by Jodi Redford
“Baby, are you okay?” He reached for her but she slapped his hand. Hard. Wincing, he rubbed at the sting. “What the hell was that for?”
“For not telling me you’re a freakin’ Bengal tiger.”
He frowned. “I told you I was a cat.”
“Exactly. A cat.” She tossed up her arms. “The word implies something cuddly and domestic, not an animal that snacks on antelopes.”
He dug into the aching muscles of his neck. “I was planning to ease you into the tiger part. I figured discovering I’m a cat would be plenty enough to digest.”
Jemma’s scowl vanished. “Okay, you might have a point.” She lowered her right foot from the bench, and Griffin rushed to help her down. Her stare traveled from his groin to hers before shooting toward Clarissa and Logan. Yelping, she scrabbled to cover her exposed parts. Griffin hurried to block her from the others’ view, but Clarissa beat him to the punch by conjuring a pair of robes for him and Jemma.
“Thanks.” Blushing furiously, Jemma jammed her arms into the kimono-like sleeves and cinched the sash tight. “It must be handy being able to snap your fingers and have stuff magically appear.”
“My conjuring abilities are limited to certain materials, but yes, it’s definitely one of the perks to being a witch.”
Griffin shrugged into his own robe before hugging Jemma to his chest. A fierce tremble ran through him. He’d come so close to losing her. Again. “Jem, you just took at least a year off my life. How the hell did you end up out here anyway?”
“You’ve got eight more lives, right? So cut me some slack.” Sniffling, she wiped her cheek on the lapel of his robe. “And I honestly don’t know what happened. One minute I was asleep in bed and the next thing I knew some weird lights led me here.”
“Nettie entranced you.” Clarissa disregarded the irate look he sent her and calmly strode away. She returned a few seconds later with the shovel they’d used to dig the graves in the rose garden and went to work on the corpses.
“That’s why you needed the fucking voodoo book.” Shoving away from Jemma, he stalked toward Clarissa. A warning growl issued from Logan, but Griffin wouldn’t be deterred from his outrage. “Goddamn it, you knew this would happen, didn’t you?”
Clarissa’s posture became more rigid than the fieldstone wall behind her. “For goddess’s sake, I’m not psychic. I didn’t know anything. The book was merely a precaution.”
“You’re full of shit.”
The nearby candlelight revealed the sizzle of fire in Clarissa’s eyes. She released the shovel and it clattered to the stone pavers. “Griffin—”
“No, he’s right. But according to Nettie, you’re all liars.” Shoving at her trailing sleeves, Jemma stepped forward. Her hurt, accusing stare sliced between him, Clarissa and Logan. “Why didn’t you tell me I’m her granddaughter?”
It took Griffin several seconds to realize she was referring to Nettie. “What the hell are you talking about? You’re not—”
“Yes, she is.” Clarissa followed up her bombshell announcement with a resigned sigh.
Feeling like he’d been poleaxed, Griffin staggered backward. “What?”
Clarissa rubbed her forehead, her shoulders slumping. “Lillian was…involved…with Philippe Delacroix, Antoinette’s eldest son. She never wanted Rose to know he’d fathered Jemma, so she swore her coven sisters to secrecy.”
Griffin’s fists clenched. “Obviously they didn’t do a damn good job of keeping the secret if Nettie knows who Jemma is.”
A snort bulleted from Logan. “A secret in a house full of women? It’s a miracle the story didn’t end up on the front page of the National Enquirer.” He rubbed his goatee. “Come to think of it, was that rag even around back then? Might explain the lapse.”
Clarissa speared the werewolf with one of her patented ball-shriveling glares. “You are really not helping here.” She shifted her gaze back to Griffin. “I suspect before this afternoon, Nettie didn’t know for certain that Jemma’s her granddaughter. More than likely that’s the real reason she showed up earlier, to get close enough to check out Jemma. It’s likely the zombie attack on you and Logan was merely a decoy.”
Logan grunted. “Sure felt realistic. That big dead fucker who got the drop on Catman? Pretty damn certain he was looking to neuter me.” Grimacing, he cupped his balls.
“Nettie asked me to join her zombie uprising.” Jemma’s pronouncement managed to draw everyone’s attention away from Logan’s groin. She swallowed under the heat of their stares and fidgeted with her sash. “I said no, of course, but she tried to convince me to drink some weird liquid. It’s over there on the…” Her voice trailed off while they all gazed at the bench she was pointing at. Blinking, she stepped closer to the wall, her scrutiny darting between each of the equally vacant benches. “Where did everything go?”
“Back with Nettie, undoubtedly.” Clarissa waved a hand, apparently unconcerned with the logistics. “I’m willing to bet the liquid was a soul catcher. Thank the goddess you didn’t drink it.”
Her eyes widening, Jemma rubbed her arms. “Do I even want to know what a soul catcher is?”
“No. You don’t.” Clarissa nudged the zombie’s head aside with the toe of her combat boot before joining Jemma. “You must resist Nettie at all costs. If you don’t…”
“I know. Zombie uprising. Trust me, I’ve been paying attention.”
The brief flicker of sadness that washed over Clarissa’s face while Jemma had her head lowered sent a twinge of apprehension shooting through Griffin. Clarissa was hiding something. And he had a sick feeling in the pit of his gut that whatever it was boded nothing but trouble for Jemma.
Chapter Eleven
Jemma awoke to a killer headache and a taunting beam of sunlight that seemed bound and determined to strike her blind. Groaning, she flung an arm across her head and rolled over. Well, the good news was Clarissa’s enchantment spell breaker apparently worked—she hadn’t indulged in any more naked trips to the garden—but the downside was a killer hangover-like side effect.
She groped around with her free hand, fully expecting to encounter Griff’s solid warmth. Instead she bumped into a stack of clothing. Lowering her arm, she blinked at the small mountain of shorts, capri pants and tops. There were also several flirty little sundresses and a whole collection of lingerie. She fingered the gossamer-fine texture of the peach silk bra resting on top of the pile. “Clarissa’s certainly been a busy little conjurer.”
Thrilled at the opportunity to wear something other than her jeans and Griff’s old T-shirt, she jumped out of bed. Her aching head immediately protested. Wincing, she massaged her temples until the evil gremlin pick-axing her skull let up. She shimmied into the bra and panties, keeping her motions to a minimum to avoid another explosion inside her head. Once she was decently attired in tan shorts and a navy tank top, she ventured downstairs. The rich aroma of coffee and bacon drifted down the hall. Her stomach didn’t know whether to rejoice or revolt. Thankfully it compromised with a loud growl.
“Sounds like someone needs to be fed.”
She gave a startled jerk and whipped around in Logan’s direction. Pain erupted behind her eyeballs. “Damn it, why do I keep doing that?” Croaking, she clamped her palms on either side of her skull.
“Mistress Clarissa’s spell breakers are a bitch. Come on, sugar, we’ll get ya fixed up.” Slinging an arm around her waist, he escorted her to the kitchen. Gloria glanced up from the enormous bowl she was cracking eggs into, and Logan jutted his chin toward Jemma. “Think you can concoct one of your potions for our girl here?”
Jemma held up a hand when Gloria bustled toward the enormous stainless-steel fridge. “Please don’t. You’re busy enough.”
A pftt noise blew between the spacious gap in Gloria’s front teeth. “This is nothing. Breakfast is usually twice this work when Jade’s home. She may be a tiny squirt, but she eats like a damn hippo with tapeworms.”
Jemma’s stomach made another reb
ellious roll at that unappetizing visual. Logan—apparently taking pity on her—squeezed her shoulder and led her to the enormous white-washed pine farm table situated beneath a chandelier that was fashioned to resemble a giant broomstick. He caught her gaping at the light fixture and chuckled. “Your grandma Rose had an interestin’ sense of humor.”
She perched on one of the ladder-backed chairs and traced the intricate cutwork design on the placemat with her fingernail. “I wish I’d known her.” Strangely enough, she meant it. Despite being clueless of the woman’s existence before yesterday—Dear God, had it only been a day?—she couldn’t help wondering what it would have been like being raised in such an eccentric household.
The thought immediately stoked an ember of guilt. Her parents had given her a perfect childhood. One filled with love and laughter and the kind of memories she’d cherish always. She wouldn’t give them up for anything.
Only she might have to. The realization constricted her throat and made her chest tighten. She choked on a sob.
“Ah, sugar, no.” Logan dropped onto the seat beside hers and brushed her tears away with his thumb. “My heart can’t take a woman cryin’.”
She sucked in a sniffle that was far from dainty. Unfortunately she wasn’t one of those women who managed to cry prettily without smudging their eye makeup or looking like a swollen-faced Pillsbury Doughgirl by the time she was finished. “S-sorry. I just hate that I didn’t get to see my parents before I left. Knowing that it might have been the last…” Her voice wobbled and a fresh crop of tears threatened to burst free of their dam.
“Shhh. You’ll see them again. Just think of the happy tears you’ll share then.” Logan tucked her hair away from her face, his golden eyes soft and compelling. Holding her gaze, he leaned forward and kissed her tenderly. Unlike their kiss in the parlor, this one promised nothing but comfort. Her breath escaped in a long shudder, and Logan caressed her nape before breaking the kiss. He coaxed her to rest her head beneath the crook of his chin, and her cheek pillowed against the solidness of his collarbone. The shrill grind of a blender dragged her focus back toward the activity commencing in the kitchen, and she noticed Griff standing in the entry, his unblinking stare riveted on her and Logan, his entire body rigid.
The guilt she’d felt moments ago over her disloyal thoughts in regards to her family were nothing compared to the knife that twisted in her chest as she took in Griff’s expression. Her belly doing a flip-flop, she jerked out of Logan’s embrace. The pickax in her skull morphed into a jackhammer and she yelped.
“Easy there, sugar.”
Trying not to feel self-conscious about Logan’s hand massaging the base of her neck, she watched Griff’s speedy advance. Concern had wiped all traces of wounded disbelief from his features. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s sufferin’ a nasty bit of spell-breaker blues.”
Griff dropped onto one knee and tipped her face upward. He mumbled a curse, and she wondered just how awful she looked. On a scale of one to ten, she probably scored a twenty.
“Gloria’s gettin’ her fixed up. Our girl will be right as rain before we know it.”
Griff’s attention swerved to Logan. He didn’t say anything, but she suspected the tension bordering his mouth had something to do with Logan calling her our girl. “Good. Make sure she drinks all of it.” He started to shove to his feet, and she grabbed his hand.
Battling against the queasiness and anxiety making her miserable, she twined her fingers with Griff’s. “Please stay.” She knew she sounded desperate and needy, but the idea of him walking away right now was unbearable.
He hunkered back down and cupped her cheek. “I can’t. Clarissa is in the library with the guild leader. She’s requested a word with me.”
“Guild?”
His smile slipped into place, a reassuring sight. “I’ll tell you all about them when I’m done. Or if you’re really impatient to hear more about the pains-in-the-asses, I’m sure Logan would be willing to fill you in.” He kissed her—not quite as platonically as Logan—and stood. She watched him stride from the room before slumping against the edge of the table.
Catching Logan’s all-too-knowing stare, she sighed. “Okay, so tell me about the guild.”
Logan eased back in his seat and draped his arm along the table. “They’re the governing body of the National Alliance of Witches. Or as I fondly refer to them from time to time—the hairy wart on the ass of humanity.”
Despite realizing she’d pay dearly for it, she laughed, and promptly groaned at the accompanying power drills commencing a demolition inside her head. Slamming her eyes shut, she dug her knuckles into the ridge of her brow. She detected the sound of Logan’s chair scraping against the floor, but she didn’t dare risk the wrath of the spell-breaker blues to check on what he was doing.
“Why don’t you rest your head on the table here while I see if Gloria’s got your potion ready?”
Slurring an incoherent reply, she took Logan up on his suggestion and whimpered in relief when the agony lessened. She could still hear the staccato beat of her temples pounding, but that was a minor unpleasantness she’d gladly endure compared to earlier. A cool breeze ruffled across her skin and she shivered.
“Jemma…”
That was quick. Setting her teeth against the inevitable pain, she pried one eye open. The blurry outline of a man’s face hovered above the table. Yelping, she snapped her head up, paying little mind to the resulting brain spasm. Who the hell cared about that when a freakin’ floating head was staring at her?
“We don’t have much time. Already I hear her coming.”
She gaped into the washed-out blue eyes watching her so somberly. “Who?” A part of her couldn’t believe she was engaging in conversation with a bodiless apparition. Then again, this was probably all just a delusion. No doubt she’d succumbed to a brain aneurism and was currently drooling all over herself in a fetal position.
“That isn’t important.” The face drifted close enough she could see the faint outline of the numerals 3 and 7 branded into the man’s forehead. “There is a way to defeat her and save us all.”
She frowned. “Are you talking about Nettie?”
“Yes. The answer rests beneath the horned goat. I can’t tell you more or she will know and stop you.” A look of overwhelming terror flashed across the disembodied face. “She comes now. Gorasola. Say it twice as she rises.”
Oh good Lord. Could he be more cryptic? “I don’t understand—”
The face shimmered and defragmented like a plasma screen with horrible picture distortion before completely vanishing. Mystified, she stared at the empty window of space until the thud of approaching boots captured her attention. Logan frowned at her over the heavy vapor cloud of steam rising from the mug he carried. “Sugar, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
She gulped. “I think I just did.”
Chapter Twelve
Domino Blanchard had gone all out in ensuring she’d dressed the part of reigning matron of the witches’ alliance. Garbed in a sleek black silk pantsuit that made her skin glow like fine porcelain, she exuded an air of ageless, regal authority. Ensconced in the armchair beside her, mousy little Willa Jameson—Domino’s personal secretary—studiously tapped away on her laptop, logging the proceedings for posterity.
“You’re certain that the spell breaker took affect?” Domino threw the question to Clarissa. “There are no lingering threads linking Jemma to Antoinette?”
Clarissa dragged her nails through her hair before scowling and dropping her hands. “All links are broken. I made sure of it.”
“That may very well be.” Domino sipped at her coffee. Wrinkling her nose as if the beverage offended her, she relegated the cup to the corner of the desk.
Clarissa’s mouth rolled in a tight line. Griffin silently applauded her willpower. Bad enough Domino had taken over Clarissa’s prized desk. She’d doubled the slight by setting the hot mug on its surface without a coaster, something
that undoubtedly had Clarissa grinding her teeth behind those clenched lips.
Domino tucked a lock of her chin-length platinum hair behind her ear. “However, we both know that no magic in existence is going to untangle blood ties.”
Anger spiked through Griffin. “Jemma had no contact with Nettie before yesterday. Whatever blood exists between them is diluted to the point of irrelevance.”
Domino’s assessing gaze swept him. He held steady, refusing to cower in the face of it. She clucked her tongue. “You truly are blinded by your feelings for your charge if you believe that, something else we must speak of following this business of Jemma.”
“Hell, why wait?” Frustrated by the paces she’d put him through for the past half hour, he threw his arms out. “Why not get down to the dirty and tell me what punishment you have in store for me?”
“Griffin.”
He met Clarissa’s gaze and was surprised at the soft entreaty in her eyes. It provided a marked contrast to the sharp note of warning that’d underscored her tone. He gave an imperceptible shake of his head that he knew only she would pick up on. She closed her eyes, a weary sigh leaking free.
He returned his attention to Domino. “Go ahead. Lay it on me.”
One of the matron’s perfectly groomed brows arched. “Spoken like someone who has no fears of the answer he might receive.”
“Should I be?”
“You disobeyed a sacred law and as a result set in motion a zombie apocalypse. What do you think?” Domino smoothed the sleeve of her jacket and crossed one knee over the other, adopting the pose of a woman confident of her power. “You’re being sent back to Familia Tacchi ’Loa. For good.”
An awful coldness crawled inside his belly. The tinny echo of Clarissa’s furious rebuttal came at him as if from a distance, and he shook his head again, desperately trying to navigate his way back to a place that made sense. A place that wasn’t suddenly painted every nightmarish shade of hell.
