It would be so easy, he thought, to get her to let down her defenses, to allow him to get close. As much as she hated him, she had no one else. When she had been trapped by that Slayer, she had even called for him by name.
Finn reached out, and she flinched when his fingers touched her lip. She had a soft mouth. Memories of what it had felt like, crushed against his in a burst of heat and yielding tenderness, had kept him awake with thoughts of having her in bed.
Or out of one.
“I should.”
The belated answer to her question fell from his lips like pebbles into a still pond, and a startled shudder rippled down her shoulders. He increased the pressure as he traced her mouth, and she sucked in a breath, tickling his fingertips. Her nipples pushed against the bodice of the dress as her stubborn body responded to his touch.
Finn stepped closer and ran his thumb along the neckline of her dress, and as he did, the inside of his wrist brushed against her nipple. His cock jerked in his pants as he felt the fabric-covered nub rub against his skin. She made a low sound in the back of her throat as his erection moved against her belly and she tried to back away, but he had her pinned against the car. For once, there was nowhere to go.
The shifter turned her head away, putting distance between them the only way she could, and that subtle gesture of submission made him even more determined to get his way. He cupped her throat, stroking the underside of her jaw the same way he stroked his familiar, as he pressed an urgent kiss to the bared expanse of her throat.
He groaned a little as she made another one of those quiet, keening sounds that didn't sound at all human. Her flesh was hot, and he could feel her pulse beating like wings beneath the fragile skin. He licked his lips. The heat of her skin seared him even through his pants. He could only imagine what it would be like without a stitch of clothing between them. She was like a half-tamed beast, unsure of whether to approach or flee.
What to do with the remaining half? Coax out her wildness, or curb it?
Finn kissed her neck again, harder this time, using his teeth to trap her flesh in place so he could suck the pinioned skin into his mouth. I want her just like this.
The shifter flinched again, and then batted him away—hard. Hard enough to activate the curse. The hitch that entered her breathing had everything to do with pain, and nothing to do with arousal. She met his knowing gaze with violent eyes. “Keep your fucking glamors to yourself.”
Finn shook his head as she escaped to the driver's side. He had used a glamor on her only once. But she had been flaunting her disdain for him publicly, when they were supposed to be putting on a front for his investigation.
And so he had kissed her.
He had kissed her, and she had let him because he had worn down her defenses with a spell of compulsion. Something she seemed unlikely to ever forgive, given her pride, and her vehement dislike of his kind.
And yet, just now she thought he had been using a glamor once more. To seduce her. Which meant she had feelings for him that she assumed couldn't be real. Without any magic, with his body alone, he had caused her to want him, to want to be kissed by him.
His satisfaction faded. She would never believe it. Despite their superior senses, shifters, like humans, could be incredibly blind, seeing only what they wanted to see. She would accuse of him of bewitching her, and her hatred of him would only grow.
As if he didn't have enough of a headache, their next stop was his bastard half-sibling.
The prophetess.
Cassandra.
Chapter Two
Driving was a point of contention with Catherine. There was a sort of dominance that went along with being behind the wheel. But as reluctant as she was to turn control over to the witch after what had happened on the highway, she was not a fool. The silver that Slayer had lashed her with had sapped a great deal of her remaining strength. When she began nodding off, she pulled off to the side of the road and let the witch drive.
Adrenaline flooded her veins, but it was no match for the pitch-black void of pure exhaustion. She must have fallen asleep, because when Catherine opened her eyes next she and the witch were in a residential neighborhood.
Catherine stirred, and sat up, blinking her eyes. The houses were arranged in a sprawling layout similar to the more upscale areas of Barton. There was a nice greenbelt along the road peppered with wild California poppies and she spied a gaily colored playground in the distance over the tops of the long, wheat-colored grass.
Good hiding place, said Prey.
The sun was shining and the witch was scanning the houses. There were an alarming number of dead insects on the windshield, which suggested that he'd been speeding on at least one freeway. At least he hadn't run the car into a tree head-on this time.
“How long was I out?” she demanded, reaching for one of the tins of spam.
“About six hours.” He stopped the car, only a little roughly. “We're here.”
Graymalkin was fast asleep in the backseat, with her tail curled around her body. When the witch scooped her up from the puddle of sunshine she'd been napping in, the kitten didn't even stir.
Finn glanced at her. “Come on,” he said, before marching up the cobblestone path with an air that suggested he'd been here before. Been here, and considered it his.
Maybe that was the favor he'd spoken of, buying his half-sister a house. She ripped open the tin of spam and began eating it on the doorstep. The witch threw her a look of disgust, but he didn't give voice to his annoyance.
He knocked on the door—two sharp raps. From the inside, Catherine heard a female voice call out, “Just a minute!” Sounding flustered, as if she'd been caught in the middle of something important.
The door swung open.
Whatever Catherine had been expecting, it wasn't the young woman standing in the doorway. Short and plump, with long blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail that reached the middle of her back, she looked so…so normal. Like a high school student caught unaware. Exactly what Catherine's parents had wanted her to shape herself into.
The girl pulled off the headphones, revealing small moon-shaped earrings studded with subtle diamonds. They looked expensive and probably were. She squinted against the sun as she tried to make out their faces. Catherine's, she passed over, but when her eyes met the witch's, they widened in surprise—and fear.
Catherine was well familiar with the emotion of fear, and saw it clearly inscribed in the girl's sudden tensing, the contracting of her pupils, the intake of breath.
“Oh my gods,” she said, so quickly it came out in a single breath, “Phineas?”
She did not sound pleased to see him. Catherine shot the witch another glare.
“Let me in.”
While his voice was quiet, it brooked no argument. Remembering what he had done to the Slayers' silver weapons, Catherine was finally starting to understand why so many reacted to his presence with a wary, ill-concealed terror. He was ruthless.
Mutely, his half-sister stepped aside, letting them pass.
Catherine sniffed discreetly, then frowned. In addition to an older male, and a much, much older female, she detected strong hints that a young male was here, too.
She looked around, noting the placement of the doors and windows as she did so. The inside of the house was filled with cheerful clutter, but was obviously well-maintained. There were no dirty dishes in the sink and the floors looked waxed.
“Do you have a trashcan?”
“Beneath the sink.”
The witch's half-sister was standing in front of the door, which was now closed, wringing her hands nervously. As she did, a number of small rings caught the light. Catherine could smell worry surrounding her. Her place in the family dynamic couldn't be an easy one if the witch could just walk in like this unannounced.
But if there was danger here, it was not an immediate one. The kitchen was warm. Cosy. Comfortable. There were sunflowers on long, yellow curtains, which were parted to let in beams of
light that dappled the tiled floor and splashed the granite counters with a gleaming brightness that was almost smug. There were two large windows in the kitchen and two more in the adjacent dining room. She could see a patio just down the stairs, accessible through the parlor, which led out into the backyard.
Knowing where all the exits were relaxed her enough that she turned back to the human. (Although she still would have felt better knowing where the other male was.) The witch's half-sister was prettier at a second glance—perhaps because she had been expecting some ethereal beauty, a duplicate of Karen with red hair.
The witch's half-sister had no magic. None. She was completely human, although strangely, a few lingering traces of ozone clung to her human smell. That could have just been the witch, though. Without Changing, she couldn't garner anything from the scent.
Catherine squinted, searching the round-cheeked face for familial resemblance of any kind, and realized, with a start, that they both had the same piercing green eyes and long black lashes. Those eyes flicked from her to the witch and back again, cautious and slightly hostile: the eyes of a cornered cat.
“So.” She folded her arms. “Did your father send you here?”
The mocking tone in her voice made Catherine respect her that much more. Even though the seer was afraid, she wasn't giving in to the witch's demands straight out.
“Royce,” the witch corrected, straightening, “has nothing to do with this.”
“You promised to leave me and my father alone.”
“I'm not here because of you, either,” the witch said coolly. “This is about us.”
There it was again. That us. She felt like she was being implicated in some horrible crime. Maybe she was. There was no way of knowing how corrupt the Council was.
Then the human saw her, really saw her, for the first time. “Don't tell me you're one of his Council minions.”
Catherine did not look at the witch. “No fucking way.”
“I see.” She pursed her lips, tilting her head thoughtfully. “No. You don't look like a witch. But you don't exactly look human, either.” Her eyes swept up and down her frame, similar to the assessing scans Catherine performed all the time. “A shifter?”
“That's right.” She let her arms fall to her side. “What gave me away?”
The witch snorted. “You look like you're planning on killing everyone in the room.”
“Only you,” Catherine said, ignoring the goosebumps that had broken out over her arms. The low, dangerous rumble of his voice made her remember—
(“Are you planning on killing me yourself, witch?”
“I should.”)
Remembering that she was still wearing nothing beneath the dress, Catherine quickly folded her arms, shooting the witch a look weighted with resentment.
“I'm Cassandra,” said his half-sister, extending her hand. The gesture was surprisingly regal. “Cassandra Tyler.”
“Like the Greek prophet.”
“Yes, just like her. My mother named me. She had a…questionable sense of humor.”
“Where is your mother?” Catherine asked, looking around. The older female she'd scented had been far too old to be this human's mother.
“Dead,” Cassandra said. “She's been dead for almost fourteen years.”
Catherine flinched. “Fuck,” she said, and then winced. “I'm sorry—”
Cassandra shrugged off the apology. “I never knew her.”
The witch's face had gone curiously blank. And then Catherine realized—if they had different fathers, this dead mother must be the parent that they both had in common.
“And your father?” Please don't say he's dead, too.
“I live with him. He's out taking care of my grandmother. She just got out of the hospital.” Her lips tightened. “This really isn't a good time.”
“The hospital?” Catherine repeated, turning around to look at the witch.
The witch gave a shrug, his expression impassive.
Catherine turned back to Cassandra. “Do you have a brother?”
She looked bemused. “No. It's just me, my father, and my grandmother.”
But then why was the reek of male so pervasive throughout the house? Catherine couldn't really press further without seeming rude. The human was probably having a secret tryst. And really, it was none of her business.
“How cosy.” The witch gave a derisive snort and walked away. He seemed to know where he was going, which lent credence to Catherine's suspicions that he knew this house well, and Cassandra made no move to stop him. Another sign that the scales of power were tipped.
Catherine leaned back against the wall. “Does he come live with you often?”
“He hates being here as much as we hate having him here.”
She wondered how the witch's father felt about his late wife's dalliances. Even if he was only a fraction as cruel and vindictive as his cold-hearted son, Catherine was willing to bet that he had made her life hell.
Yet another reason you should stay away from the son. He'll make yours hell, too.
“What happened to his mother?”
“She was murdered.” Cassandra's smile disappeared. “And I wouldn't ask him about it, if I were you. He has a terrible temper.”
Did his father?
Cassandra was studying her intently. “Why are you traveling with him?”
“It's a long story,” she grated. “Short answer is, I don't really have a choice.”
“Neither do we. Dad and I,” she clarified. “Her money bought us this house, and Dad only puts up with him on account of the fact that he was so crazy about my mother. He's her spitting image, you know.” She nodded at the doorway the witch had departed from, just in case Catherine couldn't figure out who he was. “She liked slumming, too. That's all we were, a bit of sport. Probably trying to piss someone off.”
Catherine started to nod, then caught herself. “What did you mean by that? About slumming?” When Cassandra didn't answer right away, her face flushed and she let out a warning snarl. “Are you saying…that he and I?” Her throat tightened. “You're wrong.”
“There have been rumors. All unproved, of course.”
“You're wrong.”
Cassandra gave a light shrug, and Catherine had the distinct feeling that she was being punished for poking her nose into the family business.
“Just don't mention any of this later. Dad doesn't like talking about that side of the family. It's probably better that you just avoid talking to my father entirely, if you can.”
“Fine.” After a tense pause, she said, “So what's a seer?”
Cassandra raised an eyebrow. “Phineas didn't tell you?”
“He's your half-brother,” Catherine said coldly. “Does he strike you as the type to solicit explanations in situations where none will do just as easily?”
Cassandra's lips twisted into a reluctant grin. “Touche,” she said. “Seers see things ordinary people can't see. The Second Sight,” she added, forming air quotes around the words. “Some people call us psychics, but that's a very general term. The strength and nature of a psychic's power depends on the strength and power of their witch parent. My mother was quite strong, so I am, too, by proxy—although that isn't always the case.”
“What can you do?”
“I can see into the future. But there are limitations.”
“Limitations?” The witch hadn't mentioned that part.
“Yes.” Cassandra pursed her lips. “Unfortunately.”
“Why don't you give her a demonstration?”
Catherine stiffened, craning her neck to look around. The witch was standing in the doorway, resting an arm on the jamb. She hadn't even heard him come in. How had he done that? How long had he been standing there?
When their eyes met, he flashed her a chilly smile that suggested he'd heard far more than she'd like before turning to his half-sister. “Nothing like first-hand experience.”
Cassandra drew herself up. “You know how much th
at takes out of me.”
“You'll live,” he said, speaking over her. “And besides, you'll like this one.”
Cassandra glanced at Catherine, curiously. “What do you mean?”
“Yeah,” Catherine echoed. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
A dangerous emotion gleamed in his eyes. “Only one way to find out.”
Catherine started to get a bad feeling in the pit of her gut. If this were some innocent parlor trick, he wouldn't have that look of predatory anticipation on his face.
As if reading her mind, he said, “What's the matter? Afraid of what the future holds?”
“Why don't you go first?” she suggested tightly.
His expression closed. “It doesn't work on me.”
“Do you want a reading, or not?” Cassandra asked, all earlier traces of friendliness gone.
Catherine shot a defiant glance at the witch. “Yes,” she said. “Read me.”
“Give me your hand.”
Catherine thrust out her left hand; it was the closest.
“Sinistra.” Cassandra made no move to take it. “You're left-handed?”
“I'm ambidextrous. Why?”
“The left hand is considered the hand of evil, the one that holds you back. The right hand controls your fate.”
What did that say about left-handed people then? Hell, Sharon had been left-handed.
Cassandra pushed Catherine's hand aside as she spoke, taking her gently by her right wrist. The seer's fingers were cool, though not as cool as Karen's or Finn's. Having low temperature in the extremities appeared to be a witch trait.
Cassandra's touch was pleasant, soothing, like sliding her hand into a tepid bowl of water. She nearly relaxed. And then the pain started. Catherine gave a full-body recoil, and let out a hoarse scream. So much pain that she lost all sense of direction outside of the fleshly prison her body had become. She could only focus on where the agony was, and there was plenty, coursing through every inch of her body, as if her blood had turned to rivers of fire.
Catherine tugged at her hand, but Cassandra's grip was like silver; it sapped away all her strength, leaving her as weak as a kitten. When she looked up at the seer's face, she saw that Cassandra's eyes were completely black; the pale green irises and the whites of the corneas had been eclipsed by the pupils. “No,” she moaned.
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