“You’re dangerous.”
It was Nessa, her voice low and hard.
Ana’s lashes lowered, shielding her eyes. “I’m aware it’s not the ideal gift to have, but I didn’t choose it. The best I can do is control it.”
“Then why aren’t you controlling it now?”
“Because something’s coming . . . and I know that for a fact.” Her eyes met Nessa’s, held her gaze steadily. “Brad saw them. He knows how many, and he knows when. We won’t feel them coming, but Brad already knows about them. And while we can’t feel them, they can’t feel us, either. They know about Dominic, and you. That’s it.”
A weak smile curled her lips and she shrugged. “Think of us as your ace in the hole . . . especially Brad. And trust me, he’s one hell of an ace.”
MORGAN stared at the woman, wondering if somebody besides her realized how insane this sounded.
“Somehow I don’t think a kid just barely old enough to shave and some chick who’s afraid of her own shadow are exactly the people I want at my back if a fight is coming.” Backing away, she glanced at Dominic and said, “I’m not hanging around for . . . whatever this is.”
“You aren’t leaving,” he said, turning and meeting her eyes. His voice was flat and level. He could have been discussing the weather for all the emotion he showed.
“You can’t keep me here,” she snapped.
“Yeah, so you’ve already told me. But know what? I damn well am.”
She flexed her hand, tempted to reach up, smack that sexy, lean face. He watched her, pain in those dark eyes . . . longing. “Why, damn it? What in the hell do you want from me?”
A smile quirked his mouth. “If I tell you that, I’m really going to terrify you.”
“I don’t think I could get any more freaked out than I already am.” She wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing at her arms. She was cold. Cold, tired and hungry. “Just spill it, Dominic. What in the hell do you want from me?”
“Everything.” Then he turned away. He stared off into the night.
While she tried to get a grip on that, he took a step toward the waist-high railing on the elevated porch.
A car turned down the street.
Morgan tensed.
Dominic took a deep, slow breath. “Showtime,” he said quietly.
CHAPTER 18
“YOU’RE sure they are here?” Isis demanded, glaring at Marty.
He curled his lip at her. “No, you stupid bitch, I’m not. I can’t sense fuck, and something’s messing with my nose, too, so I can’t be sure I’m following the right scent. But this is the best I can do unless you can figure out what’s screwing with my senses, my instincts.”
Arrogant bastard. Isis wondered if she should just kill him when this was done.
If she did that, she left one of her borders open though and she really did hate that. But perhaps fate would smile upon her . . . and she’d be welcoming her dear daughter back into her arms. She laughed quietly. No, she and Morgan hadn’t ever been on good terms, but the younger woman had the makings of a powerful witch and she’d gotten hooked on the blood magic early—there was no way she could fight those cravings, not while she lived.
If.
It was one big, fat if. She had sensed nothing but an echo of Morgan’s presence when she’d fought the old witch that wore Morgan’s body. But Agnes Milcher was strong. Damn strong. Isis suspected the old hag could have just suppressed any lingering traces of Morgan. If anybody could have done it, it was that old Hunter bitch.
She closed her eyes and extended her senses, trying to pick up . . . something.
Something. She didn’t know what. “Can you smell anything? The witch? The vampire?” she asked.
Marty grunted. “I smell a woman. Think it’s her, but can’t be sure. Vamp is a little stronger, lingers in the air a little longer. But like I said, everything is faint.”
Isis rubbed her temple, frustrated. She couldn’t feel anything.
Not a vampire. Not a witch.
If a low-level witch was a buzz on her senses, then a powerful witch like Agnes would have been like an electric shock. But she couldn’t feel a damn thing.
“There.” Marty pointed ahead, at a house that stood apart from the others, a little closer to the water.
It was a small, elegant-looking cabin with a motorcycle parked in the front, along with a convertible.
“Why are we doing this again?” Marty demanded. “I’d rather just steer clear of the Hunter bastards. It’s how I’ve stayed alive this long.”
“Nobody lives forever.” Isis smirked. “Do you know I had another daughter? Her name was Morgan. A few years ago, she got into a fight with a Hunter by the name of Agnes Milcher.”
Marty’s eyes popped wide. Something shifted in the depths of his gaze, the first shadow of his beast. The wolf stared at her from Marty’s still normal-looking gaze, gnashing his teeth and snarling in fear.
“Agnes . . . shit, Isis, there is no way I’m going to square off with that old bitch.”
Isis smiled. A few years ago, she would have said the same thing.
But then again, a few years ago, talk of the old woman seemed to . . . stop.
“They say she died,” Isis murmured. “They say she died fighting my daughter. That’s what the rumors were, but I’ve never been one to put much stock in rumors.”
Especially not this kind—Morgan was a screwup, had always been a screwup. How could that idiot kid possibly have done enough damage to kill the strongest witch the Hunters had?
Marty stared at her, shaking his head. “What the shit are you talking about? What’s going on?”
“Tell me, wolf . . . that idiot witch, did she look like this?” She brushed a hand over her face, felt the warmth of illusion settle over her features as she turned to look at Marty.
“Exactly.”
A smile curled Isis’s lips and she let the illusion fade. “The witch I fought a few weeks ago, she wore my daughter’s face, her body. But her magic wasn’t Morgan’s. It was a Hunter’s magic. She stank with it.”
“The kid I saw earlier wasn’t any Hunter. She smelled of violence. Bloody death.”
“Yes . . . and she calls herself Morgan. It makes me wonder what happened the night Morgan and Agnes fought. Which of them truly died . . . and which one lived.”
As the car glided to a stop, she peered up onto the porch. Her eyesight wasn’t as refined as a wolf’s—just slightly better than average. But the moon cast a watery, silvery light on the world, and she could see a dark haired man leaning against a railing.
Almost as if he waited for them.
“If you get me killed, Isis, I’m going to haunt your ass,” Marty muttered darkly.
Isis ignored him.
“Showtime,” she whispered.
AS the car drew closer, Dominic squinted, tried to focus. He wanted his eyes to work better to make up for his ears and his nose working less, but it didn’t work that way. Part of him wanted to tell Ana to let up, but he couldn’t do that, not unless he wanted those coming to sense them as well.
“Morgan, I want you to take Ana, show her the inner room, the one where we slept.” He wanted the two women out of the way. Ana was too vulnerable—she might be a highly trained psychic, but her skills were all defensive. She was better at hiding than defending herself.
And Nessa—hell, she still didn’t know who she was. Probably didn’t entirely understand what she was. Whatever was going on with her, it was too effective, because the power he suspected she would have had just wasn’t there.
But of course, his witch couldn’t cooperate.
“Why?” she demanded.
He turned his head, looking at her over his shoulder. “It’s safer.”
“Safer.” She shook her head and said, “The hell it is.”
He was lying about something, Morgan realized. She didn’t know what. But he had been lying about something, and steadily . . . almost from the get-go. Until she knew what he was h
iding, she wasn’t going to do a damn thing he said.
Even then, she might not.
“No. Hell, no. I’m not letting you lock me away in that little coffin while you . . .” Her words trailed off as the car turned down the narrow, short drive, heading straight for the little beach house. “Besides, it’s too late. They are already here.”
“Damn it,” Dominic muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “Morgan, get inside, now. ”
“No.” She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the wall, staring straight ahead.
“Hiding won’t do any good,” the boy said.
Morgan glanced at him. He had young-old eyes, she noticed. Like he’d seen way, way too much, and it had weighed on him. A grim, heavy burden, one that shouldn’t have been born by someone so young.
“They always find you when you hide,” Morgan said quietly. She wrapped her arms around herself and rested against the wall. Tucking her chin against her chest, she held still . . . and waited.
ISIS uncurled from the car, staring up at the porch.
She could see him rather clearly now, despite the strange magic blocking her senses. He looked young—a very lovely man.
As she mounted the steps, he watched her, his dark eyes betraying no thoughts, no emotions.
Marty followed close at her back, stopping on the step behind her as she paused to study the vampire.
Isis couldn’t help but appreciate the whole package. The body matched the face . . . lovely. Wide shoulders, a little too lean, a little too skinny, but still, nicely muscled and she knew he’d be deliciously strong. After all, he was a vampire.
Damned shame. He’d be fun to play with, but she knew better than to toy with Hunters.
His eyes flicked to her and then to Marty, still waiting at her back.
“Should have gutted you,” the vampire said, his voice a low, rough drawl.
Marty growled.
The vampire ignored him, focusing on Isis. She surreptitiously studied the others standing just behind him. An unknown blond woman—she didn’t smell of magic, and Isis’s instincts told her she wasn’t a witch. She certainly wasn’t a vampire or shifter. So not likely a Hunter. She all but stank of fear. There was a boy at her side, a blond, a few years younger, probably not much older than Jazzy. A child, and not much of a threat there, either, she decided.
Then she shifted her gaze to the woman standing just behind the vampire. When she saw Morgan’s familiar face, her eyes narrowed. “Treacherous little bitch,” she hissed. “Damn it, where is my little girl?”
“Your little girl?” the vampire asked, cocking a brow.
His nostrils flared, and she watched as he drew in a deep, slow breath. Odd. He was scenting her. But he would have done that earlier, probably already pegged who she was—she smelled too much like her two daughters not to be a blood relative.
Vampires were like bloodhounds. He should have already figured out who she was. Unless whatever odd magic handicapping her had affected him as well.
“Yes.” She let her voice wobble and then jutted her chin up. “My daughter. You’ve already sunk your claws into this one, but you can’t have Jazzy.”
A grin curled the vampire’s mouth. “Well, that’s an interesting tactic to try.” He leaned a hip against the railing, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. “I’m afraid the kid is out of your reach now.”
“She’s my daughter,” Isis snarled. “I will find her.”
A wicked light gleamed in the vampire’s eyes. Smirking, he replied, “Well, if you try really hard, I’m sure you can figure out where we’d send a young witch who was more than a little confused about how to use her magic. But if you’re smart—and I think you’re a sharp one—you’ll also know you don’t stand a chance in hell of getting your hands on her.”
“Bastard.” She spat the word out. She didn’t have to feign her hostility. No fucking way—they’d sent her daughter there?
No. She hadn’t expected this. “You had no right. ”
The vampire shrugged. “Legally? You’re right. We had no right. But then again, legally, you had no right to whale on her when you were pissed off. You had no right to let her go hungry and I can tell just by looking at her she’s gone hungry in her life . . . a lot. There’s probably a lot more, too, if we dig down below the surface.” A cocky smile curled his lips and he drawled, “You and me, we both live in a world where the rules of mortals don’t really apply quite the same.”
He shoved off the steps, clearing them in one easy, agile jump and landing in front of her. He gave her a taunting grin as he rocked back on the balls of his feet. “The kid is out of your reach now, witch. Deal with it.”
Deal with it. Rage had her shaking, and all she wanted to do was knock that arrogant smirk off his face.
They’d sent her kid off to Excelsior. Excelsior!
It was the last thing she’d expected to hear. But then again, she hadn’t known what she was expecting. She’d only come wanting to see Morgan with her own eyes, see who was living in that body.
Narrowing her eyes, she looked at Morgan and said, “Did you have some part in this, you old crone?”
The old crone would have just smiled. Or laughed.
But the young woman stared at her with a dumbfounded look. “Part of what?”
“Sending your baby sister off to that . . . that . . . brainwashing jail. ” She’d be untouchable—there was no way in hell Isis could get her daughter away from the school. No way. She knew her youngest. Too well. She’d believe the lines the Hunters handed her—would believe that “greater purpose” bit, that she was to use her gift to serve, to protect.
But then again, Jazzy had always had that streak of weakness in her. The Hunters would exploit that—brainwash her. Change her.
Damn it, Isis hadn’t seen this coming . . . Jazzy wasn’t a strong witch, but she was a witch. She might not have blood on her hands, but she had done bad things, unpleasant things.
The Hunters shouldn’t have wanted her . . . unless it involved seeing her dead.
Isis would rather see her youngest dead than in the hands of those brainwashing bastards.
The woman with her daughter’s face shook her head. “I don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about. Do . . . ” She snapped her mouth shut before she finished his name. Instead, she jabbed a finger toward the vamp and said, “He knows Jazzy, made sure she was someplace safe.”
“Safe.” Isis laughed. “Is that what he told you? Damn it, Morgan, you’ve gotten even more stupid in the past few years. How is that possible?”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “You . . . You’re my mother.”
“Fucking idiot, did you just now figure that out? What in the hell is wrong with you?”
THE woman had a lot of hatred inside her, Morgan thought. A lot of hate. A lot of rage.
And evil. It clung to her, like a second skin. How could she have left Jazzy alone with that?
Giving her mother a sharp smile, she said, “Lucky me, I hit my head hard enough to forget every damn thing I ever knew about you. And now I’m wondering if there’s a way to make sure that doesn’t change—I’d rather not know.”
“If you’ve forgotten me, then you’ve likely forgotten other stuff as well . . . like what kind of man this is,” Isis said. She shifted her gaze to the vampire and murmured, “Do you have any idea who he is? What he does? What will happen to Jasmine?”
“Can’t be anything worse than what you’ve done to the poor girl for her entire life. What you’ve done to her since I left. She told me all about it. She’d go days without eating, unless she could steal something on her own. You would disappear and she’d be alone in that house for days, weeks.” Morgan shook her head. “Stop the caring mother routine—I don’t remember you, but even I can tell you’ve never cared about another soul a day in your life.”
“It has nothing to do with being a caring mother.” Isis waved a hand. “It has to do with not wanting my child to end up
like one of them.”
“One of who? ” Morgan demanded. She shouldered past Dominic, coming to a halt just a few feet away. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
Isis cocked her head, studying Morgan’s face. Frustrated, she reached out with her magic, trying to read the girl, trying to get something off her. It wasn’t easy. It was damn near impossible—all she picked up was the vaguest impression.
Isis hadn’t ever realized just how fully she relied on her magic.
But . . . she didn’t think Morgan lied.
She didn’t know.
“You must have hit your head pretty damn hard,” Isis murmured. “Sweetie, that’s a Hunter . . . and he kills witches.”
Morgan hissed out a breath. “That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?” Isis smiled. “Ask him.”
The vampire curled his lip at her, but as Morgan turned to face him, the look faded, replaced by one that confused the hell out of Isis.
Tenderness.
Need.
For my daughter . . . ?
But as soon as he reached out and stroked a hand down Morgan’s face, Isis had her answer. No. Not for Morgan. For Nessa—for the old crone who’d damned near killed Isis.
But this wasn’t Nessa in front of her. It couldn’t be, because the Hunter witch’s power had been like a supernova and nothing could have completely eradicated that strength.
Even with her weakened gift, she could sense that much.
Granted, she didn’t feel like Morgan, either.
That wasn’t important, though. This wasn’t Nessa—and that was what mattered more than anything else.
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