simmered between them, against the eruption of need that had come in the wake of his shooting her assailant, by the desire now pulsing between them, leaving her longing for skin-to-skin contact, to have him above her, in her.

  Had the assailant stepped from the stairwell and shot her, she would be dead. That manner of death couldn’t be prevented by her magic. But taken… She had only to call upon Arioc in time of dire need and he would come, freed of any restraint.

  She shivered. A demon lord would never grant a simple, quick death.

  Dylan’s arm went around her waist, pulling her against him. “I don’t buy this is random either,” he said.

  His arm tightened on her. She could feel his resistance, as if the bond promised by the heartmate stones had slipped into place with the possibility of being separated by death. Worse, when she covered the hand bearing the cut from Lucifer’s Blade with hers, their fingers entwined, she could sense the link to the portal, could hear the faint whispers of demons calling and the screams of the damned.

  Fear whipped through her. She’d risk being hurt emotionally down the road if it meant she could convince him to come home with her and find relief behind the wards protecting her house.

  “How widely is what you do known?” Dylan asked, refusing to name it.

  “Not widely. I work by referral only. What general charms I create are distributed solely through Inner Magick. It’s an arrangement I made with Moki when she ran the store.”

  “Maybe the charm is the link we’re looking for,” Trace said. “Nicole Harper saw the one in Dylan’s possession. I was in the bullpen just long enough this morning for Storm to pass me some information. There have been a series of one thousand dollar deposits into Elaine Thomas’ account. They started a few days before she visited her sister in prison. They were traced back to an offshore account belonging to Nicole Harper. The day she was shanked, the balance in that account was cleaned out. Four hundred eighty-seven thousand and change.”

  Dylan whistled. “Dumped into Elaine Thomas’ account?”

  “No. That’d be too easy. But you can bet she got a chunk of cash.”

  “And you can also bet Nicole Harper didn’t intend to pay for her own death.”

  “Too true.”

  “How’d Storm come by the information?”

  “Undisclosed sources.”

  Something hinky there but he was going to ignore it in favor of the potential break the knowledge created. “So we’re looking for access to the money. Two names pop for me. Hale said she’d only had two visitors, the defense attorney and her former personal assistant.”

  “Bingo. Helene Lindley and Camille Cunningham. They would have been in a position to know the blade is real, and not tabloid news reporting. Storm also said the lead on the senator’s mistress and illegitimate sons as possible practitioners didn’t look like it was going to pan out.”

  Dylan felt a rush of satisfaction. They were getting closer. He felt it in his gut. “Are we good or are we good?”

  “We’re golden. Except right now you’re benched until you’re cleared by the review committee. Considering they just rushed to get Conner back on duty and the news media is going to have a field day combining trigger-happy cops with missing evidence, and a serial killer on the loose targeting prostitutes, you might be on ice for a while.” Trace grinned. “Or not. “Seraphine needs protection. You’re the best man for the job.”

  Seraphine squeezed Dylan’s hand. She didn’t need the protection, not when she could call upon Arioc. Not once she got behind the wards of her house, but she needed Dylan. And behind those same wards he would be safe from the effects of the portal.

  The erection pressed to her buttocks suggested willingness. She turned enough to meet his gaze. “Come home with me? Stay for as long as you can?”

  “Yes.”

  Anticipation surged like a rising tide, only to crash against Trace’s asking, “Any chance of you being able to find out if Lindley and Cunningham practice black magic?”

  Fear slid in as sharp as any knife as it occurred to her that if this attack had really been set in motion by whoever possessed Lucifer’s Blade, then they would know about Electra and Chesna. She fumbled for her phone, only to realize it was in her car, along with her purse, put there while she was being questioned. “I need to warn my sister. I need to make sure she’s made safe.”

  Dylan handed her his phone. She punched in the number with shaky fingers. Relief nearly made her sink to her knees when Electra answered.

  “Thank god!” Electra said. “I’ve been calling you since I saw the news. You’re okay? Where are you?”

  “I’m okay. I’m still at the university. Are you at work?”

  “No. Chesna told me what happened at school yesterday. I kept her home today. I’m here with her.”

  “This might not have been a random attack.” She could sense Electra’s immediate withdrawal.

  Fear rushed in that her sister would shut her out as a result of having more evidence of the danger magic brought. She hurried to head it off. “I’ve been helping the police, the one I told you about.”

  “That’s why he happened to be there.”

  “Y
es. We’re about to leave. We’ll be at my house.” Seraphine’s hand tightened on Dylan’s phone. “I’m doing some work for a very wealthy man. He’s never without bodyguards. Let me ask him to assign one to you and Chesna. Please, Electra. It would kill me if anything happened to either of you.”

  She caught herself holding her breath, willing her sister to say yes. The silence on the other end built like a balloon expanding until she felt as though her heart would burst if Electra said no.

  “Please, Electra.”

  “Yes.” Tightly said, but without anger.

  “I’ll call Malik right now. Stay there and lock the doors.”

  She used the number Tristan had given her the day before, sighed with relief when Malik answered, saying, “Apparently whoever has Lucifer’s Blade now considers you a threat.”

  “I’m afraid so.” She made her request, providing Electra’s address when Malik asked for it.

  “I’ll send Zephyr immediately. He’ll be good with the child.”

  “Thank you.”

  She returned Dylan’s phone.

  “Any chance of you being able to find out if Helene Lindley and Camille Cunningham are involved in working black magic?” Trace asked, restating his earlier question.

  “It would be best to know beforehand how likely they are of being guilty.” She didn’t want their deaths on her conscience if she drew Arioc’s attention to them.

  “Fair enough. I’ll head back to the station, while you two go back to her place and…”

  Chapter Twelve

  Helene’s personal phone rang just as she set the box containing the athame down on her desk. Shivers of delight slid up and down Camille’s spine in the blade’s presence. The desire to hold it, to rub her thumb over Baphomet’s ruby eyes and feel the cool caress of the hilt against her hand created a hum that drowned out Mistress’ voice.

  She might be punished for it later, though that in itself would be pleasurable to Helene, but there was no resisting the call of the blade. Camille lifted the box lid, her gaze latching on to the dagger with the same fervent desire she’d once felt at passing a toy store and seeing the expensive gifts other parents bought for their children, things her parents denied her.

  She lifted Lucifer’s Blade from its consecrated cushion without even a glance at Helene, though she sensed Mistress’ attention shift to her. The urge to touch the blade to her lips and press a kiss to the goat’s head inside the pentacle was intense.

  She resisted. Best not to let Mistress see how much she loved Lucifer’s Blade, coveted it because it would never belong to anyone else as truly as it now belonged to her.

  Her attention shifted to the two medallions that lay outside Helene’s blouse, a demon lord bound to each of them. Her lips curved in a small smile. She’d known Mistress would send her to hunt again today, first to charge the blade, and then for tonight’s gift and bait.

  Anticipating it, she’d already selected a prostitute. The retrieval would be easily accomplished, allowing her plenty of time before then to enjoy the redheaded nurse.

  Rather than a quick thrust or slash outside the clinic, she’d force her prey into the car and then to a location where she could enjoy a more leisurely kill, like a cat playing with a hapless mouse. Today she’d experience the slide of the blade through skin and muscle and bone, not just once, but repeatedly, until finally it was done.

  Perhaps mentioning the child, suggesting she’d already been taken, would make her prey more compliant, at least initially. The redhead would be a much better choice, a more worthy communion with the blade than poor foolish Robert or that stinking bum.

  Camille ran a finger along the edge of the wooden box, the fantasy playing out in her mind as she surreptitiously scanned Helene’s desk. Information was power, or rather, leverage for gaining it.

  An open folder and spread papers caught her interest. Oh, naughty, naughty Mistress, gathering personal information on the homicide cops who’d been called to the various dump sites.

  There was Conner Stern, and behind him a delicious-looking black woman. He’d been the one to locate Robert and get her a tongue-lashing—not of the sensual kind—from Mistress for disobedience and laziness at not making sure both of the corpses were hidden deep in swamp water.

  Her gaze lingered on the woman. There would be a worthy target.

  She moved on, to a photograph taken at the press conference on the day VanDenbergh Senior’s murder had been solved and Nicole Harper had confessed to being involved in the deaths of her husband and his aide. Storm O’Malley drew her eye, just as she had on the morning news, standing near the tarp-covered body of last night’s sacrifice.

  Too risky. But oh, wouldn’t it be a coup to use the knife on someone who was looking for her. Someone who’d feel no remorse at sending her to prison, and who would confiscate Lucifer’s Blade, only so it’d lie idle until another managed to gain possession of it.

  Camille moved to the next photograph. Detective Trace Dilessio outside of Inner Magick with his wife, Aislinn. Soft, easy prey.

  A sense of rightness settled in Camille’s core, a pleasured satisfaction. Soon. Oh yes, after the redhead, she’d take this one.

  Aislinn Dilessio would be perfect. Storm O’Malley had interfered and saved Aislinn from the killer Nicole had sent, hoping to distract Detective Dilessio when it became clear he knew something about summoning demons.

  Delicate Aislinn would have been dead if the killer had simply done his job. But like so many men, he couldn’t keep it in his pants and his penis had been his downfall.

  What a phony. If Aislinn truly had magical powers or protectors, she wouldn’t have needed Storm O’Malley to save her.

  Yes. Killing Aislinn in her little shop would be satisfying. Finishing the business might even be considered a tribute to Nicole, a kind of closure and a subtle victory as well.

  Mistress ended the call. “Incompetent idiots!”

  The hiss and vitriol in her voice had Camille’s gaze snapping to Helene’s face, noting in the process that Mistress now held the medallions in a tight fist. “What happened?”

  “That cop, Dylan Archer, was with the witch. He killed one of the men I sent to deal with this problem. The other is willing to make a second attempt but she’ll no doubt be under police protection.”

  Mistress’ tight grip on the medallions loosened. She stroked them. “I’ll use him for another task, one that’ll satisfy his need for revenge perhaps. You’ll have the evening off, pet. There will be no need for you to acquire a prostitute. Tonight the demon lords will bring the witch to me.”

  “What about her wards?”

  Helene laughed. “I’ll arrange a little something for Seraphine Jordain’s sister and niece. A frantic call and the witch will come running. All that’s necessary now, my pet, is for you to charge the blade. Tomorrow I’ll make arrangements for the two of us to take a vacation. Mexico would suit. We’ll wipe the slate clean and start over.”

  Mistress moved around the desk. Camille forced herself not to tense at the invasion of her personal space, to stay soft when Helene stroked a hand down the length of her spine.

  “I won’t be required to scold you for your laziness in Mexico,” Helene purred, the thought of using the demon lords an aphrodisiac. “Take the hands off completely before getting rid of the bodies, and the sacrifices become just another cartel murder. What do you think, pet? Will having them viewed that way deprive you of some of your fun? Or will Mexico suit you?”

  “I’ll be happy with whatever destination Mistress chooses.” She slid to her knees, anxious to leave and take the knife with her. A lift of Helene’s skirt and the presentation of pussy and she went to work.

  Fantasies of hunting returned, sustaining her and eliciting moans of enjoyment to accompany the sharp cry of Mistress’ orgasm that was the necessary price before she made her escape.

  In the safety of the car, Camille pressed the ruby-eyed goat’s head to her lips. She savored the cool feel of the hil
t against her hand.

  Frustration rose at realizing she was now faced with a choice, given the impending move to Mexico. The redheaded nurse whose name she didn’t know or the blonde shop owner who would be such soft, easy prey? The stranger or the detective’s wife?

  She could return for the second one, but… The thought of delaying the gratification, not just a day, but weeks or months or years, only intensified the desire for it now.

  Frustration broke on a giddy bubble. If Lucifer’s Blade was made powerful by charging it with one kill, then why not two before she returned it to Mistress?

  Or three, she amended, thinking about the child as she glided past the nurse’s house and saw her car there after finding it missing at the clinic.

  She didn’t shy away from thoughts of killing the daughter. Remembering her own childhood, she smiled. The girl was probably avoiding school by claiming she was sick. Too bad. It would be the kid’s own fault for causing her mother to miss work.

  Come back? Or do this now?

  Camille circled the block. She frowned at returning and seeing a man at the front door, his long brown hair a cascade of twists down his back.

  A sly grin curved her lips. Perhaps she’d been wrong about the reason the redhead wasn’t at work after all.

  Let her enjoy her last fuck. And later, when the child got home from school, the man should be gone and wouldn’t pose an unnecessary risk.

  Camille laughed. After the ceremony tonight, she’d convince Helene to let her charge the blade before they left for Mexico.

  Bloated on power, Mistress would be tempted, and she could be very persuasive when she set her mind to it. She’d come back for this kill, when she could give the child to the blade. After all, she felt as though she’d already promised it. Just as she felt committed to finishing the business with the detective’s wife.

  Inner Magick. She stroked the Sigil of Baphomet carved into the blade’s hilt and headed toward the quaint little store that would soon be a murder scene.

  * * * * *

  Seraphine reached for Dylan the instant her front door closed. He’d practically ridden her bumper from the university, and now she wanted him to ride her.