He wanted to scoop her up and take her upstairs to his bed. He wanted to slide deeply inside of her and touch all of Darcy, both the woman and the witch.
The digitalized voice of Crone shattered his fantasy as she said, “All witches are sensitive to some degree. All your life, you've felt people's emotions, and if you felt it strongly enough, any of your first four chakras may have opened. Tremendous fear, for instance.”
Darcy was watching the computer screen. “Like when the witch hunter attacked me.”
“Yes, and you did fear-induced magic and attacked him with his own knife. With me so far?”
Axel kept listening. He wanted to know who Crone was, if she was helping Darcy. Where had she come from and why was she helping Darcy when all the witch loops refused? How could they be sure Crone wasn't a demon witch with some agenda of her own?
“Yeah, I get it. With Morgan, I opened my chakras intentionally to send calming energy to her. But why did I get images back?”
“There's always an exchange. When you send energy like that, something has to leave to make room. And I suspect you were deeply affected by her misery. You could have been unconsciously looking for answers to help her.”
“Was what I saw real? It was awful.” Darcy rubbed her forehead as if she could shove back the pictures in her head.
“You saw and felt what Morgan saw or felt.”
Darcy dropped her hand to her side. “You work with brain damage, can you help her?”
“I'd have to see her in person. I don't work with this kind of brain damage much anymore, but I'll try. Have Joe bring her to me. Just don't tell the hunters.”
“I won't. I haven't told him who you are, or that I know you. I'll figure out a way.”
Axel locked his jaw and felt the cool metal of the iPod in his hand. She had lied to him. She knew who Crone was, had known all along.
“How do you know they won't follow Joe?” Crone asked.
He'd had enough. He materialized and walked into the room.
“Axel!” Darcy yelped.
He looked down at her. “Who is the coward hiding behind the avatar, Darcy?”
“You were spying on me!”
“You lied to me. You said you don't know who Crone is.”
The avatar shouted, “Leave her alone, hunter. She was protecting me.”
He couldn't look away from Darcy. Couldn't stop wanting her. Couldn't stop worrying about her. He'd never felt as connected to another person as he had with Darcy last night. But she was lying to him when his sister's life was on the line. He began to feel like an idiot coming down here with his iPod, trying to give her something that would make her happy. He didn't know what the hell he was doing or why this witch was turning him inside out. He dropped the iPod and the paper with the name and password to download music on the bed, then turned and walked toward the door.
The door slammed. Only his quick reflexes kept the wood from smashing into his face. She'd shut the door before he could leave. He turned and looked at her.
She shoved the computer off her legs, grabbed the iPod, and stood up. “What is this?”
He started to feel even more foolish. He'd ripped her from her life. Yeah, he'd saved her life, but then what? He'd offered her an impossible deal; heal his sister and he'd keep her safe from the rogues for that period of time. And after that? Who would protect Darcy then?
The skin of his tattoo pulled and shifted. What the hell was that about?
He didn't know what to tell her, so he stuck to the obvious. “It's an iPod. I set up an account for you.”
She dropped the hand holding the music player as if it were too heavy for her. “Why?”
He felt dumb. Helpless. He looked around the barren room and wondered why the hell he hadn't put in a TV. Or something. Did she have favorite foods she wanted? Drinks? Had he even asked her? “Your cousin said you use an iPod to help with the voices.” He shrugged, not knowing what else to say. “If you want anything, I'll get it for you.”
“Want?” She lifted her chin, her vibrant brown eyes filling with a raw vulnerability. “What I want is your trust, damn it. Enough trust to do what I need to do to take the death curse off of Hannah.” Her voice cracked and she waved her hand, opening the door. “Leave. Go upstairs to the world.”
Her pain, her hurt and anger radiated off of her and into him. “Shit, Darcy.” He couldn't not touch her. Ignoring the vibrations of her magic streaming through him, he reached for her and drew her to him. He wrapped his arms around her. She clutched the iPod in her fist against his chest. The skin of his tattoo seemed to pull and stretch as if the wings wanted to hold her along with him.
“I can feel your hawk against my skin, as if he was real, not a tattoo.”
He threaded his hand into her tangled hair. “You've done something to him. Until you, it was just a tattoo. But now …” What was it?
She pressed back against his hand and looked up at him. Strain and worry dimmed her witch-shimmer. “What do you mean?”
He looked down into her face. “The tattoo was supposed to be a raven. It changed into a hawk. Before the curse, if the tattoo changed into a hawk, it marked the hunter as a leader who could communicate with the Wing Slayer.”
Her shimmer brightened with hope, just like her eyes. “You can do that? Talk to the Wing Slayer?”
He shook his head, feeling the frustration wrap around his gut. “He hasn't impressed my knife with wings or given me the thumb ring of immortality.”
“Has this happened to any other hunters since the curse?” She pushed out of his hold and paced to the granite counter where she set down the iPod, then paced around the room. “What happened to the hunters after the curse? I mean I know about going rogue, but what happened to the actual men?”
He had to focus to listen to her words while staring at her ass in those little sleep-shorts. He needed to touch her, to keep touching her, so he caught her arm, sat on the bed, and pulled her onto his lap.” The tattoos of wings all faded or disappeared once the souls went back into their bodies after the curse, and the hunters became mortal. A lot of them were hundreds of years old, and died within days. The younger ones were saddled with the curse.”
She put a hand on his shoulder. “No one talked to the Wing Slayer anymore?”
“The hawks were all older and once their immortality was stripped away, they died. So no. That's why the rogues insist the Wing Slayer is dead.”
“Who is the Wing Slayer, Axel?”
He had one arm curled around her waist, the other on her bare thigh. “The Wing Slayer Hunter is half demon and half god. His father was a sentinel god who wanted nothing to do with him. His demon mother raised him in the Underworld, where it soon became apparent that the Wing Slayer had powers of protection and justice that were tied to earth. Basically, the recognition of people on earth—the hunters—brought out his god-powers. But in the Underworld, Wing Slayer's powers were weaker, and he wasn't fitting in. To make matters worse, he grew to look almost exactly like his god-father, who had rejected his demon mother. Eventually, his mother couldn't stand the sight of him and threw him out of the Underworld.”
Darcy frowned. “That's terrible. Where did he go?”
“He really had no place to go, so he disguised himself as a human and lived on earth. Then one of the demons found out and exposed Wing Slayer as a half-demon to the witches and they did a banishing spell to force Wing Slayer from earth.”
“Which demon?”
That gave Axel pause. “I don't know. I never asked. I just know that he was banished from earth, and the gods were even more annoyed with him. They believed he was meddling where he didn't belong. Wing Slayer wandered for centuries until he stumbled onto Summerland, drawn by the light and beauty. The place was filled with souls.”
“Ancestors.”
Nodding, he added, “But the souls were sad and troubled. Some of the witches on earth were summoning demons and causing more chaos and destruction.”
“And
witch karma prevented the earth witches from harming the demon witches.”
“Exactly. Wing Slayer had lived on earth and he genuinely cared, and this was his chance to create a real god-position for himself. One that no one could take away from him. So the Wing Slayer made a deal with the souls: He'd create a race of witch hunters for protection and justice to work alongside the earth witches. In return, he wanted to live in Summerland and call it home. They'd all work together for the good of the people of earth. The Wing Slayer called to him the strongest males of earth, branded them on their bodies and knives with his wing mark, and gave them immortality. We became our own race, born of mortal mothers and witch-hunter fathers.”
“What happened if a hunter died?”
“As long as he'd been fulfilling his duty, he'd go to Summerland. But if he screwed up, then his soul had nowhere to go—none of the other gods or demons would accept the Wing Slayer's men, and the dead hunter became a shade. All witch hunters knew the score; as long as witch hunters recognized Wing Slayer as their god, his powers were significant. But there was a loophole of sorts and to renounce him could be catastrophic … and obviously it was when Quinn Young did it. It broke the communication we had with him, and that's why some believe he's dead.”
She looked into his eyes. “He's not dead if he tagged you with the tattoo. He's obviously trying to reach you, you have to figure out what he wants from you.”
He couldn't tear his gaze from her. No woman had ever affected him as much as this one. Usually he had sex and moved on, never feeling anything more than passing enjoyment and relief from the curse. But sex with Darcy had turned into a hell of a lot more, a joining that made him feel deeply connected to her. In her brown eyes with the vibrant gold lights, he saw the possibility that the Wing Slayer had seen something worthy in him. His dad's words wormed into his thoughts: Your little witch is finishing the curse, turning you into her familiar. Then she'll have all the power and you'll be witch-whipped. Shit, Axel didn't believe that, but what was the deal with Darcy and his hawk tattoo? “If I'm branded by the Wing Slayer, why does the tattoo react to you?”
Her eyes narrowed, her body tensed. “How would I know? I'm just learning to be a witch.”
He couldn't let this go. “What exactly is Crone teaching you?”
She slid off his lap, took a few steps, and turned to face him. Her witch-shimmer darkened. “You think I did something to you.”
He didn't have an answer. “I don't know.”
Darcy turned away from him, staring at the tapestry. “You're just like all the rest. You're afraid of me. Maybe you don't want to be, maybe you're fighting it. But you are. You're like my adoptive father, the men I dated.” She stopped talking and wrapped her arms around herself. “I was an idiot to sleep with you, to trust you.”
His hawk shuffled and fought to get to her, as if trying to break from his skin. Axel got up and put his hands on Darcy's arms, turning her so he could see her face. What he saw was raw pain. She was tearing him apart. “Trust goes both ways. You're not telling me everything, are you?”
She took a deep breath. “I'm telling you what you need to know. I can't tell you who Crone is; I can't.”
He wasn't getting anywhere with her. Thirty years of this fucking curse had created an endless well of mistrust between the witches and witch hunters. “So we don't trust each other.” He scraped his hands up her bare arms and cradled her face, unable to stop touching her. “But one thing I'm damned sure of, I'm not sorry about making love to you.”
“What's up?” Key asked as he strode by Axel, wearing a pair of jeans, work boots, and a layer of sweat. His booted steps rang out on the cement floor of the warehouse next to the club.
Axel held up his bottle of beer. “Calling it a day.” They'd all been working on repairing the club along with a group of non-rogue hunters that had been seeking them out in the last week. Suddenly word was getting around about the Wing Slayer Hunters and Axel's hawk tat. The men were asking them if the Wing Slayer was really alive. Asking if they could join them to stand against the rogues.
Asking if they knew how to keep their souls.
Thing was, they'd started off as a group of five men who'd made a pact to refuse to kill witches to keep their souls, and if one of them went rogue, the others swore to kill him. Axel had opened the club as a place to get sex from willing women, and kick back. He'd allowed rogues into the club as long as they didn't cause trouble. It was a good way to keep tabs on them, and hear about what they were up to.
He hadn't counted on the Wing Slayer tagging him with the hawk tattoo. And it hadn't crossed his mind that others would seek them out.
But it wasn't just about their souls anymore. Axel couldn't ignore the damage the rogues were doing to mortals like Morgan. If he continued to do nothing, that would make him just as guilty.
“I sent the men home.” Key opened his beer and sat down on the burgundy leather couch across from the chair Axel was in. “Couple more days to finish.”
“And?” Axel, Key, and Ram had worked with the men for hours. Hard, thankless work was an excellent way to judge character.
Key drank down half the draft and said, “These half dozen impressed me.”
He nodded in agreement then turned to look at Ram, who was methodically cleaning their supply of guns.
Ram looked up with his laser-sharp gaze. “I can start training with them. Give it a little time to see how they shake out.”
Phoenix lifted his water bottle. “I'd take some of that action. Don't get enough sparring.”
Axel wasn't going to turn away witch hunters looking for a way to stand against the curse. “Set it up. Get a feel for the men.” He drank another swig of the beer, and said, “Sutton, what'd you get off Joe's GPS?” He glanced toward the bank of monitors. He had a security detail on the house—hard-ass mortals—along with all his alarms and cameras. The monitors showed all the angles outside the safe house.
“They're secure,” Sutton assured him, then added, “Joe and Morgan are at an address that is being rented by a Dr. Carla Fisk. Here's her driver's license photo.” He flashed the picture up on one of the screens.
Axel noted the long, silver blond hair, tilted hazel eyes, and, most important, the silver necklace at her throat. “She's not a demon witch, then.” Demon witches stayed away from silver. Even silver-plated stuff burned their skin.
Sutton added, “She has a PhD in psychology and has a small practice specializing in hypnosis in Glassbreakers.”
So that was Darcy's friend, Axel thought. Darcy clearly trusted her. But it bugged Axel that Carla hadn't ever said to Darcy, Hey I'm a witch and so are you. But then, maybe she figured Darcy was safer living in the mortal world.
Phoenix said, “I hope the witch can help blondie.”
Axel shifted from the monitors to Phoenix. “What did you learn while tracking Morgan's husband?”
Phoenix set his water down on the floor by his leather chair. “Eric Reed lived with Morgan in San Diego for two years. Not reporting regular income on his social security number, from all evidence they were living off Morgan's income. But people I talked to all thought he was some sort of computer software consultant. He has bank accounts separate from Morgan and guess where that money comes from?”
Axel knew the answer. “Same place as my dad's.”
“Yep, he's on Quinn Young's payroll. I believe he was running a small pack of rogues in San Diego. Morgan was doing a story on a possible serial killer when she became ill. I talked to her boss at the TV station. I told him Morgan Reed was missing and I'd been hired to find her. He bought it and said that Morgan had been one of his sharpest on-air reporters and then she started losing it. He told me about the cuts on her stomach and that her husband was going to put her in a treatment facility.”
Axel thought of the broken, but still fighting, woman he'd met. Eric Reed had underestimated his wife. The prick hadn't destroyed her as much as he'd believed. “Where's the bastard now?”
&nbs
p; “No one has seen him in a couple weeks.”
Damn it, Axel knew it wouldn't be that easy. “His accounts?”
“Nothing.”
Ram said, “Could be that Reed was one of the rogues we've killed, or he might have gone after a demon witch and she killed him.”
Phoenix shook his head. “I don't think so. In the last couple weeks, San Diego has had a few gruesome murders. Three different women found cut beyond recognition and their bodies left on the streets.”
Axel felt the inked feathers of his hawk stiffen. “Quinn Young runs a tight ship—no bodies left behind.”
“Right. So I sniffed out a couple rogues; and damn, if they want to go stealth, they need to do something about that copper stink. Anyway, I prowled the bars until I found two of them and got them alone. Man, those fuckers cried about going shade.” He drained his bottle of water.
Axel waited while Phoenix washed down his disgust.
“They spilled that Reed was their rogue leader in the area, and he coordinated the witch kills and cleanup. When someone stumbled onto a witch and killed her, that was fine as long as they called for a cleanup. Reed, they said, was a cold, ruthless, efficient son of a bitch. But he'd disappeared in the last couple weeks and some rogues were getting sloppy and out of control.”
Recognition raced through him. “At Darcy's apartment, those two rogues that attacked us were much more skilled than the flunkies my dad sends out. They nearly got the drop on me.”
Phoenix nodded. “I don't think Reed's dead. I think he's here in town and looking to prove himself to Young by killing Darcy. Two words: ‘Turf war.’ “
“Holy fucking shit,” Axel snarled, slamming his beer down and standing up to pace off the fury boiling inside him. He stalked alongside the pool table in the center of the warehouse, his footsteps echoing his rage on the cement. His dad was the rogue leader in Glassbreakers. “Young set my dad and Reed against each other.”
Ram said, “You and Darcy, you're the goal. The stakes just went up for both Myles Locke and Eric Reed, making things a hell of a lot more dangerous.”
BLOOD MAGIC Page 19
