Witch Blood

by Anya Bast

  “But I wasn’t with the Duskoff then.”

  “Oh, spare me. You’ve done enough horrible things to warrant this, Stefan, and don’t try to tell me you wouldn’t raise another demon if you could.”

  “No,” he whispered, his head falling back from the pain.

  “No? What do you mean, Stefan? Wasn’t it you who was going to sacrifice those four witches last winter to pull a demon through? If it wasn’t for the Coven, you would have succeeded. That alone makes you deserving of punishment.” She cocked her head to the side. “And aside from all that, what about Naomi Nelson, that earth witch you roasted when you were eighteen? What about Robin Taylor—”

  He pulled his head forward and focused on her. “I can help you. Help…help find the demon. Right the…wrong.”

  He was making bargains now, was he? How dare he try.

  She opened her mouth to respond, but heat flared white-hot against her palm. They both cried out in pain. Isabelle snatched her scorched hand away. Damn it, she’d lost focus for a moment and he’d taken control from her.

  Stefan rolled to the side, his hand between his legs, cupping his privates. Her hand hurt like she’d been holding it over a flame, but he had to be in more agony than she was. He’d burned himself in a very sensitive place in order to unseat her.

  Isabelle raised power as fast as she could, despite the pain. The air crackled as Stefan also drew magick to defend himself. In the same moment, the entire limo lurched to the side. Isabelle slammed against the opposite seat and cried out as her back twisted. The limo came to a swerving, squealing, smoke-under-the-tires halt. She fell to the floor of the limo, her face contorting from the pain searing down her leg and through her lower back.

  She glanced up through her tangled dark red hair, seeing Stefan kneeling on the floor of the vehicle in front of her, looking as though he might retch. Outside the sounds of boots pounding on pavement and shouting reached her ears.

  Fighting through the discomfort, she resumed drawing magick and directed it at Stefan. Sensing the swift buildup within the confines of the limo, his head snapped up and he also tapped power. The air snapped with electricity from their combined efforts. It was a magickical showdown and they were both battling through injuries.

  But his were worse.

  Isabelle shot her hand out in a near unconscious effort to increase her power, commanding the water in Stefan’s body to do her bidding—to freeze.

  The limo door opened. Confusion and fury from the unknown observers pressed against her empathy. The intense emotions around her settled like a bitter wine on the back of her tongue, but she focused all her attention on Stefan.

  “No,” came a commanding male voice. “Stop it now.”

  She ignored the order. Stefan’s spine snapped back as she intensified the freezing process. She had him now and, dear Lady, it had to hurt. It was nothing compared to what the demon had done to Angela, though.

  Her sister had died the one way she’d always feared, by a demon’s hand. Angela had had nightmares about that since she’d been a child, after one of their “uncles” had related to them how demons killed their victims.

  Isabelle had been the one to find her body, but she still couldn’t bring herself to visit those memories. Not in detail. Her mind had blocked them and she was grateful for that.

  In front of her, Stefan keened.

  Funny, Isabelle thought she’d feel satisfaction when this moment came, perhaps a release and a lifting of the heavy emotion that had weighed her down for so long. But she felt none of those things. She only felt sorrow.

  “This is for Angela, Stefan,” she said woodenly. “This is my sister saying hello from the grave.”

  Where was the fulfillment she thought she’d feel? Where was the righteous justification? She stared into Stefan’s eyes, watching pain explode his pupils. Her magickal grip faltered. She couldn’t do this…Damn it!

  From her left, a man approached her. “Isabelle,” he said gently. “He’s the scum of the earth, but he didn’t kill your sister.”

  Her face contorted, her eyes filling with tears. “He did. He’s the head of the Duskoff. Without the Duskoff, the demon wouldn’t exist.”

  “I’m asking you for the last time. Stop.”

  This revenge, once a red-hot, pulsing, living thing in her heart and mind, now tasted bitter and cold.

  Still…Angela.

  “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t stop.”

  The man threw himself at her, breaking her hold on Stefan. Pain cut up her spine and down her legs, making her cry out, but she still fought the heavy weight on top of her. He pinned her down, struggling to gain control of her limbs. Exhaustion and her back injury forced her to go passive. Her magick sparked and died in her chest, spent like a candle burned too long. She made a choking sound of grief.

  He stared down at her, his face shadowed by a long fall of blue black hair. Thomas Monahan, head of the Coven. The hair branded him. She didn’t even need to see his face.

  She winced and let out a small sob. “It’s because of him, because of the Duskoff, that my sister is dead.”

  “He won’t get away with what he’s done, Isabelle,” came his low voice. “But his punishment can’t be like this.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  Behind them she could hear witches subduing Stefan. The limo rocked with the motion. “You said you’re Angela’s sister. I can only assume you mean Angela Novak, the water witch who was killed by a demon a couple of months ago. That makes you Isabelle. We’re on the same side. If I let you up, will you be good?”

  Her mouth snapped shut and she nodded.

  He moved away from her, Monahan’s face—set in handsome, brutal lines—finally coming into view. She glanced around the limo’s interior, seeing Adam Tyrell and Jack McAllister, both fire witches she was well acquainted with. The two men restrained the injured Stefan, who wasn’t fighting anymore. He knelt with his hands between his legs, looking like the only battle he could wage was against unconsciousness.

  “We are not on the same side,” she growled at Thomas. “You are preventing me from—”

  “Taking your revenge. I know.”

  “I didn’t kill her sister,” spat Stefan.

  Thomas cast a look at Stefan that reminded Isabelle of how a cat might regard a worm, beneath his bother but something interesting to play with. “In general I’d prefer Stefan dead,” he drawled, “but we need him.”

  Cradling her injured hand, Isabelle only glowered at him through her hair in response. She sought Monahan’s emotions, but got nothing more than a flicker. Either she was too tired to sense them or he was hellishly repressed.

  “Ah, Isabelle? Not that I mind the view, but…” Adam looked at her pointedly, helping her remember her state of undress.

  She glanced down, registering her lack of clothing. In her rage, that little detail had been lost. Hell. Could anything more go wrong?

  Making sure Jack had ahold of Stefan, Adam tossed her dress to her and she gingerly slid it over her head, wincing at the pain in her back.

  Thomas jerked his head at Stefan. “Incapacitate him for transportation.”

  Jack stared down at Stefan—his expression dangerously dark. For a moment Isabelle wondered what he’d do. The warlock had tried to kill Jack’s girlfriend last winter.

  Jack glanced pointedly at Stefan’s privates. “You should see a doctor about that.” Then he punched him—hard. Stefan slumped to the floor of the limo, unconscious.

  “You could’ve just drugged him,” said Thomas with a twist to his lips.

  Jack glared down at Stefan. “That was one option.”

  “You could’ve just let me kill him, too,” Isabelle added. “That would have been much less trouble for everyone. I know I would have been far happier.”

  Thomas turned and regarded her with eyes that seemed blacker than obsidian. They were unsettling, yet beautiful, and they matched the hair that swirled around his shoulders. The man tru
ly did look like a witch—a very, very wicked one. “Really? That would have made you happy, Isabelle? Tell the truth.”

  She glanced away from him, suddenly feeling far more naked under his gaze than when she’d been undressed.

  The head of the Coven was better looking in person than he was in his pictures, like some beautiful fallen angel, although the rough-hewn lines of his face saved him from the more perfect type of male prettiness. His sensual, lush mouth seemed at odds with the rest of him, set with deep lines on either side. He had a powerfully built body, long of leg and broad of shoulder. Every inch of that massive body had been pressed against her and it had hurt. Her back twinged with the memory and she grimaced.

  “So how’s it going, Isabelle? Long time, no see,” said Adam as though they’d met up by chance at Starbucks or something.

  Her lips turned up in a smile. Grinning at Adam Tyrell was something you had to do because of his charm, especially if you were female. Even under these circumstances, she couldn’t help it. “Not too great, Adam.”

  “Get him out of here,” Thomas growled at Adam. He turned to Jack. “Can you heal her back and hand?”

  “Isabelle’s hand and back, yes. Stefan’s dick, no. My hands aren’t going anywhere near that.”

  “We’ll let Stefan heal on his own, I think. It’s the least he deserves.”

  Adam heaved Stefan out of the limo and Thomas followed, casting one piercing look at her over his shoulder before he went. “I want to talk to you. Don’t disappear.”

  She narrowed her eyes at his back. Asshole! He had no right to order her around. She’d left the Coven. Hell, what she’d just done made her a flat-out warlock. Thomas Monahan held no power over her.

  “Give me your hand,” said Jack.

  She unlocked her jaw and raised her hand, shifting gingerly on the floor of the limo and snagging the heel of her shoe in the carpet.

  He took her hand between his palms. Jack was a fire witch and, therefore, could heal. She’d always found it odd that the power resided in such a destructive element. Her hand grew warm, tingled, and the pain receded. When he released her, the skin was pink and healing quickly. He jerked his chin at the seat. “Sit down with your back to me.”

  Carefully, she pushed up and slid onto the seat. Ripples of pain shot through her back and down her legs. She blew out a careful breath as nausea swamped her.

  Jack sat behind her and placed his palms along her spine, one above the other. His hands, completely businesslike on her back, grew warm. Her twisted back improved immediately. “I don’t remember your hair being this dark a shade of red or your eyes being green, Isabelle.”

  “I colored my hair and I’m wearing contacts.”

  “All the better to stalk your prey, hmm?”

  “I guess. Stefan prefers redheads.”

  “Good disguise. None of us recognized you in the tabloids. We didn’t know who you were, or that you were even a witch. It wasn’t until tonight, when we saw you up close, that we realized your identity. All we knew was that this evening Stefan’s flavor-of-the-month had finally convinced him to shed his bodyguards for sex.”

  She let out a small laugh. “You guys were piggybacking my seduction as a way to take Stefan hostage?”

  “Yep. We were watching, waiting for an opportunity. You gave us a surprise when we opened the limo door. Never saw that one coming.” He paused. “I’m sorry about your sister. I understand why you went after Stefan.”

  She had a million questions, but they all caught in her throat. They were questions for the head of the Coven, anyway, not Jack McAllister, Thomas’s right-hand man. “I hunted the demon for a month and couldn’t find it.”

  “We’ve been hunting it, too, without any luck.”

  “I went after the cause for the demon’s existence instead.” She swallowed hard. “I just…needed to do something, and Stefan can’t be allowed to bring any more of those creatures into our world.”

  Jack slid away and she turned toward him on the seat. Her back still ached, but the worst of the pain had faded.

  “Isabelle, I get that. I do. But you should have come to us instead of playing vigilante. We’d always planned to take down Stefan and we’re going after the demon.” Jack shook his head and tch tched. “Bad, bad girl.”

  “So what’s new?” she muttered in response. Angela had always been the good one. Isabelle had always been the one getting into trouble.

  He must’ve known she wasn’t asking what was new with him, but he answered that way all the same. “I’m going to be a father.” The words were spoken with such pride that she smiled.

  She fussed with the hem of her skirt, happy to change the subject. “I heard that. Knocked up that little air witch of yours.”

  “Mira.”

  Lady, the look in his eyes when he said her name. Such love. Such devotion. A man had never looked that way while speaking her name, at least not that she knew of, and Isabelle had to admit that a part of her regretted it.

  “That’s right, her name is Mira,” Isabelle answered. “Everyone’s hoping she’ll turn up with a baby air witch of her own.” Of all the elemental witches, air was by far the rarest and most powerful. “What do you think, air or fire?”

  “I think she’ll take after her mom and be an air witch. We’re going to name her Eva, for Mira’s mom if it’s a girl. David, for her dad if it’s a boy.”

  Eva Hoskins, maiden name Monahan. She had been the air witch who’d been sacrificed in the circle that had brought the demon into existence over twenty-five years ago. Four witches—one for each of the elements—had been killed to bring in the demon who had murdered Angela. How poetic one of their names should be spoken on this night.

  She patted him on his shoulder. “Good luck to you both.” She scooped up her purse from the floor of the limo and exited the vehicle.

  Isabelle found herself on a darkened side street in a commercial part of town. The front of the limo had been rammed in by a Hummer. Behind the limo was another car crash, a tangle of metal where sedan had met heavy SUV. The sedan had been the vehicle carrying Stefan’s muscle.

  She cast a glance at Stefan, whom they were lifting into the back of Thomas’s car. Thomas stood nearby. He stared at her across the distance, his black-as-sin hair spread over his shoulders, his expression intent. Then he crooked a finger.

  Oh, no. Hell would freeze over first.

  Isabelle gave him a little wave and walked away.

  “Isabelle,” he called after her. “I need to talk to you.”

  Ignoring him, she turned a corner and pulled on her remaining magickal reserves, scraping the very bottom of her capacity. Isabelle gathered water molecules from the air, condensing them around dust particles and cloaking herself in the resulting thick fog. By the time she heard his footsteps behind her, she’d disappeared, leaving him standing in zero visibility.

  Thomas swore loudly and Isabelle smiled. She needed to talk to him, but she wasn’t about to do it on his terms.

  THREE

  SHE LOOKED BETTER AS A BLONDE.

  Thomas stepped into the Coven library, a room that also served as his office and took stock of the woman sitting on his desk, one of her long legs swinging. He’d been expecting Isabelle Novak to show up sometime.

  In order to figure out how no one had recognized her while she’d been beguiling Stefan, he’d had Jack show him pictures of her when she wasn’t all glossy and polished for Stefan’s liking. Now she looked more like herself. She’d changed her hair back to its natural color, a strawberry blond, and wore a pair of faded jeans, a black knit top and a pair of scuffed black boots.

  Normally she wasn’t this gaunt. Thomas suspected she’d purposely lost weight in order to insinuate herself into Stefan’s world. Or perhaps grief had shaved some pounds off her. In his opinion, she looked better with a little more weight on her.

  Her hair was long and glossy, framing an oval face with porcelain skin and large brown eyes. Her mouth was full, expressive. She wo
re nearly no makeup and did little to her hair beyond brush it. She had a natural type of beauty that required little embellishment and seemed to care nothing for fashion. Yet she possessed a manner that screamed self-confidence.

  Not only was she gorgeous, she looked innocent. Yet Thomas knew better. Miss Isabelle Novak had a reputation for trouble. The research he’d done on her had revealed that right away. From even her earliest days in grade school, Isabelle had left a trail of trouble behind her—getting into fights, talking back to teachers. Her older years revealed a passionate, impulsive woman who couldn’t stay in one place, couldn’t hold a steady job, couldn’t form relationships.

  She was also a strong water witch. Thomas could sense the strength in her from across the room. Ripples of volatile emotion, the ebb and flow of psychic power—they were the hallmarks of the water witch and they were impressively palpable in Isabelle Novak.

  He closed the door and spoke as he turned toward her. “Violence is an easy way to mourn someone you’ve lost. Don’t you think it’s better to save a life in order to honor a life lost?”

  She stood, pressed her hands together, and bowed. “Buddha, I’m pleasured to make your acquaintance.” She straightened and put a hand to her hip. “I didn’t come here for a lecture.”

  She was pretty. Too bad she was such a pain in the ass.

  Thomas squelched his annoyance and walked toward her. “You need to look at the big picture. He can help us—”

  “Help us? When does that man start helping anyone but himself? When does he do anything that’s not in his own best interests? And when does he pay for his crimes, Mr. Monahan? When?”

  “Call me Thomas.”

  “Mr. Monahan, Thomas, whatever.” She waved her hand, dismissing his overture. “Are we going to wait for Stefan to die of old age, then? Should we let him get away with everything he’s done?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Really? The non-magickals aren’t going to touch him, so it falls to us to do it, his peers. Yet I haven’t seen the Coven or the Council acting to take care of it. Wasn’t that one of the reasons why the Coven and Council were created to begin with? Aren’t you guys supposed to be handling the warlocks and punishing crimes?” She slammed her hand down on the desk. “He doesn’t deserve to live his life any way he sees fit, Thomas.”