Witch Blood ew-2

by Anya Bast

  Four days. She’d only been six years old.

  The anger simmering in his blood came to a boil. He took a step toward the woman in front of him and clenched his fists so hard he probably drew blood from his palms with his fingernails. “Why are you telling me this?”

  She turned toward him with sorrow in her eyes. “Because someone who cares about Isabelle needs to know.”

  Thomas closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at the woman who had caused Isabelle so much pain. “I’m going to ask you to leave now, Catalina.” The words came out steadier than he’d expected.

  “Yes, it’s past time. I’m more than happy to since I failed so miserably with Isabelle.” She paused. “Where is Angela buried?” The words came out barely a whisper.

  “Groveland Cemetery.”

  “Thank you.”

  Thomas listened to the click of Catalina’s shoes on the floor and the door gently close behind her. He stayed that way for a moment, confused.

  Catalina did love Isabelle, though in a mystifying way that he couldn’t wrap his mind around. Catalina was far too self-serving and egotistical to be a decent mother, yet she knew it and felt guilty about it. It was clear she regretted how she allowed her daughters to be raised and what had happened to them in the care of others….

  One of her caretakers had locked Isabelle in a closet for four days.

  Thomas tried to find some pity in his heart for Catalina, some way to help her make the connection with her surviving daughter that she was too clumsy to make herself…and came up short. He only felt searing rage for Catalina right now. Maybe sometime later he’d feel something else.

  All Thomas wanted now was Isabelle in his arms. All he wanted was the impossible — to turn back the clock and make the pain go away for her, to give her a childhood like he’d had. One in which she’d been safe, loved, and protected.

  He turned on his heel, sought the door and the woman he was falling in love with.

  ISABELLE STOOD ON ONE OF THE MANY BRIDGES IN THE Coven conservatory, watching gardeners tend the plants and flowers that grew in profusion. This was the first place she’d thought of when she’d left her mother, a quiet, serene place where she could be alone with her thoughts.

  And there was water here. The sound of the small stream burbling happily underneath the bridge upon which she stood calmed her. She focused on the current, the flow of the water around rocks and over pebbles, sluicing by the koi that swam in it. Isabelle joined her consciousness with it for a moment and all her residual tension leaked away.

  Water took the path of least resistance.

  For just a flicker of time when she’d first seen Catalina, she’d seriously wondered if her mother had come because she was grieving Angela. Perhaps her mother had made the trip to Chicago because she cared that one of her daughters had died. Maybe Catalina had even come for her remaining daughter, Isabelle. The little girl inside her who still yearned for her mother’s affection had experienced a flash of guarded happiness. That one instant of hope had made the realization Catalina had come only for the will that much more devastating.

  Isabelle closed her eyes. She couldn’t deny there was still a part of her that longed for her mother to be a mother. Clearly, that would never happen. She needed to stop wishing for it.

  Isabelle sensed Thomas behind her long before she heard his step on the bridge or felt his broad, warm hand on her shoulder. She closed her eyes and sighed. How could it be that his presence made everything seem better?

  She wasn’t some stupid woman whose problems were solved by the touch of a man, but maybe this was what everyone talked about, sang about, and wrote books about — love? At the very least perhaps it was the magic of a close relationship.

  Thomas massaged her shoulders, his strong fingers seeking out and easing away all the knots and tension that existed there. Isabelle opened her eyes and let a smile play on her lips. Whatever it was, it was good.

  He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “You okay?”

  She shook her head. “Not really, but I’m better now.”

  “Your mom is fascinating. I think a shrink would have a good time with her.”

  She snorted. “She’s not really my mom. She’s just the woman who gave birth to me.” Isabelle didn’t want to believe that, though. The words felt too harsh in her mouth.

  Thomas pulled her back against him and enveloped her in his arms. She nestled into his chest, inhaling the scent of him and enjoying the warmth of his body. “I think Catalina is starting to understand what she missed in you and Angela.”

  Tears pricked her eyes. “Do you think she’s capable of that? Truly?”

  Thomas went silent for a long moment. “Yes.”

  A sob of grief bubbled up from somewhere deep inside her, like a pocket of sorrow that had been stored in the depths of her soul had suddenly been popped. “I miss my sister, Thomas.”

  She hadn’t cried once since she’d found Angela, not really, but now it seemed like all the tears she’d stored up rushed forth in a torrent.

  Thomas eased her down to the bridge and sat, holding her in his lap, and let it happen. He made soft sounds at her and brushed his fingers through her hair, seeming to understand as well as she did that she needed this release.

  Memories flooded her mind. Playing jacks with Angela on the front steps of the brownstone where they’d lived for a time in Chicago. Running down to the pond in France where they’d watched the other kids race toy sailboats. Isabelle remembered her first date and how her older sister had given her a small amount of advice based on her own limited experience. She’d helped her do her hair and then sat up with her when she’d returned home crying because the boy hadn’t been all she’d hoped.

  Lord and Lady, she missed Angela.

  Isabelle cried until her eyes were dry, her makeup was nonexistent, her nose ran, and her head pounded. Despite all that, at the end, she felt better than she had in a long time. She felt emptied of the heaviness she’d been carrying around since her sister’s death.

  As the afternoon faded into twilight and the small lights illuminating the pathways in the conservatory gradually grew brighter, Isabelle rested her head against Thomas’s shoulder and sighed. “I ruined your shirt. My mascara ran all over it.”

  “I didn’t like this one anyway.” His low voice rumbled through her, rough and silken at the same time.

  All of a sudden Isabelle wanted to be in bed with him, craved the slide of his skin across hers, the slip of his lips over her mouth and all that wonderful dark hair brushing over her body.

  But it would have to wait. Twilight had fallen and they had a demon to hunt.

  “Do you really think it’s possible my mother could regret?”

  He stroked her hair. “I believe she is regretting now, Isabelle. It’s just that she doesn’t have the first clue how to make amends.”

  “And maybe it’s too late.”

  “Yes, and maybe it’s too late. That’s for you and her to work through.” He paused. “She mentioned that sometimes she left you and your sister with people who didn’t treat you well. Is that true?”

  Isabelle stiffened against him. “It didn’t happen that often. There were two times…Neither was very long. But once she paid this woman, Marie, to keep us for a while. She lived in Marseilles. Anyway, I was a little kid, always getting into trouble. Smacks never really bothered me as far as discipline went. So one day…I don’t even remember what I did anymore…Marie got fed up with me and locked me in a closet.” She swallowed hard, still able to feel the press of the darkness like a physical presence and her throat working dry from a lack of water. “And there I stayed for four days.”

  Thomas tightened his arms around her.

  “Angela tried and tried to open it, but couldn’t. She stayed with me the whole time, tried to push food and water under the tiny crack beneath the door.”

  “Catalina said that’s why you’re claustrophobic and that you used to have recurring nightmares.”r />
  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “What did your mother do when she found out what happened?”

  She shrugged. “She moved us somewhere else. That time we went to live with her and her flavor-of-the-month, Fredrick, in Switzerland for a while.” She sighed. “Anyway, all that’s ancient history. You can’t change the past. I rarely have nightmares anymore and the claustrophobia is much better than it used to be.”

  Isabelle lifted her head, aware that she probably looked horrible — no makeup, tear-stained face — and was happy for the dim light in the conservatory, though she felt comfortable with Thomas, even looking like shit. “So when do we go?”

  “Go?”

  She wiped at her cheeks. “When do we leave to make the rounds for Boyle?”

  His face tightened. “I don’t want you going tonight.”

  Damn it. Pleasant mood shattered, Isabelle pushed away from him and stood. “I really don’t care, Thomas, what you want.”

  Thomas rose. “I’m going with Adam and Micah. I want you to stay here with Jack McAllister. He’s been instructed to guard you against Boyle if he shows up here again.”

  Isabelle stared at him for a moment, her teeth clenched. She had to force words through her locked jaw. “I can take care of myself. Just because you’re fucking me doesn’t give you the right to tell me what to do.” She turned on her heel and stalked away.

  She got five steps away before his commanding voice filled the air. “As the head of the Coven, under which you are subject at this time, I order you to stay behind tonight. This has nothing to do with the fact I’m fucking you.”

  “Bullshit, Thomas.”

  Isabelle summoned her magick, feeling it flicker warmly in the center of her chest and spread down her arms. She reached out to the nearby stream and manipulated the molecules to do her bidding. A splash and a series of curses met her ears. Isabelle didn’t even break stride.

  SEVENTEEN

  THOMAS HAD CHANGED INTO DRY CLOTHES. NOW HE wore a pair of jeans broken in enough he could move in them, leather boots, and a dark sweater. Sheathed to his back was a short sword, a long black coat covering it. It was warm outside and he felt stupid wearing the thing, but it was the only way to keep the blade concealed.

  Worse, based on the experience Isabelle had had with the demon in the library, it was possible the blades wouldn’t even work. However, copper was still their best — and only — weapon against Boyle.

  Isabelle descended the stairs. She wore a pair of well-worn jeans, black boots, a black sweater…and a stubborn set to her jaw. Clearly, she had every intention of accompanying them.

  Clearly, she was mistaken.

  Thomas knew logically that if the demon desired it, he could find Isabelle anywhere and at any time. The Coven walls were no defense. However, the likelihood of surprising the demon at some point during their nightly canvasses of the area was higher than the demon returning to the Coven.

  So Thomas presumed anyway.

  He just wanted—needed—to do all he could to keep Isabelle safe and this was the best way he knew how.

  “You’re not coming,” he said flatly as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Micah and Adam hadn’t shown up yet.

  Isabelle opened her mouth to reply, but someone rang at the Coven’s guard gate, cutting her off. Douglas, the witch who managed the house, emerged through a door, but Thomas waved him off and walked to the entryway console and pressed Talk.

  On the front gate’s video monitor, an image of Catalina appeared. She was seated in a black convertible. “Mr. Monahan? I’m here to see Isabelle.”

  Thomas looked over at Isabelle who had gone from looking stubborn badass to vulnerable in about two seconds flat.

  She hugged herself. “If it’s about jewelry, don’t let her in.”

  “It’s not about jewelry,” answered Catalina right away. “It’s about me and Isabelle.” She pursed her lips. “It’s private.”

  Thomas looked at Isabelle again. She only nodded once, slowly.

  “Are you sure?” Thomas asked.

  She nodded again. “Goddamn it, yes.”

  Thomas pressed the button to open the Coven gates and watched Catalina drive through. Then he took a couple steps toward Isabelle, holding her now uncertain gaze, as Adam walked through one of the doors leading off the entranceway. Thomas halted.

  “I have a feeling about tonight,” Adam announced, walking toward them as he rolled up the sleeves of his dark blue shirt. “I think tonight—” He stopped short. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Isabelle answered, breaking Thomas’s gaze to look at Adam. “Everything is fine. Thomas didn’t want me to come and, now, conveniently, I can’t go.”

  She turned and walked upstairs. “Can you please tell Catalina to meet me upstairs?” She stopped and looked at Thomas, her face grim. “And please be careful. I have a feeling about tonight, too.”

  THE RED ROCK WAS A BAR ON THE FRINGES OF Chicago owned by a witch and patronized by the same. It was also one of three witch-frequented watering holes where Boyle was known to hang out. Thomas had a hard time picturing the demon slamming back a cold brew, but apparently he enjoyed one now and again.

  Or maybe it was the witches he enjoyed.

  Adam entered the bar after Thomas and headed straight over to order a tall glass of Absolut. He couldn’t blame him. This was the last stop after a long evening of dead ends.

  Thomas was sick of dead ends, sick of flying blind. If there was one thing in this life that made him insane, it was his inability to control situations. Especially situations that put people he cared about at risk.

  The tattoo on his back twitched with the extra large store of magick he’d infused it with. Thomas wanted a fight, wanted something, anything, with Boyle. The entirety of his magickical body trembled with the urge to engage.

  He scanned the room, resting his gaze on each of the patrons in the smoky, dimly lit space in turn. There were a few witches in the place, but it was mostly filled with nonmagickicals tonight. Again, he didn’t see Boyle.

  “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

  Every night they didn’t find the demon was another night a witch could be killed.

  Micah laid a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get a drink.”

  He passed a hand over his tired face. “Sounds good to me.”

  At the bar Adam chatted up an attractive brunette whose date Thomas had seen disappear into the bathroom a few moments prior. She was an earth witch of low ability, if Thomas judged correctly.

  Thomas slid onto the stool beside him — the swords they wore weren’t long enough to impede sitting — ordered a bourbon, and tried to ignore the low sultry laugh of the woman Adam was busy flattering.

  Thomas pulled his cell phone from his pocket and stared at it for a moment, deliberating over whether he should call Isabelle or not. He wondered how it had gone with her mother. His gut reaction had been to lock Catalina out of the Coven grounds when he’d seen her face come on the monitor, but as protective as he felt over Isabelle, it was not his place to interfere in her family life.

  He stared at his cell phone for another moment and then snapped it closed. It was two in the morning. Isabelle was probably in bed right now. Jack had been instructed to stay in the living room until he returned. Thomas could only imagine how pleased Isabelle must have been to hear about those orders.

  Even though it wasn’t his place to interfere with Isabelle’s family life, as head of the Coven it most definitely was his place to interfere in matters concerning her safety. Isabelle would simply have to get used to that.

  If he was fucking her, that only made it more his concern.

  If he loved her, that made it an imperative.

  And he was coming to love Isabelle. Her chaos played a nice counter note to his control. He’d never realized how much he’d need a force like her in his life until she’d landed in the middle of it.

  The bartender sat his bourbon and Micah’s drink down in
front of them. Thomas picked up his glass and took a long swallow of the second-rate alcohol, enjoying the satisfying burn of it down his throat.

  “You look tired, boss,” said Micah.

  “Not sleeping well. I can’t rest for wondering when we’ll get the next phone call about a witch slaughter.”

  Micah grunted. “I would’ve thought you weren’t sleeping for other reasons. Isabelle reasons.”

  “There’s that, too.” Thomas shrugged a shoulder. “It’s just a thing. Isabelle will move on once this is over.” Whether he wanted her to or not.

  “Think so?”

  He swirled the amber alcohol in his glass. “Know so. All you have to do is look at her records to see that much. She’s a traveler. She doesn’t form attachments.”

  No matter how much he might wish her capable of it, Thomas preferred the truth. And the truth was that Isabelle had been damaged long ago. Maybe she was too damaged for the love he was beginning to feel for her.

  Micah went silent for a heartbeat before replying, “People change.”

  The brunette’s date returned from the bathroom. He was also an earth witch of relatively limited power. Thomas listened to the ensuing brief jealousy-fueled altercation between him, the brunette, and Adam, and then watched the man drag the woman from the bar.

  “Not most people,” Thomas replied.

  Adam turned toward them with a satisfied look on his face. He grinned. “Got her phone number.”

  “Case in point.” Thomas stared at the row of bottles in front of them and took another drink.

  Micah snorted. “Don’t you get sick of breaking up relationships, Adam?”

  “I don’t think of it like that. I can’t break up a relationship that’s not destined to be broken up anyway.” Adam wiped a bead of moisture off his glass. “Which is pretty much all of them, in my opinion.”