by Holley Trent
The fuck? He shook his head slowly. “Um, not true. That’s an urban legend, and probably what your parents want you think so you don’t go home and get impregnated by some beast that howls at the moon.”
She swallowed audibly, and he couldn’t restrain his laughter. “Sounds about right,” she said.
“The truth is that they’re harmless unless you threaten them in some way.” Or when they lost their shirts playing poker. They had that “sore losers” thing down pat.
“Good to know.” She pushed a full glass down the counter to him.
He took it, sipped, and cringed. She made her drinks strong, and combined with the gin’s fiery burn, he may as well have been swallowing a cough drop set ablaze.
She didn’t seem affected by the concoction’s syrupy taste. She sipped and stared into her glass. “They’re so damned secretive, the wolves. Up until I was around thirteen, I thought they were just a legend like the tooth fairy.”
The tooth fairy wasn’t a legend, but he didn’t bother correcting her. There were just too few fairies to go around nowadays, and besides, the system was too complicated to explain in a few words. He’d prefer to discuss more personal things.
“How’d you learn otherwise?” he asked.
“Summer camp out in the mountains. One of the little girls in my cabin—God, she couldn’t have been more than eight or nine—must have gone into puberty early. She walked out of the cabin around midnight. I thought she was sleepwalking, because she’d been doing it all week, and I wanted to make sure she was all right. The counselor was dead to the world, and so I woke my little sister up. We followed her to the woods and no sooner had she passed into the tree line did she start screaming. We ran over to her, thinking maybe she’d stepped on something sharp and that she was in pain, but … with our hands on her she just … shifted. She lay there in her wolf form shaking and cowering, and what else could we do but stay there with her? We petted her and talked to her, and when the sun came up, she was back. Her mom picked her up that day and she didn’t return. No idea what happened to her. I’d look her up if I knew her last name.”
“Describe her to me later. I’ll have my brother-in-law ask around. The wolf group in this part of the country isn’t that large, and she’s probably a part of it.”
“I’d love to find out what she’s up to these days, but shit …” She eased away from the counter, and sauntered past him into the living area.
He followed, somewhat involuntarily. When she walked, she wiggled, and he liked that wiggle very much. It was hypnotizing, the way her ass swayed. With one malicious swing, she could have him walking off the edge of a cliff, and just before he hit the bottom, he wouldn’t have a damn thing to say for himself, but, “Oh, well. I tried to be good.” Damn, he was trying so hard to be good—to respect what he’d had with Laurette. Gail was going to be hard to resist.
“Can you imagine having to isolate yourself so normal people don’t find out what you are? It’s different with witches. We’re not outwardly different. We can hide our light under a bushel, I guess, and no one has to ever know we’re freaks.” She swirled the burgundy liquid around in her glass and stared into the tumbler again. “I never felt comfortable enough to tell my ex. He never knew, and never will.”
Claude settled onto the sofa a couple of feet from her and set his glass on the plain pine coffee table. It was knotty and gnarled and looked like the sort of starter furniture people put together with tiny disposable wrenches. It was the sort of table that did just fine in a pinch, but would be immediately replaced as soon as a person settled into their forever home.
Her entire apartment, at least what he could see of it, was furnished that way. It was tastefully decorated and personalized, but had no sense of permanence. There were pictures arranged on the tables, but not hung on the walls. She’d rolled a rug onto the hardwood floor, but beyond a couple of test swatches, hadn’t finished painting. The bookshelves were nearly empty, although she had to have lived in this place for quite some time. A woman like her would have cookbooks and possibly a grimoire or two. A lot of witches kept their spell books hidden in plain sight for easy access. He kept his and his mother’s in his computer, though most of the spells he cast and talismans he made were entirely by memory now. Same shit over and over again. His freelance gig—creating protective charms and blending potions designed to temporarily boost certain human attributes—was becoming increasingly routine. He could have been an accountant for all the excitement.
He drummed his fingertips on his thighs and blew out a breath. Fuck excitement. At this stage in his life, he wanted to wake up in the same bed more than two days in a row curled up next to the same woman.
He’d hoped it’d be this woman.
He craved having a boring life. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem he’d be getting that. Plus, someone had been skulking around her apartment, and he felt responsible for it. He wasn’t going to let her out of his sight until he found out who and why.
She shifted on her end of the sofa and cleared her throat. “Oh, come on. The drink’s not that bad.”
The fuck it wasn’t. He grinned. “Sorry, my mind wanders. But, listen, there are a lot of different kinds of beings out there you’ve probably never imagined or encountered, chéri.” Him being one. Witch, she’d understand, but that other part?
She canted her head again and narrowed her eyes. “And you’ve encountered them?”
“Almost every day, especially in my line of work. I practice magic freelance,” he said, preempting her question when she opened her mouth. “They come looking for me.”
And some feared him, but in a different way than they feared Papa. They feared him the way people used to fear his mother. She was a woman not to be trifled with, and the victims of her scorn often spent years trying to earn back her favor.
Most failed.
Claude’s ego didn’t need to be stoked in that way, and he knew better than anyone that people fucked up sometimes. He didn’t hold grudges, except for that one case. His father.
The truth was, if it came down to a battle between him and Papa, Papa may very well lose … but the mess they made during the fight might create irreparable damage—including innocent bystander casualties.
Papa didn’t give a single shit about innocent bystanders, but he did value his own life. He wouldn’t dare confront Claude now, and had always avoided it in the past. They only communicated through telepathy. Telepathy was a handy thing, but most supernaturals with the gift had a limited capacity for it. Claude used it with his father, his siblings, and the rare angel or two. It only worked with angels because his father had once been one. When Claude blocked him out mentally, the ancient demon would lower himself to send a terse text message.
He knew that the only reason Claude ever did what he asked in the first place was because of Claude’s mark. Papa gave it to him at birth at his mother’s demand. No, not demand—her force. Her power had been terrifying, and she’d been the only mortal to ever force the demon Gulielmus to obey. He hadn’t wanted her as a consort, and she sure as shit didn’t want him, either, but she wanted his seed—for her son to have his mark. She’d never told Claude why, although he’d asked.
That mark, etched into his palm, called all the demon power to the surface so that it may be called upon. That mark tied Claude to his father, whether he wanted it or not.
Claude didn’t want it, and neither did Papa, but they were stuck together. Father and son.
Partners and enemies.
Each would kill the other if provoked. Claude couldn’t initiate a tussle, though he wanted to. His brothers wouldn’t let him—they said he had to be better than that.
Gail moaned with pleasure as she heeled off her clogs, and then pulled her feet up to the sofa. “Damn, those dogs can bark.”
Her toes wriggled inside her striped socks.
Blue and white stripes, just like that scarf Laurette had knit for him a hundred and fifty years ago. He lost that scarf in the f
ire she’d burned in, but Gail wouldn’t have known that. She wouldn’t have Laurette’s memories.
“Don’t tell me you have a foot fetish,” Gail said with a laugh. He must have been staring too long.
He pulled his gaze up to her smiling face. “You … like blue?” Besides her jeans, the color didn’t exist elsewhere on her outfit. He didn’t know much about fashion, but as far as he knew, women generally matched things.
“Mmm…” She wriggled her toes again. “Funnily enough, no. Not on its own, but for some reason, I’ve only ever liked it in stripes. This may sound crazy, but I order these socks in bulk. I have four pairs left from the last pack. This is my third pack since graduating from cooking school. Weird, huh?”
He struggled to swallow the lump in his throat, suspecting her predilection wasn’t a coincidence. His girl was in there somewhere, hidden behind brand-new armor. “Yeah. Weird.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“So, come on. Show me what you can do.” Gail put her drink on the coffee table and rubbed her palms together in anticipation.
Claude raised one dark eyebrow speculatively. “You really want me to do magic tricks?”
“Absolutely, I do. What? Can’t do them under command? That’s okay. I know some people clam up under pressure. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
She leaned against the sofa’s armrest and crossed her arms over her chest, grinning.
He rolled his eyes. “You’re seriously trying to bait me?”
“Is it working?”
“No. Besides, magic is generally an instinctive thing for me. I don’t have to think that hard at it. I just—” He snapped his fingers, and the cabinet door she’d left open when grabbing the glasses shut softly. “Do it. Actually, the gestures are unnecessary. They’re mostly for finesse.” He picked up his glass and sipped it as causally as he pleased as the stack of magazines on the table shuffled and fanned.
“Hmm.” He slid out a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, and she snatched it out of his hands before he could open it. Typical man.
She dropped the catalogue onto the floor and pushed it beneath the sofa with her foot. Those glossy rags set up standards of beauty no typical woman could live up to—especially not her—and she was lucky to have one good meal a day and spent most hours on her feet. If he were interested in women who were perfectly cinched and smooth, he’d be in for a major disappointment when she took her clothes off.
If she took them off. With all the talk of magic, her libido was cooling. That was probably a good thing. Any guy worth screwing would call her for a second date.
The cordless phone bleated from the counter, and her breath caught like it did every time it rang. No one called her on that phone anymore except for one person, but she couldn’t bring herself to get rid of it.
It rang, and rang.
Claude leaned forward and caught her in his gaze. “Are you going to answer that, chéri? It’s got a ring that could wake the dead.”
“It can go to voicemail. It’s not important.” Nothing Shaun wanted was ever important. He alternated between pleading and mocking, begging for her company and criticizing her for her inadequacies. “I just need to hold you,” he’d say one day, and “No one else will put up with you,” he’d say the next.
She could unplug the phone, change the number. But maybe she kept the line open to punish herself for being with him. How could she have been so desperate?
She sighed and ground the heels of her palms against her tired eyes. “So, you just think it, and you can do it?”
“Like I said, there’s not a whole lot of thinking involved. Just like me turning my head or cracking my knuckles. Most things, I don’t plan. I just do. My magic is just an extension of my other senses, and mostly just saves me a lot of energy having to fetch things.”
Totally different from her. He talked about saving energy, but for her, magic took more energy than she could spare. “When did you figure out you could do that?” Her voice came out sounding quietly reverent, which was a tone she didn’t even use with her demanding, exacting maternal grandmother—the self-appointed head of her little family.
He shrugged. “I’ve always been able to do that. Or rather, I can’t remember a time when I couldn’t.”
“Huh.” That was unusual. Most witches didn’t come into their power until around puberty. “Both of your parents are witches? They must be powerful.”
He slumped down lower on his end of the sofa and raked his hands through his curls. “Well, my mother has been dead for quite some time.”
“Oh.” She reached for his wrist and pulled his hand onto her lap, patting it lamely. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry, it’s been a very long time, and yes, my mother was very powerful. Because of that, she doesn’t really … go away.”
Gail gasped before she could suppress it. “You mean, she haunts you?”
“No, she’s not disjointed in that way. She practiced some magic even I wouldn’t touch. I don’t know how much of that is responsible for me being what I am, but one of my neat tricks is having connection to the dead.”
“You’re a medium?”
“Mmm …” He turned her palm over and traced her lifeline ever so gently with the tip of his index finger. She giggled and tried to curl her fingers over it, but he lifted her hand to his lips yet again and kissed it.
He didn’t push magic into her this time, though, unless seduction counted as a form of dark art. His gaze was fixed on hers as he skimmed his lips back and forth from the heel of her palm to the base of her middle finger. His breath tickled the middle of her hand just before he laid a kiss in it and closed her fingers over it.
Her cheeks burned hot from his unexpected flirtation, and she felt like a girl of fourteen instead of a grown-ass woman of nearly thirty.
He set her hand onto his lap, and ignored her distress—her ragged breaths through parted lips.
“I guess I’m a medium. Part medium, part necromancer.”
She pulled her hand back and sat on both as if she feared she wouldn’t be able to control them. “You raise the dead?”
“As little as possible, chéri.”
He had to be telling the truth. There was no flinch, no hitch in his voice, no visual tics whatsoever. A man who could commune with the dead more than likely had incalculable control over the living, too, and she’d brought him home. Ellery was going to shit a brick, assuming Gail got out of this alive.
Her gut must have lied to her again. It lied about Shaun, and it had lied about Claude, too. This guy wasn’t safe. No fucking way. Her grandmother used to tell her and Ellery that neither of them had enough sense to pour piss out a boot, and while Gail liked to think that wasn’t true, sometimes she wondered if that old battle-ax had it right all along.
She needed to get this guy out of her apartment, and fast.
A fluffy orange-and-white ball of fur bounded off the sofa back and landed on Claude’s lap, yawning.
Claude startled then hissed as Candy Corn stretched and likely dug her untrimmed nails into thighs of Claude’s blue jeans.
“Good for him,” Gail muttered under her breath as the cat kneaded and clawed. She hoped the little beast scratched him bloody.
Candy Corn turned a slow circle atop her guest’s lap and plopped her fat, furry ass down for a rest. Extending her forearm in front of her face, she licked her fur leisurely, the same spot again and again, while her purring subroutine loaded.
“Traitorous little fuck.”
“You have a familiar?” Claude asked, voice pinched.
“She’s your familiar now if you want her. Take her. She eats half a can of smelly wet stuff every morning and as much kibble as she can tolerate. Half of it she’ll yak up on your bedspread.”
“I don’t need a familiar.” He tipped his body, obviously trying to convey an inhospitable atmosphere to the cat, but she didn’t move. She dug those claws in deeper and cast Claude an annoyed look. He sat. She resumed her cleaning. “And if sh
e’s yours, you’re stuck with her until one of you dies.”
“Maybe she’ll choke on a mouse or something.”
Candy Corn stopped licking long enough to give Gail a long blink, then resumed her meticulous bathing.
“Where’d you get her?”
“My grandmother had a litter. She picked out cats for all of her grandchildren who didn’t already have familiars. Most of us didn’t want one.”
“I can understand why.”
“Yeah. Well, she’s old school and she’s big on pets, I guess. That cat’s great-great-great-great-grandkitty came into our family years ago, and my grandmother’s been doling out cats to witches all her life. Anyway, when she gave me and my sister ours, she told us that perhaps the cats would be more street smart than we were, and that we should try to learn from the little pissers.”
“I can tell you have a lot of affection for your familiar.” He gave the cat the tiniest pat on the top of her head, and the purring became downright bombastic. Candy Corn stretched up and tried to mash her furry kitty head against his hand.
“We get along just fine most of the time, but here’s the thing. That cat is supposed to tell me who I shouldn’t trust.”
“Oh, yeah?” He tried to nudge Candy Corn off his lap once more, this time with more force.
Candy Corn nipped at the hand he pushed her with, and he sighed.
She wasn’t going anydamnwhere.
“You sound as though you believe such a thing is possible.”
“You know damn well it is as much as I do. I didn’t want to believe it at first. Candy Corn told me in bites, scratches, and hisses that I shouldn’t have married my ex-husband, but back then, I didn’t think it was possible for a cat to be that astute. And he was so fucking nice, you know?”
“Mm-hmm.” Claude’s jaw twitched at the hinges.
What was up with that? He didn’t even know the guy.
“Well, she called it. Candy Corn was right, and I didn’t listen to her. Ever since then, she’s had a fine damn time reminding me. When I need her, she stays far away. She holes up in the bathroom and won’t get out of her litter box. She just keeps scratching and scratching, flinging litter around. So, surprise, surprise, you’re here and she’s emerged from her throne room to give you the greeting you apparently deserve. Hooray.”
