“WHAT is a Hunter?” Morgan asked, but she didn’t know if she asked Dominic or Isis.
“Basically, they are just cops.” Dominic’s eyes stared into hers, the intensity of his gaze a weighty, palpable thing. It was like he was trying to tell her something. Convince her of something.
This isn’t who you are . . .
That voice whispered in the back of her mind.
Swearing, Morgan reached up and shoved a hand through her hair, yanking lightly with the hope that small pain might clear her muddled head.
“Basically.” She shook her head. “It’s more than that. I can feel it.”
“It is more than that.” He took a step closer, turning his back on Isis.
Oh, you shouldn’t do that . . . Morgan shifted minutely so she could continue to keep an eye on the other witch. There was no denying they were related. The woman looked a few years older, but not by much. She could have passed for an older sister. But Morgan knew it was more—she’d come from that woman. And that woman reeked of evil.
Her belly churned, nausea roiling inside her. She’d come from that . . .
No. No, you did not.
“So tell me what else there is to it. Do you kill witches?” A hunter . . . a hunter of what? A witch hunter, maybe? Is that what Isis was talking about?
His eyes narrowed. “I have. But not unless I had to.”
Morgan sputtered, a disbelieving laugh falling from her lips. This man killed witches—he’d admitted it. And he had Jazzy. Shit.
He wouldn’t hurt the girl.
Snarling, she spun around and pressed her fisted hands to her temples. “Would you just shut up?” she spat out. That voice in her head, it was going to drive her nuts. If the pain didn’t kill her. It felt like it was trying to split her head into a thousand tiny fragments.
“Exactly why would you have to kill a witch?” she asked, the words reluctant. They didn’t want to be spoken. They felt wrong. “Does somebody order you to do it? Are you afraid of them . . . what?”
“Ordered? No. I don’t kill on command.” He moved up behind her. She sensed him, even though she didn’t hear him. “I kill when I have to . . . to protect others. Like your sister. Like you . . . those men earlier, they would have hurt you, forced you to do things you couldn’t ever undo, no matter how much you wanted to. I’m not a murderer . . . I don’t indiscriminately kill witches or . . . well, anybody.”
“He’s lying,” Isis whispered.
Morgan glanced up, watched as her mother sidled closer. Her platinum-streaked hair fell in a straight line to her waist and her blue eyes were a shade between the blue green of Jazzy’s and Morgan’s own summery blue. Completely lovely. Completely evil. Swallowing the knot in her throat, Morgan gritted out, “I don’t remember you but I know enough about you. I know what my gut says . . . you’re one of the best liars in the world. Why should I believe you?”
“Don’t believe me.” Isis shrugged. “Believe yourself. He doesn’t speak the truth, or not the whole of it. You can feel that, the same as I can.” She curled her lips and glanced around. “If you’d end this damned spell, you could sense even more of his lies.”
“I didn’t cast any spell.” Her all-too-familiar headache settled at the base of her skull once more, pounding in time with her heart.
Out of the blue, she found herself staring at Ana.
You’re fighting it. Your head hurts because you’re fighting too hard.
That was what Ana had said.
Fighting too hard—fighting herself. The other woman waited on the porch still, standing silently by her brother. Her mouth was a thin, tight line. Fear clung to her, but she didn’t flee. Didn’t cower.
Courage . . . that woman had it in spades.
“Somebody cast this fucking spell,” Isis snarled. “I feel almost powerless, and something is causing it. It’s not him. So if it’s not him, and you claim it’s not you . . . ”
Isis narrowed her eyes and understanding glinted in them.
As she turned to face Brad and Ana, the younger man moved, placed his body between Isis and his sister. With his hands tucked in his back pockets and a cocky grin on his face, he looked like some college kid.
Cute, confident . . . harmless.
Isis glanced at him and then to the woman behind him. Cocking her head, she said, “You’re not a witch.”
Ana said nothing.
“Whatever it is you’re doing, stop it now or I—”
Brad laughed. “Damn, woman. You got balls. Making threats you can’t possibly follow through on.”
Marty slunk around behind them. How had he gotten up there? He’d just been down here only seconds ago. Now he was up there on the porch without making any noise. Quiet, so quiet . . . how could these people move with such utter silence? In the shadows, Morgan could hardly see him.
But as he lunged for Ana, the brother shifted and lifted a hand.
Morgan’s jaw dropped as Marty’s body froze in midair. His mouth was open, his eyes half wild. A snarl tore free from his lips. He shouted something, but Morgan had no idea what.
She was too busy staring at his mouth. His teeth. Long, wickedly curved. Utterly inhuman.
Shaking, she backed away. Her body brushed against Dominic’s and she flinched. As his hands came up, she sidestepped away, keeping all of them in her sight. What is going on?
CHAPTER 19
ISIS swore, staring at Marty’s suspended body.
There was no magic.
She would have felt that.
There had been a faint, damn near unnoticeable crackle of energy, but it wasn’t magic.
Psychic—
Her face contorting in a scowl, she looked at the young man. Him and the woman—she’d written them off entirely. They weren’t witches, shifters or vamps, therefore they weren’t worth her concern.
Wrong.
Utterly wrong.
She shot the vampire a dark look and then focused on Morgan’s face.
Indecision swarmed inside. What did she do? She could run, and that might be the wisest decision. She’d live that way. Somehow, she knew the vampire wouldn’t take the time to mess with her, not yet. Whatever he wanted from Morgan, it was his priority. She could live, plan and then try again . . . or just disappear, start all over.
No. You’re not running. It’s one damn vampire. A couple of psychics.
Morgan. This all had to do with Morgan. Everything came back to her. Morgan . . . Nessa . . . whoever she was, whatever she was.
Willing the woman to look at her, Isis said, “You know he isn’t being honest. If he isn’t being honest, then you’re a fool to trust him. How can you trust him with your sister?”
Morgan’s mouth twisted in a sneer. “Don’t pretend to care about her. I don’t remember you, but I know her. You never loved her. Hell, you can’t love. So don’t use her against me.”
“Loving her and not wanting to see her mixed up with his kind are two different things.” Isis shrugged. “One has nothing to do with the other. But you do love her. Can you really risk her?”
“Shut up,” the vampire snapped, his voice cold and hard. He started toward Morgan, but she backed away from him, staring at him with indecision written all over her face.
He froze. His hands curled into fists, hanging useless at his sides.
There was pain in his eyes.
Isis breathed it in, tasted it. It was finer than wine . . . almost as good as the hit of power she got from fear. Almost as potent as death. Drinking it in, she closed her eyes . . . and that was one major mistake.
She sensed the movement, but not in time. A hand closed around her throat, and one heartbeat later, she was suspended in the air, her feet dangling a good foot and a half above the floor. The vampire’s eyes glowed, glints of red dancing in his dark brown irises.
“Get it somewhere else, you parasite,” he said.
She gurgled out a laugh, struggling to breathe past the hand that could crush the life from her. “Paras
ite . . . oh, now that’s irony for you. You . . . calling me a parasite.”
“I take no pleasure, reap no power from the misery of others.” His fingers squeezed warningly and he brought her closer, holding her weight easily in one hand—untouched by it. “I feel it again, witch, you die.”
Wheeling her eyes around, she gave Morgan a beseeching stare. “This is the freak you’ve chosen to trust?”
His hand tightened and black dots began to dance in front of her eyes. Terror bloomed in her mind and she struck out, calling for the one power in her arsenal that could really hurt him. The fire came, but it was sluggish, barely responding to her call.
She hurled it at him, but before it could so much as singe one hair on his head, it was doused.
She crashed to the floor, just in time to see Morgan coming for her.
A snarl peeled her lips back from her teeth and the sound coming from her throat barely sounded human.
Adrenaline spurred her movements. Acting on instinct, Isis reached down and drew the athame she liked to carry in her boot. Grabbing the hilt carved from bone, she jerked it up and lurched to her feet. Brandishing it in front of her, she snarled, “Come on, worthless bitch. You never did a damn thing to help me in your life . . . so I’ll just settle for your death instead.”
The knife Isis held didn’t slow Morgan down—not for a microsecond.
She moved with a speed that Isis hadn’t ever seen her daughter display. Speed . . . and skill. Her foot came up, swept out in an arc, knocking the blade out of Isis’s hand. Isis hissed out a breath and backed away. The knife . . . she needed that damn knife.
There—
A fist came flying toward hers, clipping her on the temple. Pain exploded through her head and she went with it, letting it knock her to the ground. Nausea and agony roiled inside. Her head ached, pounded. Just a few inches away, though, she saw the glint of her knife.
Panting, she closed her hand around it, used her body to hide it as she rolled over and glared at Morgan.
Morgan pounced and Isis waited—waited—just before Morgan would have been on top of her, she whipped the knife out. Morgan jerked aside, just barely missing the blade.
Isis swore and then cried out, enraged. Hard, cold fingers closed around her wrist. With her face an implacable mask, Morgan battled Isis for control of the knife . . . and she was winning.
She fought with skill . . . confidence.
Isis had only fear on her side.
And her magic . . . she tried to call it to her hand, but she was still too drained. Just calling the fire had been too much for it.
“Worthless, useless bitch.”
A DRENALINE dulled the pain.
Although Morgan’s head ached, although those annoying, nagging whispers wouldn’t shut the hell up, she wasn’t blinded by the pain.
No, instead she was blinded by rage. Sheer, utter rage.
The bitch had pulled a blade on him. Him . . .
Without any conscious thought, she struggled with Isis, rolling on the ground, grappling for control of the blade. As the woman hissed out, “Worthless, useless bitch,” Morgan gave her a taunting smile.
The pain swelled—like her brain was trying to split apart. In that voice that sounded so unlike her own, she taunted, “What is it the kids used to say? Oh, yes . . . it takes one to know one.”
Isis shrieked, and in one last moment of desperation, she wrenched her knife hand free and swung out.
Morgan caught the wrist, closed her fingers around it, shifted with an ease born of long practice. Natural. It felt so natural to move like this, to fight like she’d done so her entire life.
Bone cracked. Isis still held the blade, but now Morgan was in control, her hand curled around Isis’s hand, guiding the blade. Staring into the other woman’s eyes, Morgan forced the blade into Isis’s belly.
Isis screamed, and the warm wash of blood flowed over them.
The air was filled with the acrid, sour stink of a gut wound. Rising, she stared down at the other woman.
As her life ebbed away, that greedy, dark hunger rose inside, side by side with a cooler wash of energy. You don’t need the blood, do you now? Breathe now, girl. Come on . . . that’s a girl . . . breathe . . .
Groaning, she brought her fisted hands up, pressing them to her brow, mindless of the blood. Shit. The voices in her head—the whispers—that nasty black hunger. They were going to drive her insane—rip her apart.
As the adrenaline rush faded, the pain in her head returned, mounted. A hand came up, brushed her shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
Dominic . . .
Jerking away, she stared at him. Okay? No. She wasn’t okay. Confused, scared. Terrified.
She forced the words out of her tight throat. “Where is my sister?”
“She’s safe,” he said, his voice gentle. “I swear to you, she’s safe.”
Truth . . . it felt like truth.
But Morgan couldn’t . . . no . . . didn’t want to trust that. This man . . . somehow . . . this man had the power to hurt her a great deal. Fear tore into her, vicious, jagged claws. She needed to get away—find Jazzy and get away—get very, very far away. Someplace where she could hide, where she wouldn’t have to face whatever pain this stranger promised her.
“I want to go to my sister. Right now. ”
Dominic swallowed. “I can’t take you right now.” Then he turned, staring at the body sprawled at their feet.
“What do you want me to do with this one?” Brad asked quietly.
But Dominic barely heard him. His throat was tight. Too fucking tight for him to speak, and his head hurt, too much to think. His heart hurt, too, and damn it, it hadn’t hurt like this in . . . forever.
No. Actually it was just a few centuries ago, he thought to himself morbidly. Back when he lay dying, he’d hurt like this.
Just as now . . . he hurt . . . over her.
She still stood there, trembling, covered with the other witch’s blood.
All he wanted to do was hold her.
And she’d pulled away. She didn’t want his comfort or his concern or any damn thing from him.
“Dom?”
Lifting his head, he caught Ana’s eyes and then glanced at Brad. Brad still held the werewolf in the air—effortlessly, it seemed. He hung there like some sort of life-sized piñata. Dominic smiled grimly at the image—he could find some blunt object and beat the bastard until his skin split.
Not trusting his rage, he looked at Brad. “You up to dealing with him?”
Ana went pale, but said something, turning her head to look at Brad. There was understanding in his young-old eyes and then he looked at the werewolf. “Yeah, I can handle him.”
The wolf howled, snarled. “Damn it, I didn’t do a damn thing.”
“Yeah, you’re all about hugs and kitties, aren’t you?” Brad said, his lip curling. Then a mask fell over his face.
The air around them grew tight.
Dominic didn’t bother to watch. He had a mess to clean up—soon, there would be two dead bodies—his ears caught the acceleration in the wolf’s heartbeat, followed by a stuttering pause. Then the heart stopped. No, make that there were two bodies to deal with.
And Nessa . . .
Rubbing the heel of his hand over his heart, he tried to figure out just how he was to handle that. What was he supposed to do?
“Later,” he muttered. He’d have to handle it later.
Looking at Ana, he said, “Can you stop now? It’s safe, right?”
Ana looked at Brad. The young man stood there, hands still tucked in his pockets. He had been looking at the wolf—still suspended in the air. When he looked away, the wolf’s body fell, lifeless and limp, to the wooden planks of the porch. “We’re clear.”
The return of his senses was damn near deafening. Dom waited until his head stopped swimming before he moved. The bodies—he’d deal with the bodies first, get them tucked away before any nosy neighbors saw anything and t
hen . . . and then . . .
Slowly, he turned, stared at Nessa.
She stood in the exact same spot, in the exact same position, a bloody knife in one small fist, her skin pale, splattered with blood.
And then—nothing.
Dominic didn’t know what he was supposed to do now.
The woman before him was fractured, falling to bits and pieces, and so close to stumbling down a path that had no return.
He didn’t know how to help her.
And until he could, his life might as well be over.
He had nothing without her.
He’d existed well enough before he’d learned who she was . . . who she was to him. But now?
Now . . . without her, nothing mattered.
CHAPTER 20
JAZZY.
Like a life preserver, Morgan focused on her sister.
She had to get Jazzy.
Breathing shallowly, she watched as Dominic spoke quietly to the young psychic.
Marty was dead. Morgan didn’t understand how—or what. One moment he’d been hanging in midair and then the next, he was on the ground, his eyes all but bugging out, mottled bruises on his throat. Like he’d been choked, although nobody had touched him.
And Isis—her mother—she was dead, too.
So much death.
Jazzy . . . have to get to her . . .
The pain was an excruciating song inside her head and her hands were sweating, clammy. The knife in her hand felt slippery—too slippery. She almost dropped it twice and she couldn’t do that.
She needed the knife. Needed it to find her sister—
Dominic. Had to get past him. But he wouldn’t let her. . .
Then you have to make him. Use the knife. Get away. Get away from him.
Like she stabbed a man every day of her life.
I can’t. He hasn’t hurt me . . . .
An insidious whisper insisted, But he lies to you. You can see that, feel that. How can you trust him?
Trust him. Could she trust him? He did lie . . .
Pain tore through her head. Morgan gasped, stumbling against the wall. Her head—it was spinning, flooded with memories. No—not memories. Were they?
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