Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night (22 page)

“In fact, I do
ken
what it means.
In the throes, you know.
One of my boyfriends was a demon.”

“Boyfriends?” He frowned. “You mean
lovers.
How bloody many have you had?” He stopped. “Are you free with yourself, then? With other males? Because that'll be ending—”

“What'd you think?” she asked over her shoulder. “That I was a virgin?”

“You're only twenty-three,” he said, sounding very stodgy, even to himself. “And I try no' to think of any male before me. But if you were no' an innocent, then I'd hoped it would have been once, in the dark, with a ham-handed human who was so bad you had to stifle a yawn or fight against laughing.”

She shrugged. “I'm sure the number of notches in my bedpost can't compare to yours.”

“Aye, but I'm twelve hundred years old! Even if I had one female a year, you'd understand how they could accumulate.”

“Well, I am young.” Just as he felt a flicker of ease, she murmured in a sexy voice, “But, baby, I've been
busy
.”

His fists clenched.

“Jealous?”

She probably wouldn't think he'd admit to it, but in a low tone, he said, “Aye, I envy any man that's had his hands on you.” She gave him an enigmatic, studying expression. “Now, if I guess the number you've taken into your bed, then you'll tell me if I'm right.”

She hastily faced forward once more. “Not playing. Get bent.”

He narrowed his eyes. “One. You've had one.” Her shoulders stiffened barely perceptibly, and he wanted to sag with relief.

“Why would you say that?” she asked in a nonchalant tone.

“Because any male worthy of you would kill a rival who tried to steal you from him. I'm guessing the demon was your first and last. And how did you get him to let you go, then?”

“What if I told you I was still seeing him?”

Bowe shook his head. “No' considering the way you were with me that first night. Besides, if he allowed you to enter the Hie without being there to guard you, he does no' deserve you. When we return, I'll kill him on principle.”

T
he deeper they went, the more
Land Before Time
–esque everything seemed to Mari.

Something growing on the tree trunks made them look furry—and creepy—in the mist. The squirrels she spied weren't gray but red, and many of the leaves on bushes were larger than she was.

Though most of the spindly trees had roots that forked out
above
the soil, looking like the veins they actually were, the ceiba tree's trunk was gigantic, its roots as tall as she was and as thick as her desk at Andoain—

“Duck.” MacRieve reached over her with his machete to cut an overhanging branch. He continued to clear away even more than the others in front of her had—until there was twice as much room as she needed.

“Are my hips wider than I'd figured?”

“Doona want an animal near you. There's more danger here than you're aware of.”

At that moment, howler monkeys roared from the canopy just above, startling her.

“Your hips, for the record, are faultless.”

She experienced a small—trifling, really—thrill at his compliment, as well as an impulse to swish her hips at him.
Then she woke the hell up again and concentrated on navigating the jungle.

Trees fell where streams eroded the soil, so in the areas lining the banks, trunks were toppled over each other like Lincoln logs. The opportunistic underbrush shot up for its spot in the sun—an explosion of growth on the floor that was backbreaking to slog through.

Gradually, she and MacRieve became distanced from everyone—Rydstrom pushed hard with Tera right behind him, Cade scouted the trail ahead, and Tierney disappeared repeatedly to hunt for more food. This seemed to suit MacRieve fine as he took every excuse to touch her, wiping away a bead of sweat from her cheek or brushing a leaf from her hair.

At yet another pile of trunks, MacRieve simply picked her up and carried her. Then later, he did it again at a rivulet—and once more under a log pileup. Over or under and through the woods.

Over, under, over . . . under. At one point, he sat her on a high trunk, putting them face-to-face. “What're my chances of stealing a kiss from you right now?” His white shirt was unbuttoned halfway down and sweat sheened on his muscular chest. After last night, she now knew how breathtaking
all
of his body was—every inch of it.

Still she answered, “None point none. I don't want you to kiss me.”

“I think you do a little.” He brushed a damp lock over her forehead, then smoothly moved his hand just before she could bat it away.

“All I want is to get home, back to my Lykae-free life. Now let me down.”

“I will no'. No' without a kiss for toll.” He was easing
closer as if she were a skittish animal he didn't want to scare away. And though she dreaded losing her tenuous control over her
overstimulation
, she still was tempted to close her eyes and accept his lips on hers.

“That's it, lass,”
he rumbled, gently cupping the side of her face with his big hand.

At the last second, Mari reached into her knapsack and snatched out her apple, bringing it between them.

His eyes went wide, then narrowed. “Doona dare,” he said.

So, naturally, she did. Once she'd taken a hearty bite, he looked as if he'd just stifled a shudder and dropped his hand.

Around a mouthful, she said, “But I thought you wanted to make out!”

Stiffly setting her down, he turned from her and continued on, leaving her to roll her eyes at the succulent taste. It was like she'd eaten a super apple—crisper, more flavorful, and juicier than any before. She even felt more energized. As soon as she'd devoured it, she craved another and wondered when she could convene with the reflection again.

When she tossed the core, MacRieve glanced back at her. A thick lock of jet black hair fell over one of his eyes, making her want to sigh. Regrettably, Mari
did
find herself wanting him to kiss her. After everything, her attraction to him burned as hot as ever. Yet even if MacRieve was sexy—insufferably so—she wasn't going to be seduced into forgiving the hateful thing he'd said last night.

Especially not because he removed some foliage from her way.

He admittedly would be willing to forget her, and go
back for some perfect fey princess. If there was one thing that Mari despised, it was to be passed up. And yet it kept happening to her.

What is it about me
? she asked herself for the thousandth time.

Both of her parents had found something they preferred over raising her. It wasn't as if she'd been a demanding daughter. Hell, if her father hadn't died he could've returned at any time and she would've forgiven the past. He could've shown up on her fifteenth birthday with some unwitting-absentee-dad gift like a tea set or a Barbie oven. Mari would've been so grateful she'd have held off getting her learner's permit to bake cakes with a lightbulb.

Yet he hadn't come back—he hadn't even called her. Not once. It was like he'd disappeared from the face of the earth. One day she had a father; the next day she hadn't.

But Jillian's desertion had hurt her the worst. If things had been bad between Mari and her, then her leaving wouldn't have been so devastating. But life with her had been
wonderful
.

She remembered her mother blindfolded and smiling on the beach, arms out, as she'd tried to catch Mari, who'd been squealing with laughter. “
Where's my little witch?”
she'd cooed, with her red hair shining like fire in the sun. When Mari had let Jillian catch her, she'd swung her up, and then they'd collapsed laughing onto the sand.

Elianna had explained that her parents were—or had been—Important People, and that they had—or had had—Important Things to Do. . . .

Acton, Mari's first love, had ditched her as well. For years, the young demon had been her boyfriend. He'd
courted her when they'd been fourteen, taken her at sixteen, and then she'd taken him at every opportunity for the next three years.

She'd been happy with him until he'd thrown her over for a tall, willowy nymph with flowing golden locks. Well, not technically thrown her over. Because storm demons didn't have a single fated demoness, they often kept harems, and he'd still wanted a relationship with Mari as well as with the nymph. That was bad enough, but it was clear Mari would have been B team if she'd stayed in the game.

Of course she hadn't, but losing him had hurt so much and for so long. He was her first love and letting him go had nearly killed her.

Seemed Mari always was B team. Was that her fate?

She glared over at MacRieve. Ten-to-one odds said his fey princess was blond and tall.

And the Lykae wasn't merely choosing another woman over Mari—he preferred what he thought was another version of her.

As if reading her mind, MacRieve said, “Been thinkin' about the question you asked me last night.”

“Oh, I have been, too,” she said in a deliberate tone, her anger simmering. The werewolf had no idea he was sidling round a spring trap hungry for his paw.

“And what have you come up with, then?”

“No, no, you first.” When he hesitated, she added, “I
insist
.”

“I doona know that I'd answer it the same,” he finally said. “The more I'm around you, the more I . . . the better you appear—even for a witch.”

Suave, Lykae, melt my heart
.

“Now you tell me.”

She met his eyes. “I was thinking that if you don't come to a different conclusion, I'll be forced to protect myself.”

He hesitated, clearly not presented with the answer he'd expected.

“It's a simple matter of self-preservation, MacRieve. If this reincarnation could possibly have taken place, then there's no way I'll allow you to go back and wipe me out. I'll destroy
you
first.”

“Could you do it? You could no' kill me yesterday.”

“You weren't intent on erasing me yesterday.” She cast him a menacing smile, feeling very witchy. “Besides, I'd already killed my quota for the day.”

I
've always wondered what goes on behind coven doors,” Cade said to Mari when he'd returned from recon several miles ahead.

“I really can't speak for all covens, but mine is pretty worthless. Lots of soap opera and internet addiction.” She was supposed to lead them to greatness, but then, Mari liked her soaps, too. “Have you pictured a slew of hoary old women cackling over a cauldron?”

He raised his brows. “Yes.”

“If someone busted out a cauldron, we'd chortle with laughter and make fun of them for being ‘old skool' for months. And you rarely see hoary old women because most witches use glamours of some sort.”

She noticed MacRieve seemed to be listening intently. Even Rydstrom and the archers appeared interested in this topic.

“Do you really chant spells and make blood sacrifices?” Cade asked.

“We chant spells when they're new, but they quickly become second nature. It's like you wouldn't say to yourself, ‘I am walking to the kitchen, and there I will boil water for tea.' You would just do it. But if it was the first time you'd
ever walked to a kitchen or had tea, you might talk yourself through it.”

“And the blood sacrifices?” MacRieve prompted.

Mari gazed around at everyone. “Do you guys really want me to talk about
witchery
?”

Cade hastily said, “Yes,” just as MacRieve grated, “Aye.” MacRieve in particular seemed absorbed in everything she was explaining. Could he really feign interest like this?

“Well, some witches still do the blood thing. But in our coven, we look at it like this—giving up whatever is prized and personal is a sacrifice. In the old days that was a lamb or a chicken because giving up food would be a great sacrifice. But now . . . if I wanted to call upon Hekate's altar, I could give up my iPod and feel the sting.”