by Michele Hauf
Ed snickered and placed another ten-euro bill on the bar when the drink was slid before him. He tapped the silver spoon, on which perched a melting sugar cube. A small pitcher of cool water had been provided, but he didn’t like to bring up too much of a louche, preferring the hard bite of alcohol.
“Does it have to be a woman?” he asked.
“It should be. ’Bout time you found one for yourself.”
“So you and I can commiserate on the married life? Love isn’t for me, my brother. It’s just...” He wouldn’t sigh, so instead he dipped a forefinger into the green drink and stirred the clouding mix. “She’s a witch.”
“So it is a woman.” Kir signaled the bartender for another drink. “I thought you didn’t like witches.”
“Like you not liking demons?”
“I’m coming around. Give me some credit.”
“I do. But you’ll understand, then, that a healthy fear of witches is a demon thing. History has proved we don’t fare well when summoned by them. I remain cautious.”
“So why did you decide it would be a good idea to do whatever it is you’re doing with this witch?”
“I was out one night, minding my own business, and I bumped into her. Acting defensively, she cast a binding spell on me. Hurt like a mother. Then...” Now he did sigh before tilting back the entire drink. As it burned down his throat, he muttered, “I kissed her.”
Kir broke out in laughter and smacked the bar with a palm.
“It’s not that funny.”
“Yes, it is. It’s always the ones you least expect to be interested in that seem to wrangle you like a cow and hobble you to kneel before their pretty high-heeled shoes.”
“She does wear pretty shoes. I think about dragging my tongue up the heel and along her ankle. A lot.” The lingering burn from the absinthe helped to quench the stupid rise of desire he’d almost fallen into right before his brother’s eyes.
“What about the clothes they wear?” Kir asked. “Bea likes to wear sexy, clingy stuff that hugs her breasts and her nipples point up under the fabric. So awesome.”
“And those tight skirts that squeeze her pretty little derriere.” Ed echoed the appreciation.
“Hair that smells like flowers.”
“Lemons,” Ed said. “She smells like lemons.”
The wolf slapped a hand across Ed’s back. “You’re whipped, buddy.”
“But I can’t be. I don’t do the love thing. It’s not right. It feels wrong. Alien. And I don’t need the distraction, what with the zombie witches and dead demons.”
Kir swung a look at him.
“It’s a weird story. I’m dealing with it. You know I like to keep a finger on all demonic activity in Paris. Unfortunately, I need Tamatha’s witchcraft skills to help me figure things out.”
“Tamatha Bellerose?”
“You know her?”
“I know of her. Weird silver hair and kind of a retro look? She is a gorgeous number. And smart, according to her friend Verity Van Velde.”
“I had no idea my brother hung out with witches.” Ed mocked a shiver. “You do get around.”
“If I can’t go near another werewolf, then I’m open to any and all friendships offered. As you should be open to having a relationship with the witch. You have had bad luck with women.”
“One witch in particular. So what makes me think this one could be different?”
“You won’t know until you try.”
“Your happy vibes are annoying, wolf. I can see why your wife kicked you out this evening.”
“I’m heading home soon. With ice cream in hand, she’ll be happy to see me. The baby will be sleeping. Do you know that faeries prefer going skyclad?”
Ed raised a brow.
“Isn’t often I come home to a fully clothed faery.”
“Nice. I thought witches did the skyclad thing, too?”
“See? You’ve so much to look forward to when dating a witch.”
“I wouldn’t call a binding something to look forward to.”
“Well, if you’re not into her, then dump her.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Course not.” Kir finished his whiskey. “Because you like her,” he teased as he stood. “I gotta go. You need any help with whatever this zombie-witch situation is?”
“Not yet. But I’ll call if I need you. Thanks, Kir. It was good to talk.”
“Yeah, we’re cool.” He nodded and headed out.
That “we’re cool” meant a lot to Ed. Their camaraderie, while still weak, would grow. Maybe someday they could do brotherly things like—who knew—golf or fishing? He could get into a little outdoor adventuring, though he suspected Kir’s form of fishing may be in wolf shape. Ha!
So maybe he shouldn’t be so worried about a relationship with a witch. He shouldn’t look at it that way. It was a relationship with Tamatha. Didn’t matter what she was—witch, demon or otherwise—he liked the woman and how she made him feel.
Yeah, things could be good for him.
So long as he avoided attracting the attention of twelve zombie witches.
Chapter 12
Something nudged Tamatha’s elbow. She startled and looked up from the open book her cheek had been smashed against.
“Morning, sleepyhead.”
“Huh?” Peeling strands of hair from her face, she straightened and winced at the muscles that pulled in her neck. She’d fallen asleep last night while reading about the local covens. “Is it morning?”
“That it is. Is my husband such a cruel boss that he makes you work all night?”
A tall, red-haired witch, who wore the corseted black Victorian dress as if she’d invented the goth style, winked at Tamatha.
“No, I was doing some research. I want to advance my knowledge on diabology.”
And now, apparently, witches. Had her mother returned her text? She glanced about but didn’t spy her phone in the scatter of books neatly arranged before her.
“Wow. That’s a lot to study. But interesting?”
“It is.”
“You find much on demons in a witch’s grimoire?” Vika tapped the book cover.
“My interest wandered. What is that delightful smell?”
“CJ is brewing tea in the office. Oh, but, sweetie, you’ve a Post-it note stuck to your forehead.”
Tamatha slapped a palm over her forehead and claimed the pink slip of sticky paper. A spell for night terrors had been noted on it. Why that had caught her attention she had no clue.
She sighed and pushed the compendium on witch families away from her. No luck with tracking her family back further than what she already knew. And she’d thought to look into Ed’s family, but Thrash wasn’t listed in any of the genealogical lists. It had to be a false name or moniker.
The scent of lemon and thyme drew closer, but Tamatha again sighed. She really liked Ed. As a friend. As a lover. But what he’d asked her to do was not something with which she felt comfortable. To kill her grandmother? Again? She didn’t want to offend him or lose the chance to learn more about his breed. And if witches were killing demons, then someone had to do something about it.
Right?
“What’s up with that?” Vika asked as she pointed to Tamatha’s face.
“What do you mean? Have I more office supplies stuck somewhere?”
“No, that melancholy sigh. Ah...” The witch sat across the ancient table from Tamatha and spread her hands over the assorted grimoires, lists and compendiums. Her black fingernail polish glinted under the flickering fluorescent lights. “You’re heartsick.”
“What? No.”
“Then it’s a new love?”
“Why does it have to be love?”
“Because I can
read it in your irises.”
Tamatha touched the corner of her eye, wondering if that could be true. Iridology was the practice of reading fortunes in irises. And Vika was a talented witch, but she’d always thought her main focus water magic. Of course, most witches had many other practices besides their principal magics.
“Tea!” CJ entered carrying a wooden tray replete with pot and cups. The dark witch’s long black hair was teased back into a leather binder behind his neck, and he was barefoot. The lack of footwear wasn’t odd; Tamatha had come to learn the man was more comfortable without shoes on.
“I see you shook her awake, Oh Dark Queen of Mine,” he said to his wife, and then to Tamatha he said, “We wondered about you earlier.”
“Earlier?” She cast Vika a wondering gape. “How long did you two stare at me before you decided to wake me?”
“I figured you needed the rest. We’ve only been in the office an hour. You see it in her?” she asked her husband, who handed her a cup of tea with an extremely tattooed hand.
CJ offered a cup to Tamatha and then peered into her eyes. His dark ponytail fell forward over his black shirt. The twosome were goth defined, and never had Tamatha met a more perfectly paired couple. “Oh, yes, a new love, eh?”
“Seriously?” Tamatha sipped the tea. She shouldn’t be surprised that two witches who were madly in love could see something like that in her. But she wasn’t in love with Ed. Far from it. They were friends. Who liked to kiss. And fool around. And the sex the other night had been off the charts. “He’s just a guy I know.”
“Ooo, tell me more.” Vika winked from over a sip of tea.
“It’s not important. Not related to my work here. I shouldn’t bother either of you.”
“Bother me all you like,” Vika said. “I love some salacious gossip.”
Wrapping her fingers about the comforting warmth of the teacup, Tamatha offered, “It’s not salacious.” Because she’d keep the naughty parts to herself. “Ed is a demon I ran into one night, and he’s agreed to answer some questions to further my knowledge about the species.”
Vika raised a brow, accompanied by her thin but knowing smile. The expression said so much Tamatha blushed. CJ, thank the goddess, had made his way to the door, and she hoped he’d leave because the last person she wanted to discuss her love life with was her boss. Only when he did quietly wander out did she lean forward across the table.
“His name is Edamite Thrash, and he’s so handsome,” she said. “He’s got all these demonic sigils on his skin that look like tattoos. And he’s got this manner about him. So virile. Very sexy.”
Vika squealed.
And CJ dashed back into the room, toppling his cup and spilling tea onto the concrete floor in the process. “Edamite Thrash? Oh, no, not him. You can’t date him.”
“Wha—why?” she cautiously asked the dark witch.
“Do you know who he is? What he is?”
“Yes. He’s demon. And he has an office not far from here—that’s how I ran into him,” she said to Vika. “I was walking to the Métro one night after work. And he’s kind. And smart. He says he heads an organization dedicated to keeping the peace and it’s true.”
CJ blew out an angry breath. “Tamatha, that man is reprehensible. Thrash heads a demon mafia.”
“Mafia?” she spit out unbelievably.
“CJ, what do you mean?” Vika asked. “I haven’t heard of a demon mafia in Paris.”
“It’s discreet, but Edamite heads it and rules over Paris. If any demons want to get in or out of this realm, he’ll know about it. And he’ll stop whomever he doesn’t want here. No matter what it takes. He used to deal drugs to his own sister.”
Sister? He hadn’t mentioned a sister to Tamatha, only the father who was a werewolf. A drug dealer? Reprehensible?
“He’s a nasty piece of work. Tamatha, you need to be careful around that demon,” CJ insisted. “Better yet, I don’t want you seeing him again.”
She stood up from the chair and closed the book before her. “I don’t think you get to tell me who I can and can’t date. You may be my boss but you’re not my father.”
Vika cast a stern glance toward her husband. “Tamatha is smart and she’s a big girl. She knows what she’s doing.” But the look she then cast Tamatha was filled with question and concern.
Actually, now that she’d heard about the mafia thing—and a drug dealer?—Tamatha wasn’t at all sure what she was doing, but she wasn’t going to let anyone know that. “I do know what I’m doing. And I always wear a white light around him.”
“Seems to me if you trust a man you shouldn’t have to go to such measures.” CJ crossed his arms tightly. “I’m concerned for you, Tamatha. Just, please, be careful?”
“I always am. Thanks for the tea. I put in an all-nighter, so I should be leaving.”
As she passed CJ she saw him sweep his arm out in her peripheral vision. Tamatha spun quickly and put up a blocking spell with her palm. His magic bounced off the invisible shield and moved the air in tangible waves.
“What in seven mercies?” she asked, affronted. “Were you going to cast a spell on me?”
“I wanted to put a protection spell on you.”
Vika stood and clasped her husband’s hand. “Leave her, lover. It’s not wise to mess in another woman’s love life. Only bad things can come of it for both you and her.”
Thoroughly admonished, CJ crossed his arms, yet he maintained his stern gaze.
“Have a good day, Tamatha,” Vika said. “Call me if you want to talk!”
Tamatha waved at the twosome and quickly exited. Really? He’d thought to put a spell on her without even asking? Well, the man was a dark witch. She supposed he was accustomed to doing as he wished.
“Mafia?” she muttered. “What does that mean?”
Could the man truly be the evil overlord he’d confessed to?
* * *
Instead of heading to the Métro, Tamatha veered toward Ed’s office building. Along the way she stopped at a café. The shop had begun selling to-go drinks à la American style, and she ordered a foamy cup of decaf chai with extra cinnamon. Her vita could use the warming spice.
With her bag of books slung over one shoulder and cup in the other hand, she paused before the glossy black marble wall of Ed’s building and leaned against it. The cool stone surface against her shoulders felt good on her muscles, which had kinked from sleeping with her head on a table.
The sun was not out, but she didn’t feel imminent rain. Of course, Paris was a bitch when it came to the weather, and one minute it could be high sun, the next pouring kittens. She really should invest in an umbrella and carry that in her bag. Because she couldn’t always whip out the air magic to form a protective shield against the rain when around humans.
Man, these books were heavy. She set down the bag and sipped the chai, one arm crossed before her as she watched people across the street filing in and out of a boulangerie. A fresh baguette sounded like carb heaven. She hadn’t eaten more than a few tea biscuits today.
But fore in her busy brain was CJ’s voice saying that word: mafia. And then: drug dealer. She turned and stared up the side of the building. Six stories up, Ed’s office occupied the top floor. She wondered if he appreciated the newly cleansed office, and then that wonder startled her.
Had the bad vibrations been created by him? Had he taken lives in that office? He’d said he did not kill, but he’d said it in such a manner that left it open for interpretation. There was a difference between murder and killing. And he was the demon in charge of all other demons in Paris? She knew nothing about his work. While his appearance appealed to her, dark and tattooed, she reasoned that others may look at him and easily pin such style as nefarious. A drug dealer? Possible. Even worse? Maybe.
She hated to think such
things about him, but CJ had upset her. And she’d never reason to doubt CJ. He was an honest man, a good witch and a kind boss.
So who or what was Edamite Thrash? He had kidnapped her. Could his sudden turnaround and seductions be related to an ulterior motive?
Her phone rang and she tugged it from her skirt pocket. Ed was calling her? She glanced up again as she answered.
“I can see you standing down there,” he said. “Saw you walk across the street from the café.”
Shoot. She hadn’t wanted to be so obvious. But then, she was out of sorts this morning. And the next thing she said proved it. “I heard something about you today.”
“Gossip? Was it good, bad or—?”
“Ugly.”
“I see. Are you going to give me a chance to defend myself against mere words?”
“Do you kill people?”
“What?”
“It’s a fair question, Ed.”
“I thought we had—” He exhaled heavily. “Do you think because I’m demon I’m a killer? I thought much more highly of you, Tamatha—”
“Don’t make this about me. Certainly Jones told me you head a demon mafia and that you’re a drug dealer.”
“The dark witch is accusing me? And has he told you how many vampires he’s killed lately?”
“Ed, I just...” She squeezed the to-go cup too hard and chai spilled out the top. “Oh!” Milky brown liquid spattered her shoes. “I can’t do this right now. I have to go.”
“Come up, Tamatha, please. Apparently, things have gone extremely south since I held you in my arms yesterday morning. We need to talk.”
Arm held out with the dripping cup in hand, she tilted back her head. She couldn’t see him in the window for the glare from the clouded sun. But she could feel his anticipation and anxiety. They did need to talk.
“Please?” she heard through the phone that she no longer held to her ear.
He did deserve to defend himself. And she did want to see him again. Because remembering how great it felt to lie in his arms went a long way in smothering any misgivings she had about him.
“Very well. I’ll be right up.”
