After what happened last month, my sisters and I are like earthquake survivors. We’re trying like hell to act normal while inside we’re not quite sure the ground won’t start shaking all over again. This is not something I can throw at them, not when our foundation is already so unsteady. Besides, they’re not in any danger. Whoever is going after witches is taking weak ones.
Like Fiona.
I stare up at the white farmhouse. I know which window is hers. I know the hole she was dragged into. I also know I have the place to myself. Fiona’s dad told me he’d be spending Saturday looking for his daughter in town, asking her friends if they’ve seen or heard from her. Even though he knows better. Rick isn’t part of the FTC world, just a human who fell in love with a witch, one who left him two months after their daughter was born. He knew what his wife was and he knows what his daughter is, but he’s tried to raise her normal. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.
His intentions were good, if rather naïve. It’s hard for me to imagine fathers like Rick exist in any world. Loving, protective and sweet. I shake my head and head for the rise behind the house, the one shaded by a huge red maple.
Of course, my childhood is hardly a great baseline for comparison. Even among FTCs, the Gosse family is a special kind of fucked-up.
I step under the tree, listening to the leaves rustle in the light wind that still carries a hint of a chill despite the fact we’re closing in on July. The summer solstice is less than a week away, but Minnesota has its own idea of seasons.
The gnome hole is behind a thick, cracked boulder. The shade doesn’t reach here in midafternoon, but in the evening, this area would be dark, barely visible from the house. I wasn’t really surprised when Ana’s scry was a bust. Whoever is taking the witches is able to outfox gnomes. That means they’re damn clever. But there is no such thing as the perfect crime, even in the FTC world. We may have magic and special powers, but that doesn’t make us invincible. Fiona was dropped off by a friend. It was nine on a school night, the last one before school let out for the summer. Her dad enforced a strict 9:30 p.m. bedtime on school nights. He saw the lights of her friend’s car, got up from watching American Ninja Warrior to unlock the door. Fiona never made it to the front porch.
He heard nothing. Saw nothing.
I edge closer to the black hole in the ground, my fingers sliding over a tree limb, where I find a couple strands of curly red-gold hair, right above a rock that’s sunk too deep on one side, like it was stepped on by someone carrying a fair amount of extra weight. Our spring has been a wet one this year. The hair is obviously Fiona’s and there’s no hint of a footprint, so I keep looking.
After a half hour of searching, I’m stumped. No tracks, no dropped bit of scrollwork, nothing. I stare at the hole, willing it to give me something, anything.
As I step inside, I can still smell the tang of copper. It frustrates me. There is no spell that carries that smell—no cast, no witch, no magic I can think of. But it’s familiar. I know I’ve smelled it before.
I glare into the darkness. The urge to head further down the tunnel is almost overwhelming, but I’m not an idiot. If I descend underground without permission or a gnome at my side, I’ll never come out again. With a curse I spin around to leave. The overhang is low, just a few inches over five feet, but I don’t have to duck. After all, it’s not like gnomes are that much shorter than—
Wait a goddam minute. How likely is it that whoever took Fiona was as vertically challenged as yours truly? I glance up, squinting. Jackpot.
Something scraped the top of the crumbling rock and earth entryway. Looks like our not-so-little witchnapper banged his head. I take out my phone and use the flashlight app. Sometimes technology is even more handy than magic.
But it’s magic I turn to when I see the glint above my head, something I snag with a nice and gentle cast. Turns out to be three somethings.
More hair. But these are pale gold and short, about the length of my palm. I roll them between my fingers and press my lips together, staring out at the hazy summer day. It’s not possible.
Lev is dead. I killed the piece of shit myself. Hell, his pelt has been lying on the floor of my bedroom wherever I’ve lived for the past hundred years. This is me, projecting. It has to be.
It’s been a problem since I first took these damn jobs. Witches disappearing. Somebody’s taking them, just like someone took me. Of course it’s going to bring back memories.
Nightmares.
Cold stone. Chains. The sound of the sea. Pain.
So much pain.
The day has grown warm by the time I step outside a long time later. The sun has heated the earth, the rich smell of grass and dirt surrounding me. But deep inside, where it matters, I’m cold.
8
Last November
I turn off the gun and look down at the bruin in my chair. He’s half asleep, his black hair tousled against those sexy cheekbones, his eyes closed. Stephen has been coming in for almost two weeks now. He pays me an obscene amount of money to open early so he can flirt with me while I work on his back piece. It’s an intricate representation of Callisto, the goddess who was turned into a bear and cast into the heavens by Zeus. He did it to protect her from a hunter, her own son. Today though, we’ve decided to give that one a rest to finish up the script on his chest. The wording is done, but I’m still fine-tuning the shading. One more session should do it.
I watch him for a minute. His chest rises and falls so evenly, I wonder if he really is asleep. People have different reactions to being inked. Some whine and wince the whole time, others get high to the point of craving the buzz of the gun like an addict for their next hit. Stephen, once he stops trying to flirt, seems to go into an almost tantric state, his mind floating miles and miles away.
“Hey, bruin.” I smack his bare shoulder. “Time to come back to earth.”
He groans, blinking slow as he stretches in the chair like the big sleepy bear he is. The sight of all those rippling muscles makes me press my thighs together and bite back a moan. I wore leather today. I’m currently regretting that decision. For one thing, the supple warmth clinging to my skin makes me hyperaware of every move I make. For another, Stephen has barely kept his eyes off my ass since he walked in. He’s looking right now, eyes still heavy lidded, but completely unabashed as I bandage him up. The aftercare is kind of a moot point, as he’s mostly healed already, but it’s not worth the risk. Finally, I toss him his shirt, tapping one booted foot as he pulls it over his head. Once he’s covered up, my brain starts working again.
“I could use a word with your king.” I have a bad feeling about Herne’s recent talks with that werewolf bitch, Luna. I heard Georg’s name mentioned, more than once. Daddy Dearest has been keeping something from me, not that that is anything new, but I’d like to find a roundabout way to put the bruin king on his guard. Something I can sneak in on the pretext of warning him off my sister again.
Stephen’s brow furrows as he gets to his feet. “About?”
I frown as I crane my neck back. “That’s between me and him.”
“I don’t think Georg will take kindly to a request for an audience from you.”
“I didn’t toss him in the harbor. He fell.” Though I might’ve been prepared to give him a push.
Stephen’s lips twitch as if he can hear my thoughts. “Even so.”
“Well, that’s why I’m asking you, isn’t it? If I can get my ass out of bed at ungodly hours to work your ink—”
“Nine o’clock is not ungodly.”
“Says you,” I mutter.
“And besides,” Stephen continues, “I pay quite well to get you out of your pretty little bed.” The tone of that rich, dark voice implies he’s thought about me and my bed more than once. I push that aside, refusing the shivers that want to come.
“The price for setting my alarm before noon just doubled. Unless . . .”
He shakes his head. “Fine. Let’s go.”
“Right no
w?”
“Nervous much?”
“Of a bear? Please.” I snag my cropped bomber jacket, slipping it over my shoulders as he gets the door. “How do you know it’s pretty?”
“What?” He stops in the hallway as I lock the door. I can practically feel his breath on the back of my neck. Goose bumps tease their way from my nape to my heels, but when I turn, he’s a perfectly respectable distance away, eyes twinkling.
“My bed,” I snap, eyes narrowed. “How do you know it’s pretty?”
“Because my imagination says so.” His grin is slow and devastating.
“Well, it’s not. It’s black and covered in skulls . . . all with lightning coming out of their eyes. And bloody chains hanging from the ceiling.”
He lifts a shoulder, grin still firmly in place. “I can work with that. Especially the chains part.”
“You’re not at all as uptight as people think, are you?”
He winks as we head outside. “Anytime you want to find out—”
“In your dreams, furface.”
“Every night, witch.”
We take his car. Truck. Jeep. Monster thingy. I don’t know cars since I hardly ever use them. His is big and black and gleaming. And fast.
Not as fast as my regular mode of transport, though. I smile smugly. He gives me a sidelong look.
“What evil thought just scurried through that head of yours?”
“That no matter how pretty your truck is, it can’t beat me.”
“Competitive, aren’t you?”
I just look at him. “Three sisters.”
“It’s more than that.”
Yes, it is. But he doesn’t need to know where my thirst to always be one step ahead of everyone else comes from. Time to change the subject. “How’s His Majesty doing anyway?”
Stephen frowns. I can practically see the man’s brain working. What he can share with me without breaking that rigid code of honor of his. “Georg is . . . tired.”
“Tired?”
He sighs. “Despite what you may think, he really is trying to look out for your sister, Jett.”
“Uh-huh.” I fold my arms and glare at the windshield. I may be willing to give Georg a heads-up for Seph’s sake, but that doesn’t mean I like the mangy whoreson. “Because kidnapping and force is the bruin answer to everything.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
He pulls the truck to a stop outside three huge and gleaming cabins, still frowning. Before he can shut it off or open his mouth again, I’m out the passenger door and headed up the steps.
“Could you hold on for one damn second?” Stephen slams his door, but I don’t look back.
“Why?” My laugh is brittle. “Afraid of what I might see? I really don’t care how messy you bears are, Stephen.”
“Maybe I just want to be a gentleman?” His footsteps are ringing up the porch behind me as I reach for the front door.
“You’re positively archaic, you know—” There’s a big orange beetle with thick black stripes down its back on the brass doorknob. I jump and yank my hand back before I can stop myself.
Cold floor. Covered in beetles and roaches. Shiny and black and hard. The feel of their prickly feet on bare skin.
“Okay,” I say, trying to pretend my voice isn’t squeaking as I step to one side, stomach quivering. “You get the door.”
Stephen looks from me to the door, one eyebrow raised, his lips twitching. “My badass witch is scared of bugs?
“Stop laughing at me, bruin, and squash the damn thing.” I fold my arms to hide the way my hands are shaking.
His eyes search my face, the amusement fading at whatever he sees there.
My gaze falls to the porch, studying every polished whorl.
His voice softens. “I’ll take care of it. But no squashing. This little guy is a creature, too. He might even have a family, some rug rats to feed.”
From beneath my lowered lashes, I watch Stephen pick the beetle up, repressing a shudder. He vaults lightly over the porch railing with one hand, lowering the other to the ground, where the beetle scuttles off into the wintry grass, in search of whatever the hell beetles eat. Maybe the souls of traumatized witches. I shudder again, waiting for Stephen to come back and open the door, which I still don’t want to touch. He does, but not before he puts a big warm hand on my shoulder, stroking once down my spine. As if I’m a frightened cat in need of soothing.
The fucked-up part is, it works. I feel better. The memories fade as he ushers me into the cabin. I stare at his broad back once we’re inside, biting my lip. What is it with this bruin? Why didn’t I send him screaming for the hills the first time he walked into my shop? Why does he make me feel the complete opposite of what I should feel around one of his kind?
He glances over one broad shoulder, those blue eyes warm and sparkling, as if he can see inside my head to the confusion inside and it amuses him. But there’s also so much kindness there, I can’t even get mad.
I don’t get him. I get him even less a few minutes later. Georg isn’t here yet, but Stephen has a plan for us to kill some time.
“You want to spar? With me?” I lift my eyebrows as I look around the impressive custom-made gym, trying to ignore the impressive standing right in front of me. “I’ll kick your ass, bruin.” I will, too.
It’s been a very long time since I’ve lost a fight, as Tyr could attest.
He shrugs. “We’ll see. Lose the sword. You can use magic, though. It’s only fair.” He rolls those massive shoulders and my throat goes dry. Not in fear. In pure, unadulterated lust. His thin grey shirt clings to every rolling muscle and rides up as he lifts his arms, exposing several inches of taut pale golden skin that make my mouth water.
I swallow hard and lift my eyes. “Rules?”
“Only one. Three second pin to win.”
I attack before the words are out of his mouth. Slipping to one side, hooking my boot behind his ankle and shoving with both hands. He falls forward but catches himself. I toss a net cast as he’s still floundering, but he leaps aside instinctively. Then he whirls before I can get off another cast.
He’s not only enormous, but fast.
I’m faster.
His reach is probably twice mine, but I slip around his attack easily, forcing him to follow me. The aggressor generally thinks they’re in control of the fight. My job is to let them keep that illusion. It’s one I don’t need magic to weave. I have lots of practice fighting people bigger than me. Pretty much everyone I fight is bigger than me. My strategy boils down to patience and timing. And lots of strategic kicking.
Stephen grunts as the toe of my boot catches him in the ribs again. Kicking helps negate his advantage in reach. It’s a glancing blow but it can’t feel good. My boots are steel toed for a reason. He swats at my leg, but it’s already gone. As I duck around his swing and back again, I tag him in the same spot with my fist. He sweeps out a leg. I jump a hair too late, stumbling, as he nearly knocks me off my feet. Despite my considerable skills, I don’t want to fight him on the mat. No matter how great your ground game is, a wrestling match with a bear is never a good idea.
Stephen tries to close again, but I toss a snake-like coil of magic that hisses as it tries to wrap itself around his throat.
He can’t see my magic, but as a shifter Stephen isn’t dependent on his eyes. I’d rather fight just about anything than a shifter one on one. Especially one that shifts regularly. You can always tell because those are the shifters that are the most comfortable with their animal. It gives them such heightened senses magic is nearly worthless. They can feel it, smell it, even taste it. Case in point, Stephen dodges my cobalt snake almost casually. He further stuns me by grabbing it by the tail and tossing it into the ceiling with a whip-like crack. It shakes dust from the exposed timbers before dissipating.
I actually stop and stare. He grins.
“Impressed?”
I am, but I’m not going to tell him that. Espec
ially when he uses my momentary distraction to rush me. Thankfully, I don’t freeze like any sane person would at the sight of almost 250 pounds of bruin barreling toward me. Instead, I see his charge and raise him a somersault. Stepping aside at the last second, I use his extended leg and then his shoulder as a vault, flipping easily over his head. By the time he whirls to face me, I’ve got two spells ready to fire. Fire and ice, one ball of each. He dodges them both narrowly, mimicking my leap into the air at the last second, only backward and without a launch pad.
Stephen lands lightly next to the weight rack. He’s panting, bent over with both hands on the rack, staring at me. He’s doing well so far, but I haven’t really gotten started yet. I’m too busy enjoying the view.
Sweat has his shirt clinging to his body like a second skin. I can feel the heat he’s giving off from here and smell the rich, masculine scent of him. His hair curls when it’s damp. Glossy and black, he brushes them out of those bright eyes as he watches me.
I cock my head. “Just admit it. I’m better than you.”
“Yes, you are,” he agrees with a sudden smile. “But I have greater motivation.”
With a grunt, he tosses the entire weight rack at me. It must weigh damn near a thousand pounds. I don’t have time to cast again, I just roll. Before I can untuck completely, he’s on top of me, shielding me as we hit the floor. Weights are flying everywhere, including through the plate glass window that shatters with an ear-splitting crash.
I suck in a breath, but his hand is already over my mouth. That massive body has me pinned to the mat, head to heels, his chest warm and solid against my back. He counts to three nice and slow, a satisfied smile in his voice that makes me scream internally.
“That was fun,” he whispers in my ear before lifting his hand. I can feel him hard against my ass. And Christ if it doesn’t make me tighten up inside.
“You tricked me.”
“Now who’s whining? Turnabout’s fair play and all that.” He’s sniffing me, the tip of his nose tickling the nape of my neck as he inhales. It makes me equal parts melty and furious. I throw my head back, but he pulls back in time, the low rumble of his laughter vibrating down my spine. Frustrated, I go limp, pressing my cheek into the cool mat. He won. Fair is fucking fair.
Threescore & Tequila (Toil & Trouble Book 4) Page 5
