by Anya Bast
Isabelle couldn’t wait for a distraction. She couldn’t wait for anything.
Pulling the gun from the back of her waistband in one smooth move, she aimed and shot at Boyle. The sound ripped through her eardrums and echoed down the alley. With preter-natural speed and reflexes, the demon twisted to the side and the bullet nicked him in the thigh, making him howl in pain and rage.
So close. She’d been so close. And, damn it, she had been close. Point-blank range, in fact, and he’d still dodged the bullet.
Boyle was on her in a flash. His weight pressed her into the pavement, compressing her lungs until she gasped. His big hand closed around her wrist and squeezed, trying to make her relinquish the weapon. She gripped it until she lost feeling in her hand, her arm.
Fighting as hard as she could under the demon’s massive body, she kicked and clawed with her free hand like a feral cat. Boyle grunted and took the brutal treatment, pinning her to the ground with his tree-trunk-like legs.
A drop of Boyle’s acidic blood from where her bullet had nicked him dropped onto her leg, burned a hole through her jeans and touched her skin. White hot pain seared through her.
Isabelle screamed.
Boyle recoiled in surprise and she managed to push up and aim the gun at him. She squeezed off a shot, but the demon pushed her hand at the last second and it went wide, ricocheting off a nearby wall.
“You have new weapons,” Boyle hissed.
One hand pinned her wrist and the other came down over her throat as he straddled her. Her windpipe closed and her eyes bugged. The primal terror of having her breath cut off shut down her brain for a moment and made her thrash as hard as she could…to no avail.
Her hand went to his wrist, her fingernails digging in. The syringe was so close, but she couldn’t reach down and pull it free, couldn’t take her hand from Boyle’s wrists in a desperate and futile attempt to grasp it.
But why wasn’t he killing her?
Distantly, in the back of her mind, rationality flickered. He couldn’t kill her. Not now. Not yet. Not this way.
From the mouth of the alley came the sound of pounding footsteps and yelling. It was about time. Granted, it was the dead of morning, but two shots fired and a woman’s scream should have roused someone.
“I’m coming for you soon,” he growled low. “This information I give you is a gift. Take advantage of the time you have left and make yourself ready to die.”
A figure rose up behind Boyle and struck the demon over the back. Boyle grunted and backed away from her, rising and whirling around to roar at his attacker, still shadowed from Isabelle’s view. Men yelled and shots rang through the air.
Boyle’s charge on the witches was short-lived. Rolling to her side, she watched the demon scramble backward under the assault of copper-filled bullets. Likely, Boyle understood that the guns the attacking witches wielded were not ordinary. Boyle spared one last look at her, his expression intent, and then, instead of poofing through a doorway, he took off down the alley.
Isabelle lay on the ground taking in gulpfuls of bad air and watched Adam, Theo, Micah, and Jack run past her in pursuit of Boyle.
Thomas came down at her side. “Isabelle, are you all right?” All the blood had drained from his face and he looked exceptionally pissed off. Not at her, she presumed.
She coughed and snaked her hand into his lap. “I thought you said you weren’t going to give me space?” she gasped, her voice raspy. It was a joke, but he didn’t take it that way. A look of profound guilt passed over his face. She felt the pinch of it through her empathy.
She squeezed his hand and let a smile flicker over her lips. “Go, I’ll be fine.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
Isabelle struggled into a sitting position and pointed down the alley after the others. “Go! Go help them, Thomas. If you want to protect me, don’t let that son of a bitch get away.”
He leaned in, kissed her and murmured, “I love you.” Then he was gone.
I love you?
She sat for what seemed like a long time, stunned by his words, her hand covering her aching throat. He didn’t mean those words. He couldn’t. They’d probably just slipped out in the heat of the moment, maybe because he’d feared Boyle would kill her. She rubbed her fingers over her skin in an effort to ease the ache. Isabelle believed Thomas cared about her, could feel that he did. She knew he wanted to protect her…but love? Come on.
Although there had been a rush of pure, warm emotion emanating from him when he’d said it.
Isabelle had to admit that a part of her really liked the idea. A lot.
“What the hell are you smiling about? You just got your ass kicked by a demon.”
She looked up to see Adam standing near her, doubled over and breathing hard, his palms braced on his thighs, and a quizzical look on his face.
Had she been smiling? Isabelle dropped her hand from her throat, swallowed and winced. “I guess I’m getting used to it.” Her gaze locked on the mouth of the alley to see the others returning. “You didn’t get him, did you?”
Adam straightened and gave a short, brutal laugh. “Hell, no. He was like a ghost. There one minute then, poof, gone. I think he made us chase him just for fun. Bastard.”
“I think we injured him before he disappeared though,” said Thomas, limping toward her. This little fracas probably hadn’t helped his knee to heal any, though with the aid of Doc Oliver and some of the fire witches, it was rapidly improving.
He held out a hand and helped her to stand. “I got off one shot that hit him in the upper arm.” He paused and frowned. “I think.”
Jack wiped a hand across his brow and spoke around his labored breathing. “I saw it. You hit him. That’s when he poofed out of here. We chased him for a few blocks down these alleys. He dodged and weaved, hid behind stuff. None of us could get a clear shot, but Thomas managed to get him once.”
Isabelle pushed to her feet, examined the damage done to her clothes, and grimaced. “That’s something at least.” She pursed her lips. “It sounds like he was just taunting us, like he enjoyed the chase.”
“Yeah,” Theo interjected. He had joined them a moment before, coming up the alley from the direction they’d chased Boyle. “He’s not taking us seriously. That was hide-and-seek, demon style.”
If they only knew how true that was. They were a game to Boyle, nothing more. Isabelle, in particular. Otherwise the demon wouldn’t be following her around, asking her silly questions about her love life.
“What happened?” Thomas touched the hole in her jeans where Boyle’s blood had burned through the cloth. Being choked had made her forget the low, throbbing pain of her leg, but now that it had been pointed out, it started to hurt.
“Boyle’s blood isn’t much fun,” she said, fingering the eaten-away material around the hole.
Micah leaned in for a closer look. “Ow. That’ll leave a scar.”
“It will match the others he’s given me.”
Thomas took her arm and helped her to walk. Micah, Adam, and Jack followed. “Come on. I want you back at the Coven to see the doctor.”
She tried not to lean against him because of his knee, but he pulled her against his body anyway and she stayed there because it felt good. The heat and scent of him calmed her frazzled nerves. Isabelle closed her eyes and melted against him.
Just for this moment she would pretend everything would be okay, because pretty soon these moments would be coming to an end.
TWENTY-ONE
ISABELLE STOOD IN THE CONSERVATORY, FACE TIPPED to the glass ceiling above her so she could watch the rain pound down and the lightning flash. Every time thunder boomed, it shook the entire Coven.
It had been a week and there hadn’t been a sign of Boyle anywhere. Had the copper bullet Thomas nailed him with done its job? Was Boyle dead? Or was Boyle still out there somewhere, biding his time before his next kill?
Tension dominated the overall mood of the Coven these days. The house vib
rated with it. Micah spent his days monitoring the newspapers and morgues for some sign that Boyle’s body had been found. They continued to patrol at night, but it had been fruitless.
Yet Isabelle knew Boyle was alive.
Being here in the Conservatory, sandwiched between the water in the stream running below her and the water cascading down on the glass above her, calmed her nerves. A chill had entered her bones and she couldn’t shake herself free of it. It had lingered in the center of her for days—death with his hand on her shoulder. Isabelle wrapped her arms over her chest.
Soon Boyle would come for her.
He’d told her to get her affairs in order. Isabelle supposed that wasn’t a bad idea. Just in case. She planned to go down kicking and screaming, but odds were…she was going down.
Someone touched her back and she jolted.
“Shhh, I’m sorry,” murmured Thomas, his arms coming around her. “I thought you heard me coming. I knew I’d find you here.”
She snuggled back against him. Above them, thunder pealed. “I was thinking.”
“Thinking about what?”
She licked her lips and decided she didn’t want to lie to him. “Death.”
“Cheery.”
“Do you think it’s a blessing or a curse to know that death is coming for you?”
He took a moment to answer. “I would say it’s neither, just a fact of life. Death is coming for all of us eventually.”
“I mean, what if you were given a certain amount of time to live. If someone told you, ‘Get your affairs in order because you’ll be dead within the week.’ Would that be a blessing or a curse?”
“Where is this coming from, Isabelle?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Thomas turned her to face him. She stared up into his face and studied the shadows that shifted on it. Even in the darkness she could see concern in his expression. With Thomas she never needed her talent for empathy. His emotions were almost always clear to her. “Is there something you want to talk about?”
“Did you mean what you said in the alley? You know, when you said you loved me?”
Lady, why had she mentioned that? The words had just tumbled from her lips like she’d been asking him the time. It proved how badly she needed to know, even though this was a place she shouldn’t want to go, not now.
He stilled and stared down at her. No sound but the storm crashing through the heavens reached their ears. Finally, he moved, brushing the hair away from her face and hooking it behind her ear. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
“Say it again, then.”
A long, heavy moment passed in which Isabelle kicked herself a thousand times. Finally, Thomas drew her close, wrapping his arms around her and enveloping her in his warmth, driving the chill of death from her bones.
“I love you, Isabelle.” He whispered it near her ear. A hot rush of emotion flowed over her. “Don’t leave when this is over, Isabelle.” Whisper. “I want to keep you forever…Isabelle.”
Tears pricked her eyes. She leaned into him, burying her face in his shoulder and inhaling the scent of him—the light woody note of his cologne, the clean aroma of his soap, the essential scent of Thomas.
Isabelle wanted to tell him that she loved him back, but her throat had closed up. Anyway, all her words were gone. They’d all been stolen by Boyle who was coming to steal her life soon as well.
They stood wrapped together in the Conservatory with the storm battering the glass ceiling and walls until Thomas tipped her chin up and stared into her face.
“I want to spend the night with you,” she murmured.
Wordlessly, he took her by the hand and led her out of the shadowed Conservatory and through the sleeping corridors of the Coven.
Once in his apartment, he guided her into his bedroom and undressed her slowly in front of the window. Outside, the rage of the lashing storm provided a volatile backdrop. Isabelle soaked in his love as much as she absorbed the energy of the rain pounding down on the Coven. Her passion built with the fury of the storm.
Every inch of skin revealed by the removed clothing, he kissed, licked, and worshiped. Once he had her naked, Isabelle’s whole world was only Thomas—his hands moving on her skin, the rough brush of his clothing against her flesh, the warmth of his breath, and the nip of his teeth on her shoulder, waist, and lips.
She sank to her knees and pushed the hem of his sweater up, running her tongue over his abdomen and unbuttoning his jeans. All she wanted was to drown herself in him, lose herself in this night and never return. Once she had his cock out, she stroked her fingertips over it. Thomas groaned.
He pulled her to her feet, hooked her leg over his waist and pushed his cock inside her roughly, as if he couldn’t wait another moment to feel her. She gasped as his long, thick length slid deep within her. Holding on to his shoulders, she let her head fall back in ecstasy. Thomas was strong enough to take her whole weight, so she let him.
After a moment, Isabelle tipped her head forward and stared into his eyes. They stood still, intertwined and intimately connected.
Lady, she loved him back.
In the closeness of his bedroom, with the rain pounding outside his walls, and his body one with hers, she knew it. Her life would be perfect in this one moment if only she’d had the freedom to say it.
Without a word, Thomas picked her up. Her legs wound around his waist, his cock still deep inside her. He moved her to the bed, lying her down on the mattress and lowering himself on top of her.
He took her wrists and pinned them to the bed on either side of her, stared down into her eyes and began to thrust. His hips bumped hers on every inward stroke. Her clit, swollen and aroused, tingled and pulsed with the need to come.
When she closed her eyes and turned her head to the side, Thomas commanded, “Look at me.” His voice was tender.
She turned her face to his and held his gaze, lips parted, while he stroked deep into the center of her.
“I love you, Isabelle.” The words came soft and steady, his dark gaze fixed on hers.
The ripples of pleasure became waves. Her orgasm overtook her body and mind, just as Thomas had done. All Isabelle could do was ride it out. Pleasure coursed through her, making her back arch. She cried out his name and felt Thomas go, too, spilling inside her with a hoarse shout.
Afterward, they curled up together in the center of his bed—limbs and sheets tangled—and listened to the storm come to an end. Isabelle snuggled into Thomas’s strong chest and closed her eyes as his arms circled her.
Despite the uncertainty of the future, she was happier than she could ever remember being. To make the warm feeling in the center of her chest remain for the entire night, she pushed the truth that it couldn’t last far, far away.
Tonight she would hang on.
Tomorrow she had to pull away.
THOMAS SAT IN MICAH’S OFFICE, IN THE NORTH WING of the Coven. Micah and Isabelle sat at the same table, amidst scattered books and humming computer equipment. Tomes on quantum psychics, computer programming, and a variety of esoteric subjects stacked three rows deep surrounded them.
“We input what we knew about all four victims’ magick and magickical capacities and the order in which Boyle is taking them. By running that information through the software I tweaked, we found five possible patterns.” Micah slid a manila file folder across the table toward him.
Thomas flipped the folder open. Within were pages of data, graphs, and other information that Thomas couldn’t make heads or tails of.
“Here.” Isabelle flipped to the back of the file and pulled a couple papers out for him to read. “This breaks it down in normal people language. The rest of it is in Micah.”
She wouldn’t meet his gaze. Isabelle hadn’t looked him in the eyes for the last three days, not since the night of the storm. He wanted to shake her shoulders, make her tell him what was wrong.
Isabelle was the most confusing woman he’d ever known. Hot one m
inute, cool the next. Her fears were getting in the way of the feelings Thomas knew she had for him and he grew weary of it.
“Thanks.” He scanned the page. The second sheet simply had a list of names. Direct and to the point. That’s exactly what Thomas wanted.
“They’re forecasts,” continued Micah, “using the data analyzed. Those pages you’re holding list the names of the witches that might be at a higher risk of being taken by Boyle according to our calculations. Now, we don’t even know if Boyle is still out there, but I think we need to work on the assumption that he is.”
“He is,” answered Isabelle in a flat voice. “Can’t you feel him?”
Thomas glanced up to find her staring at the tabletop. “I can.”
Isabelle looked up and met his eyes for the barest of moments, then turned her face away.
Gritting his teeth in frustration, Thomas ran his finger down the column. His trepidation grew. “This is a very long list.”
“Yes,” replied Micah. “Unfortunately there are many witches on it because of all the probabilities.”
“Plus,” added Isabelle. “These are just the witches in the vicinity. We ruled out witches that live far away since Boyle seems to have enough pickings around here without having to go elsewhere. However, there’s really no telling if he would travel or not to obtain a victim, so that makes the results even less reliable.”
“Great,” Thomas muttered.
Micah shook his head. “He won’t go out of the area. Why would he go to the trouble? It’s not logical when he has such a wide selection here.”
That was for sure. Thomas glanced up at Micah. “How many are there?”
“One hundred and fifty-one.”
Thomas clenched his jaw and stared hard at the list. “One hundred and fifty-one possible next victims. That’s a little under a quarter of the registered witches in Chicago.”
“And,” Micah put in, “those are only the witches in our database. As we know, not all witches are officially registered with the Coven.”
