American Witch

by Thea Harrison

  She paused to give Sarah a chance to react. The older witch said nothing, just regarded her with a calm, nonjudgmental gaze.

  “Want to kick me out?”

  Sarah said gently, “It makes me want to help you more.”

  Her face softened, but then her own words caught up with her. “Wait. Josiah said eventually every witch faces a choice. Either they exit their lives with integrity, or they steal what is forbidden—someone else’s Power. But why isn’t there a third choice?”

  Sarah’s gaze narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “The way I see it, we have two urgent issues,” Molly said. “The first one is time. You need to teach me how to prolong your life. You don’t need to steal my Power. I’ve got too much to control right now as it is. As long as we can avoid draining me completely, I’ll gladly help to sustain you.”

  “You would do that?” Sarah’s expression opened with wonder. “What a kind heart you have. I’m afraid I’ve advanced too far for your gift to do much more than buy me a bit of time, but I would love to give Sam as much time as I can and to be here as long as I can to teach you.”

  “Then we’ll do it.”

  “What’s your second urgent issue?”

  She gave Sarah a grim smile. “Nobody’s hurting my baby, and I’m not going to wait around for someone to rescue me if I get into a tight spot. So I need to learn how to fight if it comes down to a battle with another witch.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  In Atlanta, multiple investigations marched on.

  Even though Josiah did everything he could to make Molly disappear without a trace, none of the other members of the coven trusted the safe house now that she could potentially expose its location.

  So Richard scrubbed it. He eradicated the spells, filled in the tunnel and repaired the hole in the basement, stripped out the security equipment, and methodically wiped the house of prints from top to bottom. When he finished, Josiah would sell it and buy another, and they would undertake the laborious task of setting up a new country safe house within driving distance of the city.

  In their forensic accounting, Henry and Steven traced multiple paths to and from the Russian bank, the Seychelles islands, and Sherman & Associates, but a discernible pattern had yet to emerge.

  It wasn’t clear if the law firm was laundering money or taking payment for services rendered. Perhaps both? They only knew one thing for sure. The connection between Sherman & Associates and a Russian organization or company was strong and unmistakable.

  Anson and Maria continued to painstakingly build files on each person of interest in Atlanta—anyone who might possibly be their quarry. Josiah would have suspected Russell himself if that hadn’t been patently impossible. Bodies changed over time, and cosmetic surgery could easily alter facial features, but Russell was a good four inches shorter than Rasputin had been, and while he wore various magic items, he had no intrinsic Power himself.

  Josiah read files, created scenarios to meet each individual they had researched, processed cases, and ordered an extensive audit of the Sullivan estate. But his head wasn’t in the game. It hadn’t been since he had returned from New Orleans.

  One night Anson was waiting for him in the apartment after work, sitting on the couch with the living room lights on.

  Josiah paused, then locked the door behind him. They rarely met in person, preferring to conduct most business via email, text, and the occasional phone call. “Anson. What do you need?”

  “To talk to you. What are you doing about that tracker on your Audi now that Richard’s scrubbing the safe house?”

  “Nothing.” Josiah carried his briefcase, suit jacket, and a bag of takeout to the kitchen counter. “I’m going to work, and I’m coming back to the apartment, and I’m doing normal things the DA would do. If somebody wants to waste their energy tracking that, let them. If we remove the tracker, it will alert the watchers that we know about them.”

  Anson stood and followed him. “You had good reason to put Richard to watching your back before. Now it’s okay that he isn’t?”

  “We don’t have enough people,” he said tiredly. “So I’m watching my own back.”

  “What’s going on?” the older man asked. “You’ve always been the sharpest barracuda in our stream, and you’ve always been on everybody about every little detail. You trained the rest of us to be patient and methodical—in fact, I’m sure that’s how we’ve gone undetected for so long.”

  He skewered the other man with a hard look. “I’m still the sharpest barracuda in the stream.”

  “Okay,” Anson said grimly. “Look, I can’t fault your logic—logic isn’t the problem. And no, we don’t have enough people, but there’s something different about you. That’s why I’m here. It’s been different ever since you got tangled up in that mess involving the Sullivan woman.”

  “What do you want me to say?” He yanked his tie off and threw it on the counter.

  “I want you to tell me what’s going on, because I know something is! We’ve known each other a long damn time, Josiah.”

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose, abruptly sick of answering to that name and holding everything back. “Molly’s pregnant. It’s my baby. I went to meet her in New Orleans for the holiday weekend. And I want to meet her again as soon as possible. I just have to find a way to talk her into it.”

  Anson’s eyes widened. “You’re the last person I would have expected that from. Out of all of us, I thought maybe Maria or Steven would be vulnerable to the lure of a new life.”

  “They would have been my guess as well. They’re more balanced and open.” Josiah went for the scotch bottle, poured a few fingers into a glass, and held the bottle up in silent question to Anson, who nodded. He poured a second glass and thrust it across the counter.

  Anson swallowed down a hefty gulp. “We’ve all lost something precious to that bastard. My wife, Maria’s daughter, Steven’s parents, Richard’s platoon, Henry’s fiancée. But you—you lost years. Nobody’s hate has burned hotter than yours, and none of us have been more driven.”

  “Oh, I still hate him.” Josiah knocked back his drink and poured another. “And I still want him dead. But what if I’m starting to need something else more than I want that?”

  This baby and I deserve someone who will always put us first.

  And I’m not waiting for you.

  “You’re tired,” Anson said quietly, his gaze keen.

  “She said this mysterious, terrible person who hurt me so badly all those years ago has eaten me up inside.” He sighed. “And she was right. I made him my mission. I let him eat me up inside. I gave him decades of my life, and I don’t mean just the ones he took when I was in prison. I need this to be over.”

  Anson looked down at the amber liquid in his glass and swirled it around. He murmured, “I would have given up everything for my wife. Our lives didn’t lead us down that road, but I would have if I’d had to.”

  What was Anson trying to say? Josiah frowned and yanked himself back on course. Lately the need to do that happened all too often. “Maria’s visions have consistently led us to Atlanta, Anson. He’s here. He’s got to be.”

  Anson finished his scotch. “Maria’s made mistakes before, and he’s too good at covering his tracks. If something doesn’t shake loose soon, maybe we should think about doing something to shake it.”

  “Maybe,” Josiah said. “All I know is, I believe I’ve acquired an expiration date.”

  “What does that mean?” Anson studied him closely. “You’re not just our coven leader. You’re also our bankroller.”

  “I don’t know what it means.” He gave Anson a reassuring smile when the other man hesitated. “When I have it figured out, I’ll let you and the others know. Don’t worry, I’m not going to pull the rug out from anybody. The mission still matters.”

  When the older man left, Josiah thought about eating his takeout, but he’d lost his appetite, so he went to take a hot shower. Later, when he finally du
mped cold food onto his plate, his phone lit up.

  The highlight of his days was texting with Molly. Smiling to himself, he checked the screen.

  I found my teacher. And it’s too soon to tell for sure, but I might have found the baby’s and my new home.

  Jealousy seared him. He punched her number, listened to it ring. And ring.

  She finally answered. “I don’t know how I feel about this. Texting and keeping you up to date about the baby is fine, but where’s the line?”

  Don’t hold a line against me! he almost roared. His body clenched. Gently, go gently now. “Don’t hold a line against me, milaya.”

  “Josiah,” she whispered.

  Just as she had whispered too many days before, pressing her lips against his skin. His body caught on fire. Closing his eyes, he whispered in reply, “I respect your boundaries. I am asking you to change them.”

  He listened to her breathing. Don’t hang up.

  She didn’t hang up.

  “Tell me about your teacher,” he coaxed.

  “She’s very old and nearing the end of her life. She’s a good person. We’re going to help each other out a lot, I think. And my bedroom tonight is in a turret in a grand old Victorian house.”

  He dared to relax a little. “Describe it to me.”

  “There are four tall windows, and either the house sits at an angle, or the shoreline curves, because I can see the ocean from all of them. There’s a double bed with a walnut frame. It’s made with a homemade quilt with faded colors, and I’ve got a comfortable armchair. I’m sitting in it right now, looking at the water. I’ll be able to listen to the surf when I go to sleep.”

  “Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice husky. Muffling his phone for a moment, he flung his plate viciously across the room. It shattered against the wall. “You sound happy.”

  “Well, that’s complicated,” she said dryly. “But I’m happy to be here, and I feel safe.”

  “That’s very good to hear. You should have always felt safe—always been safe.”

  Truth was, she was better off without him. He had always known that. He was a morose son of a bitch. He didn’t know how to be anything other than cold, brooding, and driven.

  Hesitantly, she asked, “How are things going for you?”

  “Well, that’s complicated too,” he told her, matching her dryness.

  “I imagine it is.” She fell silent.

  “It’s not that I don’t want or need to tell you things, milaya, but I’m not sure how much I should say over the phone,” he said gently.

  “I… see.” Suddenly she asked, “Are you safe?”

  A startled warmth spread through him. “Tonight I am very safe.”

  “Right. You are for tonight. Maybe we shouldn’t talk anymore.”

  Her sudden intensity jolted him. “Don’t hang up.”

  “Why? What are we trying to do here—sort of carry on a relationship but not really, while you get to be in danger and embrace a vendetta, or sometimes not, and I can’t know about any of it? I already told you once. I can’t be the mistress to your wife.”

  I’m not waiting.

  His scotch glass broke. Looking down, he found he was clenching the pieces hard enough to drive one of them into his palm. Blood dripped onto the granite counter. He said, “Meet me next weekend.”

  She coughed out an incredulous laugh. He heard the stress threading through it. “You’re kidding. Right?”

  With rigid self-control, he kept his voice even, deliberate. “I have things I need to say to you, and I believe they should be said in person. I will be at the Venetian Resort in Las Vegas Friday night, and I will wait there for you until Sunday evening. It’s your choice whether you show or not, but I hope you do, milaya. Just know I will be there.”

  “What are you trying to do now?” she whispered.

  “Show up and find out.”

  “I’m hanging up now.” Abruptly, she disconnected.

  He stood contemplating the messes he had made. The shattered plate of food, the blood on the counter, his life.

  A text came in from Molly. I don’t know if I’m coming. I need to think, so give me some space. Don’t call or text.

  Acknowledged, he replied.

  Instinctively, he knew now would not be a good time to push. As hard as it was to give up those evening interchanges, he turned his attention to work and kept it there, only taking time enough away to lay the elaborate travel plans that would hide his true destination from any potential onlookers.

  Would she come? Thoughts of her consumed him. Belatedly, he realized just how much of a danger he had become, to himself and his coven.

  Friday evening, after he had checked in at the Venetian, he texted her the suite number. She didn’t respond. She was staying somewhere on the coast, so it was possible she was still in midflight.

  He showered, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, ordered a steak from room service and let it grow cold while he cast protection spells around the suite. Then he paced the spacious cream-and-taupe interior like a caged animal, raging at the restrictions he had set on himself.

  He would not text her again. He would wait, as he had promised.

  Close to nine o’clock, a knock sounded at the door. Lunging, he yanked it open. She stood in the hall with a handbag on her shoulder, wearing sandals, a loose cotton shirt, and flowing capri pants. She did not have a weekend bag, and her expression was strained and white.

  He soaked in every detail, his mouth held tight. The things she put him through. She was here, but just barely. She was the most gorgeous thing he had ever seen.

  Finally he asked with a grim smile, “Did you miss the shit out of me?”

  Her eyes blazed. She looked like she didn’t know whether to laugh or hit him.

  He stood back, holding the door wide. She stalked in like a tigress and flung her purse onto a chair.

  Then she rounded on him. “What?” she snapped. “Why am I here?”

  She was very angry. But she was still here.

  He told her gravely, “Only you can answer why you came, milaya.”

  She gestured impatiently. “There were things you needed to say in person. So say them.”

  He wanted to leap at her, drag her to the carpeted floor, bite her neck. At the unruly thought, his cock hardened, and he turned away. Every inch of her body shouted she would not welcome a physical overture right now, as she had in New Orleans.

  He was so close to losing her, if he had not done so already. She didn’t have a bag with her, which meant she wasn’t here as a lover. She might only be present as the mother of his child.

  Instead of approaching, he paced restlessly through the expansive suite. “You said you weren’t waiting. Have you started to date?”

  She exploded. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I’m pregnant. You and I were just together a couple of weeks ago. My husband died last month! Who do you think I am? And anyway, it’s none of your business.”

  He had reached the floor-to-ceiling windows and crossed his arms while he stared out at the evening lights. Las Vegas sparkled at night. Even in his faint reflection in the glass, he could see how his eyes burned.

  Don’t turn, don’t let her see what is in your face.

  When he could trust himself to sound restrained, he replied, “You get to date who and when you want. You said yourself that you and Sullivan hadn’t been in a real marriage for a long time. As far as who I think you are, I think you’re a beautiful woman with strength and integrity. You’re a woman of your word. You told me some pretty sweeping and important things, and I’m asking you for clarification.”

  Silence throbbed. “I have no interest in dating,” she told him, her voice stilted with held-back emotion. “I’ve barely begun my training with Sarah, and as I just pointed out, my life is complicated.”

  He nodded. His hands were clenched into fists underneath his crossed arms. “Would you be interested in dating me if our lives were appropriately arranged to do so?”
<
br />   “They’re not,” she said flatly.

  He watched her reflection. She walked over to sit at the edge of the bed and put her head in her hands.

  “Because I would date you,” he said quietly. “I would see you every opportunity you would let me. I would go with you to the doctor appointments, sit in on every ultrasound, listen to the baby’s heartbeat with you. I would make love to you in the morning while we shut out the rest of the world, and I would kiss the back of your neck while you cooked us breakfast.”

  He had done that in New Orleans. He could tell the moment she remembered it as her head lifted.

  She wiped her face and whispered, “What do you want from me?”

  “I want a timeline,” he said immediately. “I want a negotiation. We’ve both said things in moments of high emotion, and now I want to know what it means. You’re right. You do deserve someone who always puts you and the baby first, and I want the opportunity to apply for the position. If it were a matter of simply quitting my job, I would have already done so and moved across the country, but I have five coven members who depend on me. We’ve all suffered terrible injuries from the individual we’re hunting. They lost people they loved to him—a wife, a daughter, a fiancée, coworkers, parents—and I’m the one who convinced them to join me on this quest. I owe them something, Molly. I don’t think I’d be the kind of man you would want to be with if I just abandoned them.”

  “Okay,” she said, sounding calmer. “I can see how important that is, and you’re right. I wouldn’t think much of anyone who could drop those obligations and run, so I understand why you wanted to talk.”