Kiss at Your Own Risk (7 page)

“He’d be furious if I kill someone to save him.” Trinity could already hear him yelling that if she loved him, she would let him die and take her freedom as his gift to her. But she couldn’t let her dad die, not on her behalf. If she allowed others to suffer for her weakness, what was the point of living? She was more than that. She knew she was. There had to be a way, and she had seven days to find it.

Martin hadn’t been the real test.

The real test was now, and her dad’s life and her own soul were at stake.

“Trin?”

She took the pen and signed the contract.

***

The kitchen fell silent as the fridge went blank.

Blaine was stunned. Christian was alive. And he was being tortured by a gal with quite the penchant for it. If they hightailed it back there, he’d be free.

No. Not free. Spared.

Big difference.

Nigel spoke first. “If we return, she’ll hand him over to us, but all that shit will start right back up.” He held up his hand. “Granted, I appreciate the man I’ve become as a result of life’s little challenges, but I’m really done with the prisoner/torture/emasculation crap.”

Blaine swore and stood up. “No way are we turning ourselves in.”

“I can’t believe you guys don’t want to go back and party with a psychotic she-demon with questionable ethics. You two are a couple of pansies.” Jarvis yanked open the fridge to get another beer, using a pot holder to grab the steel handle. “You know she’s fixed all the weaknesses in her system. We go in, and we’re not getting out. Ever.”

“No. Not acceptable.” The skull and crossbones on Blaine’s pec was burning. “But we’re not leaving Christian there.”

Jarvis retrieved a beer, then scowled at it. “Warm. The bitch heated it up.” He tossed the beer back in the fridge and slammed it shut. “How is it that women are so damn good at knowing exactly what little things annoy men? Is it in their genes? Do they teach it in little study groups? A cold beer. That’s all I want, and she knew it.”

“She has to die.” Nigel wove a paintbrush between his fingers, a thoughtful look on his face. “It’s the only way for this to end.”

“Yeah, and good luck with that.” Jarvis pulled open a cabinet and grabbed a bag of beef jerky. Even the simple act of eating whenever they wanted was a gift. “Because she’s such a delicate little thing.”

“There’s a way to kill everything,” Nigel said. “We just need to figure out what it is.”

“Hell, it’d be my biggest wet dream to end her existence. I’m game.” Jarvis tore open the plastic and pulled out a large hunk of dried beef. “I’m not going back in there on her invite, though. We take one step inside, and it’s curling irons and mani/pedis again. Been there, done that. Had enough.” He took a bite of the smoked cow and rolled his eyes. “This is incredible. So much better than arugula and beet salad, light on the dressing. I can feel my chest hair growing already.”

“So we lure her out. Take her that way.” Nigel picked up another brush and began weaving it through the fingers on his other hand.

“And kill her how?” Jarvis ripped another hunk off. “Don’t think I was listening when you mentioned that part of the plan.”

“We’re standing here, aren’t we? Free? There’s always a way.” Nigel held up his hands. The brushes were moving so quickly it was a blur, the frosted handle nothing but a glittery prism of light flashing between his fingers. “It’s like art. Opening your mind to the great possibilities. Releasing resistance.”

Jarvis snorted. “I think you got out too late, dude. There’s no recovery for you. Your one-eyed-snake is gonna fall off if you don’t find some testosterone soon.”

“See the magic,” Nigel said, holding up the fluttering brushes so they caught the light. “See the beauty.”

Blaine narrowed his eyes, focusing on the prism. Watched it flicker faster and faster until it seemed alive. A person. Running through Nigel’s fingertips. Fleeing. Running. Like a hologram of a real person. Prisms. “Wait.” He stared more closely at the brushes. “Nigel’s onto something.”

“Yeah, insanity.”

“No. It’s the light refraction—” It finally clicked in the back of Blaine’s mind and he slammed his fist into his palm. “Son of a bitch. A black widow would know how to kill her.”

The paintbrushes stilled. “Nice, Trio. You’re right. She would.”

Jarvis froze, a large chunk of jerky halfway to his mouth. His eyes were glittering in anticipation. “Hot damn,” he whispered. “That would do it.” He tossed the bag on the counter, grabbed a linen napkin, then scowled at it. He tossed it on the floor and wiped his hands on his jeans instead. “I’m in. Where do we find one?”

“Her files.” Blaine was already striding toward his computer. Before he’d left Angelica’s lair, he’d set up a back door in her system so he could access her notes. They’d been hoping for a way to figure out how to destroy the Den of Womanly Pursuits, or get an idea of when she was scheduling new kidnappings, but he hadn’t found that information yet. “I remember seeing something about a black widow in here…” He logged onto her files, and then followed the path he’d searched before. “Here.” He went six layers deep in a set of folders. “These are all the creatures she’s unleashed on the mortal world—” He clicked on a folder called Girl Power and opened the first file.

It was a photo of a young woman with raven black hair, green eyes, and a smile that would make any mortal man’s heart stop.

“Look at those emerald beauties.” Nigel peered at the screen. “I’d love to paint her. I’ve never seen such innocence juxtaposed with the hardness of death. It’s as if there are two different people looking out from those eyes.”

“Her eyes?” Jarvis snorted. “How about her—”

“Trinity Harpswell,” Blaine read from the file. “Honored guest from age four months to ten months.” He felt a flash of regret for the baby who’d been victimized by the delusional blonde tyrant. At least he’d been four by the time he’d arrived. “Infected by the black widow curse seventeen times.” He snapped his fingers. “Bingo. We found her.”

“Created by the great inventor herself.” Jarvis grinned. “Poetic justice. I love it.”

Blaine shoved the chair back from the desk. “I’ll go check it out. You guys keep looking through her files and see if you can find anything else. I want all our options open.”

“On it.” Jarvis took over the seat.

Nigel propped himself up against the desk and folded his arms. “Yo, Trio, watch yourself. If this chick really is a black widow, it’ll be a piece of cake for her to finish you off.” He raised his brows. “And you are quite the looker. If she falls in love with you, you’re toast, big guy.”

“Love? Keeping dreaming, artist boy.” Blaine snorted. “Besides, if I was that easy to kill, I’d be dead already.” He let a single flame dance at the end of his index finger. Just a reminder of exactly what he was: a fire warrior (okay, yeah, he’d self-titled, but he figured it was better than cross-stitching girly man). “I’m really not worried about some almost human chick who’s been out in the mortal world her whole life—”

“Uh, fellas?” Jarvis raised his hand. “We’ve got a slight complication.”

Blaine and Nigel turned to Jarvis, who was still studying the computer screen. “Spill,” Blaine demanded.

Jarvis pointed to the top right corner. “Her file’s been flagged with a yellow tulip.”

Blaine extinguished his flame. “Shit.” The flower meant only one thing. “She’s the Chosen. If we kill the witch, her soul will jump into Trinity’s body and keep on trucking.”

“Hell,” Nigel muttered. “Any woman whose eyes contain such passionate depth deserves more than to be the witch’s safety net. Do you guys realize the extent of the paradox in her eyes between good and evil? So rare. A gift to paint.”

Jarvis stared at Nigel in disgust. “You got out of the Den, Nigel. Do yourself a favor, ditch the dreamy creative shit and get manly. She’s not some angelic muse to spawn your next inspiration. She’s the Chosen.” He leaned back in the chair with a sigh of bitter resignation. “And you know what that means.”

“Yeah.” Blaine scowled. “It means that after I finish with Trinity Harpswell, she has to die.” Son of a bitch, that pissed him off. After watching too many innocents suffer at the hands of the witch, and having his own powers be harnessed to kill and torture others, the last thing he could stomach was the harming of more innocents.

No matter.

He’d do what needed to be done. There was no point in killing Angelica if they were going to sit back and let her soul leach into her Chosen’s physical body. That soul-sucking estrogen predator was one female who wasn’t going to get a chance for a second life under a new identity.

It was rare for a witch to have a Chosen. Yeah, they all wanted one, but it was a damned tricky spell to set up. After carefully tracking Angelica’s files and women for a century and a half, they’d finally concluded she’d been unable to make it happen.

Wrong.

A hell of a mistake to make.

“Well, at least we know.” Jarvis rubbed his jaw. “I can’t even tell you how pissed I’d have been if we’d finally knocked her off, only to have her jump ship. At least we can take the Chosen out now.”

Nigel and Blaine looked at each other, and he knew Nigel was thinking the same thing: Trinity Harpswell was an innocent, and they were going to use her to murder Angelica, and then he was going to have to kill her. “Life can be a real bitch sometimes,” Blaine said quietly.

“It’s the only way to save others from the same fate.” Nigel’s voice was grim.

“And Christian,” Jarvis said. “He’s what matters right now.”

“I know.” Blaine ground his jaw. “I’ll do it.” But he would be merciful. It was the least he could do. Leaving Trinity Harpswell alive so her soul would be taken over by the witch was even crueler than sending her to the Afterlife.

Sometimes death was the best choice.

It was nearly twenty hours after the meeting with Felicia by the time Trinity was able to sink down in the lavender scented bubble bath and focus on the enormity of the problem she was facing.

It had taken several hours to finish all the paperwork involved in the deal, and then Trinity’s mom had been waiting when she stumbled up the front steps at dawn. After spending most of the day at Pop’s Corner Deli arguing with her mom, Trinity had finally ditched her. It was almost five in the afternoon by the time Trinity was finally back in her Boston condo, which showed the mind-numbing effects of the top New York City feng shui designer she’d hired to promote inner peace and encourage abstinence.

She’d spent money and time she didn’t have redecorating it, hoping it would calm her itchy trigger finger, or at least lessen her “love him, kill him” addiction. Apparently not so successful. And, as an added bonus, the place was so dead of life and love and energy, it kinda made her want to torch it instead of bask in it.

Instead of tranquility, she saw a living space devoid of color, drained of spirit, deprived of joy. Which meant that whenever she walked inside, resentment sort of festered inside her, like the boil on Noah Schmergal’s neck right before it had exploded. (Okay, yeah, so she’d been the one to poke it with a number two pencil during the GMATs and cause its fatal explosion. But it had really been his fault for insisting that true love meant sitting right next to each other during standardized tests. Even she knew that her defenses would be down in that kind of stressful situation. The fact she’d later found out he’d sat next to her so he could cheat off her paper? Okay, yeah, that had eased the guilt a bit. She had studied a lot for that thing.)

But boils aside, she was desperate for a place with vibrant colors, passionate décor, and a huge, decadent bed with a mattress that would consume her (and anyone who happened to be with her—ahem) for hours. Not this acrid den of sterility that reminded her of being stranded on the Sahara desert without sunscreen or adequate hydration.

The only plus of her condo was that she had big windows that let in copious amounts of sunshine. She craved the warmth on her face, but she never felt it in her heart. It was as if the sun was bouncing off her skin, never making it inside past all the evil caked within her.

And yes, she’d spent hours coming up with that analogy, thank you very much, and she was quite proud of it. If she was going to be big-time messed up, she might as well be poetic about it, right?

Her cell rang, and she dried her hand on her wheat-colored towel before grabbing the phone from the edge of the tub. “Hi, Reina.”

“So? Did you look at the file on your target yet?”

“No.” The sheaf of papers was perched on a nearby bamboo stool. She’d thought maybe she’d be able to handle it better if she was relaxed and riding high from the scent of lavender, but she was already shriveled like a prune, and still not feeling any particular inclination to pick that sucker up and start reading. “I just got my mom out of here an hour ago.”

“Oh, wow. What did Olivia have to say?”

Trinity poked a mauve toenail up through the bubbles and swirled the water. “She told me I would be doing a disservice to my dad if I took the deal and killed someone. If I was a good daughter, I would let my dad die and all that. She was pretty upset I wouldn’t go to Death’s cabin in Minnesota, and she left in a huff.”

“Don’t let her give you the guilt trip. If you want to murder someone in order to save your dad’s life, you should be able to do it without your mom giving you grief. She needs to let you be your own person.”

“Yeah, I feel bad though.” Trinity picked up the bottle of lavender bubble bath, then frowned when she caught its floral scent. She was so tired of surrounding herself with objects meant to strip her of passion and fire. “I really upset her when I said I didn’t want to let Dad die.” She put the bottle back down and leaned out of the tub. She flicked the cabinet door open and retrieved a small, black case from behind the muted off-white towels.

“Well, you know how moms are. Always thinking they know what’s best for their kids.” Reina paused. “You know, Trin, I’ve been thinking.”

“I’m sure you have.” Trinity unlocked the case and unzipped it. Her heart did a little flip when she saw the neon pink plastic bottle of Passion Fire Bubble Bath tucked inside. Never opened. She’d been saving it for Sunday at seven. She traced her finger over the label and a shiver ran up her arm. How she wanted to know what it felt like to engage her passions, to drop her shields, to embrace life the way she’d always wanted to, with her whole heart and her entire soul.

“See, I think maybe this whole hired-assassin-twist is a sign that black widowhood is your true calling. Maybe it’s time for you to embrace your destiny and the fact you’re going to spend a lifetime killing men. There are worse fates.”

“No.” Trinity slammed the case shut. “I’ll find a solution.” She jammed the lock shut and threw the bag back into the cabinet. “I refuse to accept that that’s my only choice.”

“Well, maybe you should. We could have a lot of fun together—”

“Good-bye, Reina.” She ended the call over her friend’s protests, then tossed the phone across the room. It landed with a clatter on the beige tile floor that was so miserably cold.

She glared at the phone and thought about Reina’s suggestion. It rankled her, and she sat up.

All right. It was time to step up and take action. She wasn’t accepting her fate. She was going to own it, whatever it was. She eyed the files and flexed her fingers, preparing to pick it up.

It was time for some creative strategizing. She was smart. She could handle this. Yeah, she had a willpower problem, and an apparent inability to value human life, but she had gotten five online masters degrees while hiding out from men. Surely one of those money pits would pay off here, right?

Amen, sistah. She was all over this. She reached out and grabbed the files—

The front door opened with a bang, and she jumped. Her mom again? She sighed. Of course Olivia wouldn’t have given up so easily. “Mom! I’m in the bath!” She shoved the papers behind the toilet. No need to make her mother feel worse.

Footsteps thudded down the hall, and Trinity winced and shrank back under the fading bubbles. Olivia must be on a serious rampage to be making that much noise. Yes, even at five foot three she was generally a lead foot, courtesy of a heritage involving disenfranchised giants, but she was ultra sensitive about her large feet and prided herself on moving quietly. But right now, it sounded like there was a herd of cattle thudding right toward her—

The door flew open, and in walked a man who was most definitely not her mother.

And if the handcuffs, leg shackles, and gag in his hands were any indication, he wasn’t there to offer his services for a spa-style mani/pedi.

He was there to kidnap her.

***

Her kidnapper had greenish mottled skin, a weird hump in his left shoulder, and the noxious odor of sulfur gas filled the room. Were those beetles crawling in his hair? A flatulating troll. Excellent.

Yeah, not so hard to figure out what had happened: Thank you, Mom, for arranging a kidnapping by such a nasty man that even a black widow queen couldn’t find him attractive.

Appreciate the thought and the love. Not so high on the interference. She was naked and in the middle of trying to figure out how to assassinate someone without actually doing it. Not exactly overwhelmed with time to thwart an attempted kidnapping by Thor the Nasty.

Did moms ever let go of the apron strings or what?

Thor raised the handcuffs. “We going to make it easy or hard?”

Trinity rolled her eyes. “Come on. Couldn’t you at least try to be original? Clichés are a sign of mental laziness.” She lunged for the gun she had stored in her medicine cabinet (like a woman with a one-track mind for murder would be capable of not having guns around? She’d thrown out nearly a hundred of them, but couldn’t stop from buying new ones. Generally, a completely sucky habit, but right now? So feeling the love for always being prepared).

Her fingers brushed over the barrel, but the hulk of a man grabbed her before she could secure it. His warty palms slipped over her oil-slicked body, and her stomach turned at the feel of his hands on her.

That was good at least. No visits from the black widow tonight. Rah, rah, sis boom bah.

She slammed her elbow into his gut, and he let out his breath in a gush. His grip loosened, and she scrambled free and bolted for the door. “I’ll pay you more than she’s paying you,” she shouted.

“Now, that’s a cliché line.” He launched himself after her and tackled her at the top of the short staircase leading to her foyer. Trinity shrieked as they tumbled down the stairs, and she gasped when they slammed into the front door.

She was too stunned to move, her breath knocked out by the force of the hit. He hoisted her numb body onto his shoulder, and headed into the living room. Not the front door? She twisted around to see where he was headed. A patch of sod was plunked down on her straw rug.

Grass. Olivia must have stashed it on her earlier visit when Trinity wasn’t looking. What a twisted little mind she had! Being all weepy while planning her own daughter’s abduction. Trinity would have no shot at getting away once they hit the sod.

She twisted frantically, but her captor had her anchored too tightly. “Mom! Don’t!” She had no idea if her mom was listening through the grass. Her mom had nailed her more than once by lurking among the greenery on a spiritual level. “Let me go! I swear—”

There was a sudden burst of heat over her body, and then the entire south wall of her apartment blew up in a flash of white fire. She and her captor were blown backwards, and they crashed into the six-foot stone fountain her last designer had ordered her to set up. The stones sliced her back and she landed in the water.

She tried to scramble to her feet, but her captor grabbed her ankle and dragged her back. He flung her over his shoulder and sprinted for the sod. “Stop!” She ground her knee into his throat, but he shoved her out of his way and kept running, straight into the blinding flames. “Not the sod!” she shouted. “Don’t touch it—”

Heat rippled suddenly over her bare skin, and she had a fraction of a second to think that it felt suspiciously like her captor had grown a second set of hands, and then she was yanked right out of his grip and into the arms of the sexiest warrior she’d ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on, let alone had her naked body crushed up against.

Her rescuer tucked her under his arm and thrust his palm toward her abductor. White-hot flames sprayed from his hand and it swept the green beast off his feet and carried him right out the window on a magic carpet ride of fire.

The last sound she heard was his scream mixing with the crackle of flames, and then he was gone.

And she was alone with a man who was very, very bad news for her soul.

***

Blaine had about two seconds to register that the woman tucked under his arm was… well… the first naked chick who’d been pressed up against him in a good half-century or so. Saying it felt nice was kinda like saying it felt nice to wake up after a torture session and realize he was still alive. Yeah, that freaking fantastic.

Then that same blow-his-mind feel-good sensation jammed her elbow in his kidney.

“Shit!” The pain knifed through his lower back as she squiggled out of his distracted grasp. Good to know that a female in the buff made him forget to protect himself so completely that a mortal’s elbow thrust could make him stumble.

The boys would be laughing their asses off at him right now.

Trinity raced down the hall, and Blaine swore as she disappeared around the corner. He sprinted after her, putting more effort into his run than he’d done in centuries. A little late to realize he had no clue how mortal she actually was. The witch could have done anything to her in those six months. For all he knew, she was turning into a bat and flying the hell out of his life right about now.

Damn. He’d be impressed if she did that.

Pissed, but impressed.

He skidded around the corner and crashed face-first through a closed door before he had a chance to stop. Again with the lack of focus? Nice not to notice a sheer wall of wood blocking his path.

Women were no good for battle acumen. Maybe Nigel’s celibacy idea had merit after all.

The splintered door thundered into the walls, and he careened to a stop in the middle of a small bathroom. He promptly found himself eyeball to barrel with a handgun.

And damn if the chit wasn’t still naked.

Just like a woman to use her breasts as a weapon by distracting him with them. How irritating to know it worked. But at the same time, it was always good to add info to his strategic recon arsenal. Women’s nipples were now in his “high risk” category, especially ones that were pert with a slightly rose tinge… Crap! He jerked his eyes off her chest and glared at her. “Put some clothes on.”

She snorted. “And have you attack me when I put the gun down to grab them? Fat chance of that. The answer’s no.”

“No?” Where was his manly, make-them-cower side? He glowered at her and folded his arms across his chest. At least his target was still in the room and hadn’t sprouted wings yet. “You do realize you could put that bullet in my head and I’d be dancing the rumba within about a minute? Guns don’t stop me.”

She blinked. “You can rumba?”

He scowled. “I just said a bullet to the brain wouldn’t hurt me, and you’re impressed that I can dance?”

She raised her brows. “I’m quaking in fear. Can’t you tell?”

He studied her. Her eyes were a brilliant green, tendrils of dark hair had escaped from her bun and were plastered to the side of her neck. Her chin was thrust out, and her grip on the gun was solid. Didn’t see a lot of fear there. “You’re mocking me.” A century and a half with Angelica and her girls had pretty much cured him of any love for female ridicule.

A small smile quirked at the corner of her mouth. “I’m not mocking you. It’s just that you’re the one who should be quaking in fear, especially now that I know you can rumba. I’ve always wanted to learn how to ballroom dance, and a scarred warrior who can also rumba is way too tempting. So, yeah, you should run, hot stuff.” She raised the gun higher, which made her breasts lift as well. Perky little things—