by Anya Bast
Thomas hit all her buttons exactly right.
Watching him now, with all that luscious hair spread out like the wing of a crow and his chest rising and falling with his breath, she wanted him again. And again. Normally once she had a man she was ready to move on, move out, move away.
She shuddered in pleasure, remembering his hands on her. Sex with this man could be addictive and that’s exactly why it had to stop here and now. The last thing she needed was any entanglements.
Isa, you have to learn to invest yourself in other people…
Isabelle closed her eyes at the sudden prick of tears. Her sister had said that to her over the phone right before she’d traveled to Chicago.
And so maybe it was true.
Still, the impetus to get away from Thomas was far too strong to resist. Every breath the man took, every word he spoke, every brush of his hand against her body was a trap. Isabelle abhorred traps.
She slipped from the bed, dressed in the dark, and left the room.
ELEVEN
THOMAS TRIED TO IGNORE ISABELLE’S PROXIMITY IN the passenger seat of his car, and especially the way her light musky scent filled the interior. He wanted to reach over and touch her jean-clad thigh, but she’d made it clear she didn’t want that from him.
It was almost as if last night had never happened, as if they hadn’t spent hours, first in his office and then in his bed, exploring every part of each other’s bodies intimately.
This morning when she’d come downstairs, face bright and cheerful, eyes empty of memory, acting as though nothing had happened at all, Thomas had felt more removed from Isabelle than he had since they’d first met.
Damn it, he’d been a one-night stand to her. He had to admit it pricked his pride a little.
He downshifted too hard in his agitation and the car jerked.
Isabelle braced a hand flat on the dash and glanced at him. “Be nice to your car, Thomas. It’s a Mercedes, a fine piece of machinery.”
“We’re almost there.” His voice sounded tight. “Tell me if you see a parking place.”
A moment later she pointed to a spot near their destination — Boyle’s only known residence — and he guided his car into the space. No Harley was parked outside, but that didn’t mean the demon wasn’t home.
They peered out the window at the building. It was a nice place in an upscale area. Still, it looked like any other apartment building in this part of Chicago. It just went to show you how little you knew your neighbors. These people had no idea they lived near a demon. Thomas hoped no one had tried to borrow a cup of sugar.
That morning they’d gone to Thompson’s Motorcycles, where Simon Alexander worked. Posing as detectives, he and Isabelle had managed to persuade the manager that their loyal client, Erasmus Boyle, was a suspect in the attack on their accountant.
The manager had given up all the information on Boyle he possessed — license plate number, credit card numbers, home address, and phone number. He’d also told them that Boyle was a quiet, yet disturbing man. Boyle frequented the business often, having work done on his vintage 1977 Harley Davidson Low Rider, and buying and trading other cycles.
According to the manager he rarely said much to anyone that wasn’t related to his hobby. No one at the shop knew a whole lot about his personal life and the consensus was that the man was creepy. The manager and employees could’ve had no way to know that Boyle was a demon, but apparently they’d sensed the monster in him on some level.
The manager was able to give them a few helpful tidbits. For example, a bar that Boyle liked to frequent. A bar that, not so coincidently, was a hangout for many witches. Since Boyle could mask his demoness when he wanted, none of the witches in the establishment would be clued in to his true nature. Hunting was probably easy for him.
The trip that morning had yielded a few tools to track Boyle down, if the demon could be tracked down. Thomas had sent Jack, Micah, Theo, Ingrid, and Adam out on leads he wasn’t following up on with Isabelle — places where witches congregated and might draw Boyle.
They needed to work up an area where Boyle was known to frequent, places where they could patrol in hopes of finding him. That was their only hope of locating the demon. After all, they couldn’t wait around for Mira to get another lucky break, although the powerful air witch was on constant surveillance for any other hint of Boyle.
He and Isabelle sat with the engine running while Isabelle sent her magick through the water in the building, right into Boyle’s apartment. All she needed to tap into the water in a building was close proximity and a little dampness between herself and her target. Fortunately, it had recently rained.
“There’s no one there that I can feel,” she said finally. “Either the place is empty, or he’s masking somehow. But I don’t think he’s masking because I can’t sense any sort of barrier anywhere.”
“He likely feels he has nothing to fear from us, so no barrier.”
She snorted. “We’re gnats to him.”
He shut off the engine. “Okay, let’s go in while we can.”
Isabelle opened her door. He put a hand on her leg to stop her and she turned to glare at him. “No, you’re not getting all macho and protective on me, Thomas.”
He sighed. “We need to make sure we do this carefully. That’s all.”
“We will. We’ll do it like we discussed.”
“First sign of trouble and I want you out of there, Isabelle. Understand?”
She stared at him for a long moment, then leaned in and kissed him. He had to stop himself from threading his fingers through her hair and crushing his mouth to hers. A groan rose in his throat from the pure pleasure of the taste of her, but he stifled it. He settled for the swipe of her lips on his and the light brush of her tongue into his mouth. Right now pushing for more was not a smart move.
Isabelle broke the kiss and set her forehead to his. Her sigh bathed his lips in her warm, sweet breath. “Maybe I like it a little bit when you’re macho and protective.” And then she was gone, striding toward the door of the building.
Thomas had to hurry to keep up.
The building was located in a swanky part of Chicago, but Thomas was glad to find the absence of a doorman or any added security in the sterile, polished lobby.
Isabelle called the elevator, and they traveled up to the fifth floor. When they reached Boyle’s place, Thomas set his ear to the door, just to double-check for sounds within, while Isabelle did one last check via the water through the condo.
They both came back with nothing, and Thomas pulled his magickal ace, one of the earth charms he’d brewed and stored before they’d left the Coven on this errand. He took a black pen out of his back pocket and, muttering another incantation, basically words that he’d imbued with his own power, wrote a symbol of his own devising on the door. Earth magick was all about intention and the ability to channel magick though words and symbols of the witch’s choosing. This spell was designed to muffle sound. Immediately after he’d finished marking the powerful charm, the release of the stored magick immediately diminished his strength, straining his body.
Once he was happy with his handiwork, he stepped back and drove his boot into the door until the lock broke through the jamb and swung open. Thanks to the charm, no sound alerted the neighbors.
The subtle scent of demon wafted out from the condo. Both of them flattened their backs against either side of the door at the same time in response. That smell brought back the horror of the previous night.
He glanced at Isabelle and saw her face had taken on a greenish cast. He wasn’t much better off.
When no demon roared through the doorway at them, they entered cautiously, Thomas making sure he went first. The interior, despite the odor, looked like a model home. The furniture, artwork, and area rugs all looked like they’d been selected by an interior designer. The place was spotless, too. Thomas could see not one thing misplaced, not a smear on the glass table or any of the mirrors, nothing.
“It’s almost like he doesn’t live here,” said Isabelle, taking the words from his mouth. “Where does he get his money anyway? I doubt he holds down a job, right?”
Thomas shrugged. “He’s a demon. I’m sure he’s got lots of ways. He can manipulate this dimension in ways we can’t. That’s why the Duskoff covet them.”
Thomas went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. Inside laid package after package of hamburger and steak, all past expiration. According to Micah, that was a demon’s favorite meal, slightly spoiled raw meat. “Well, he’s eating here. The refrigerator is filled with demon snacks.”
“Yuck!” called Isabelle from somewhere else in the condo. “I know Micah said that a human woman fell in love with a demon way back then…but how could she stand to watch him eat?”
“Or stand his breath,” he answered. “Or just the simple everyday scent of him when he’s not masking.”
“Bleh. No kidding,” Isabelle called from the bedroom. He could hear her opening and slamming shut drawers. “Of course way back then everyone smelled bad.”
“True.” Thomas sifted through a pile of junk mail on a small table near the front door. “At least we can tell he’s been here since the fridge is full and the place reeks of demon magick.”
“But there’s nothing here! Nothing at all. All the dressers are empty. The bathroom’s empty. The closet’s empty.”
Thomas pivoted and opened a cupboard. Empty. As were all the drawers. A further thorough exploration of the apartment yielded more of the same — empty, empty, empty.
“Damn it!”
Isabelle walked down the hallway toward him. “What were we expecting to find? A diary detailing his nefarious plans? A map leading to the person he plans to attack next? I doubt it will be so easy.”
He turned toward her and pushed a hand through his hair. “I was expecting to find something more than rotting meat. I hoped to find a book, magickical paraphernalia, something that might give us a handle on Boyle’s intentions.”
She sighed. “It’s like he doesn’t stay here. Like this place is only for show. Like he stores food here, but that’s it.”
Thomas nodded. “I wonder who the show is for. Us?” He rubbed his chin. “Maybe we’re not gnats after all.”
She turned in a slow circle in the center of the living room, surveying the place. “Maybe.” She shivered. “Let’s get out of here. It gives me the willies and I think we’re done anyhow. We’ve got other places to check, right?”
Thomas nodded. “One more. The store manager said he’d seen Boyle at a bar lots of the bikers hang out at.” He checked his watch. “It’s late afternoon. We can check it out now.”
Isabelle headed to the door. “Thank the Lady, a bar. I need a drink.”
THE BAR WAS A BUST.
Isabelle mumbled her good night to Thomas as soon as they were through the doorway of the Coven.
Thomas stopped her dead with two words spoken in his low, mesmerizing voice. “Going somewhere?” She should’ve known she’d never get away so easily.
He crowded her back against the wall and pinned her there with both arms on either side of her body. Unease at being trapped against the wall licked through her and she drew a deep, steadying breath, reminding herself that she wasn’t back in that closet. She was safe. She was free and no longer dependent on anyone else. At any time she could push away from Thomas and leave. Her fear abated with her reasoning.
His black pupils nearly swallowed up the dark-colored rims of his eyes. She watched in fascination as his jaw locked for a moment and his gaze dropped to her lips.
“What is wrong with you today?” he asked as he lazily dragged his gaze back up to meet her eyes.
She suppressed a shiver. Wrong with her? Did he mean other than the fact that all she wanted was to fuck him now, this very second? That kind of desire was dangerous.
Everything about Thomas Monahan was dangerous.
She tried to sound flip. “Nothing’s wrong.”
His jaw locked again and his eyebrows rose. “Then explain to me why you left my room last night like a thief?”
“I don’t sleep well in other people’s beds.”
He cocked his head to the side. “That sounds like such a practiced line.”
She glared at him. “I’m not lying.”
“And you’re not telling the whole truth either.”
“Look, I don’t owe—”
“Did you dislike it that much?”
Lady, no. She gave him a slow smile. “Dislike is not the word I would have chosen.”
“Then why the coldness?”
She chewed her lip for a moment before speaking. “Well, it’s not like I want to get married or anything.”
“Never thought you did,” he murmured, staring at her mouth. “So what’s the problem?”
His head drifted closer to hers with the clear intention of kissing her while Isabelle tried desperately to remember what the problem actually was….
“Thomas?”
They both jerked, startled by Micah’s voice. Thomas swore long and fervently under his breath and turned toward him. “What is it?”
Micah looked surprised once he saw whose body Thomas’s had been blocking, the one pressed up intimately against the wall. Isabelle colored, the curse of the fairskinned.
Micah blushed, too. “I’m, uh, sorry.”
“Don’t be,” answered Thomas. “What is it?”
“Just thought you’d like to know that Stefan tried to commit suicide today.”
“What?” asked both Thomas and Isabelle in unison.
“He ripped his sheets into long thin strips and tried to hang himself. He only managed to knock himself unconscious, though. We put him in an empty padded cell.”
Thomas looked thoughtful for a moment. “Gribben is getting to him a lot faster than I thought it would.”
Micah snorted. “Do we care?”
“I don’t know.” Thomas passed a hand over his face, looking weary for a moment. “Any other news from today?”
“No. You?”
Thomas gave his head a short shake. “Nothing from Jack, Ingrid, or the others either.”
“Then we wait.” Micah sighed and turned away, waving a dismissive hand. “Carry on.”
Thomas turned back to her, his eyes stormy and troubled. The sexual mood had been broken. Good thing since she’d been about to succumb. The reality of their situation had been asserted by the exchange with Micah. They were nowhere closer to finding this thing and they had no idea when it would kill again.
Gods.
Sobered, she turned to walk up the stairs. “I’m going to hit the—”
“You haven’t eaten.”
She turned back around. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve been with you all day and you haven’t eaten anything.” He paused, considering. “Well, unless you count the Snickers bar and Coke you had for breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Nonsense. You need to eat something.”
“Nonsense?” She crossed her arms over her chest, gave him a slow smile, and glanced pointedly around at the dark, quiet house. It was late. Maybe they should have stopped for pizza. “Well then, Daddy,” she drawled, “what did you have in mind? There’s no food around here I can see.”
“The kitchen is closed, but we can still find something to make a meal. They know me around here. I’m sure I can get us a table.”
“Ah. Humor.” She nodded. “All right. Lead the way.”
Isabelle followed him down one of the darkened corridors of the house, past the carefully hung artwork, the small, intimate sitting areas and the lovely carved wood tables upon which sat vases filled to bursting with fresh flowers until finally they reached the huge Coven kitchen.
He opened the swinging doors, allowing her to step through. By the small amount of light, she saw it was all stainless steel and spotless. A large middle island stood amidst the stoves, refrigerators, and countertops.
&
nbsp; “Wow.”
Thomas went for the bank of refrigerators. “There’s a wine cave, too.”
She wandered over to sit at the island, sliding onto one of the cushioned chairs, and watched Thomas pull random items out of the fridge and set them on the counter — strawberries, a platter of leftover chicken swimming in some sort of yummy-looking sauce and a plate of steamed asparagus.
She caught sight of a bowl of ripe avocados on a nearby counter, grabbed one of the pieces of fruit along with a salt shaker, a knife, and a cutting board, and sat back down to peel it.
“Aha!”
She jerked her head up from her work on the avocado to see Thomas take a plate of something from the fridge. She leaned over to take a closer look while he pulled off the plastic covering it. “Oh, no. I’m not eating that.”
He glanced up at her. “What? You don’t like oysters? What’s wrong with you?”
She shuddered. “They’re slimy and hideous.”
“You’ve never tasted one.”
She peeled the last bit of the avocado, extracted the seed and cut a bit of the ripe fruit. “I don’t need to.” She popped a thin slice of the avocado into her mouth and let the creaminess of it spread over her tongue.
He turned to the oven with the plate of chicken in hand. He put both the meat and the asparagus over a low flame in a wide skillet. Soon the gentle scent of basil chicken wafted to her nostrils and made her mouth water. As the chicken and asparagus warmed, Thomas found a bottle of champagne in the fridge and popped it.
She bit into another slice of avocado and watched him. “Are we celebrating?” She didn’t see anything worthy of such at the moment.
Thomas only lifted a brow, theatrically shot his cuffs and then poured a few drops of the Veuve Clicquot into an oyster.
Isabelle curled her lip and tossed the half-eaten slice of avocado to her plate. “Ugh. That is such a waste of good champagne.”
He rested his elbow on the counter, oyster in hand, and leaned toward her. “You don’t know what you’re missing.” His voice rolled over her, satiny smooth and low.
Her gaze found his mouth when he lifted the oyster to his lips, lingered on the curve of his lips. As he tipped the small shell to partake of the dubious delicacy, she wished for a moment she were the oyster. Then the slimy bit was gone and he wore a rapturous expression on his face, head thrown back, eyes closed, dark hair cascading down his back.
