Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night (34 page)

Magick . . .
good
.

“I told you not to go by yourself, didn't I?” Carrow demanded. “What'd I say?”

As Carrow repeated herself, Mari obediently mumbled in unison, “
Darwin says people like you need to die
.”

“Yep, that's what I said. And after everything that's happened to you, I'm surprised you're still ticking.”

Not only was she ticking, she was showered, dressed in beachy new clothes and sandals from the resort gift shop, and enjoying an unlimited bar tab as she awaited her flight home. “Well, let this serve as my call-in to the House to avert disaster. Only a day late. I hope you told everyone I've never been on time for anything in my life.”

“Disaster averted. Already got a call from some dude named Hild. And then a demon named Rydstrom showed up here a couple of hours ago.”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Yeah, uh-huh. I wasn't here, but I heard that wherever he turned his green-eyed gaze, witches dropped trou and proffered panties.”

“Carrow, that's how rumors get started,” Mari said in a chiding tone. “Did he say anything about the rest of his group?”

“Said everybody on his end came out okay.” As Mari sighed with relief, Carrow added, “He left a number for you. You know
I
could tell him you're okay—over dinner and drinks.”

She couldn't help but grin. Rydstrom would either love Mari or curse her for this, but she said, “Yeah, you call him. Tell him both MacRieve and I were standing as of this morning.”

“So are you gonna fly out before the big, bad—with names—wolf finds you?”

“Damn straight.” Bastard had called her . . .
Mariah
. Was that all Mari was to him? A substitute? A second choice?
Fucking B team!
The idea of that outraged her even more because last night . . .

Bowen MacRieve utterly ruined me for other men
.

She almost wished she didn't now know that sex like that existed—or that what she'd thought in the past was great pleasure had been a mere toe touch in a vast ocean. She irritably rapped on the bar with her knuckles and signaled the bartender for another round.

“I don't suppose you found a big plane?” Carrow asked. “Or that you managed to score some Xanax?”

“No, and no,” Mari was so sick of B team, she was actually about to fly out on a
baby plane
. “But I'm lucky to get a flight out at all. Besides, I'm self-medicating with whiskey. I'll land around seven, so come get me—if you still have your driver's license—and peel my drunk ass from the plane.”

“Will do. But, Mari, I have to say that you might not be seeing clearly on the issue of the werewolf, because, well, you have
issues
.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Just that you get really chapped over stuff like this. Think about it, the very last time the Lykae was in the same situation—running around with a mate and cavorting or whatever
you people
do—it was with a female named
Mariah. Last night, when he was wolfy and moonstruck and getting laid for the first time in—what'd you say?—a hundred and eighty years, he basically forgot the
ket
in your name. You might want to cut him some slack. Or, I could cast a spell to make him fall in love with dryer lint. You decide. But if the sex was truly—”

“Cataclysmic?”

“Yeah, you already conveyed that like thirty times, you little bourbon lush. So you're telling me you don't want to get caught? Not at all?”

Mari sighed. “I might . . . if he wanted
me
.”

“
I do want you, lass
.”

She jerked around.
MacRieve!
He was dressed in new clothes, and looked showered and coolly collected. “How in the hell could you have gotten here so quickly?”

“Missed you, witch. Ran headlong. Now hang up the bloody phone.”

“Oh, great Hekate, is that his voice?” Carrow cried. “
I
just had an orgasm! Fudge your name tag if you have to, but get you some of that
some-some
. Remember, friends let friends live vicariously—”

Click
. “How long have you been here?”

“Got here an hour after you did.”

“I'm that slow?”

“I'm that fast. Would've come to you sooner, but I had many arrangements to make.” His gaze focused on her drink. “What in the hell are you doing?”

“I'm getting tee-rashed on some sizzurp.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Small plane, big scared.”

He sniffed. “That's bourbon? Who drinks whiskey on the beach?”

“Sounds like a great drink name to me! How did you find me?”

“You cloaked your trail well. But I'm a great hunter.”

“And so modest, too.”

“You should no' have left me like that. What the bloody hell were you thinking to put yourself in danger again? I believed we had an . . . understanding.”

“We did. And then you called me by another woman's name.” He looked like he'd barely stifled a wince. “And then I realized that I'd misunderstood our understanding.”

MacRieve grasped her elbow and steered her to a private hibiscus-lined courtyard. “Damn it, witch, it will no' be possible for me to instantly forget someone who has played such a large role in my life. If you think of someone for so long, a couple of weeks will no' erase it.”

She snapped her fingers and said, “Exactly. A couple of weeks won't. A year won't. An eternity won't. You won't ever be happy without her.”

“I doona believe that any longer. And I can promise you this will no' happen again.”

“I don't know what's more disturbing . . . the fact that you called me by another woman's name or the fact that now you'll have to make a conscious effort not to. You're still thinking about her either way.”

“If you want to leave because you have misgivings or lingering fears about last night, then go. But you canna leave because you think I prefer another over you. It simply is no' so.”

“How can I believe you after you yelled her name?” she cried.

“I need to tell you something”—he stabbed his fingers through his hair—“that I doona talk about, ever. But I
will with you.” He gazed to the right of her as he said, “When Mariah died, she died . . . fleeing me. Running from me as you did last night. Even as I was thinking of naught but you, always the guilt for her death lingers at some level.”

Mari gasped. “Why didn't you tell me?”

He finally faced her. “I feared it would only hurt you to reveal this, that it would set up the same situation. I dreaded that.”

“It was an accident though. Right? You can't carry that guilt forever.”

“Sometimes, lately, I feel it's worse, because . . .” He trailed off.

“Because what?”

He scrubbed his hand over his face. “Even if I do believe you're of the same soul as her, I
never
wanted Mariah like I want you.” He seemed shamed by the admission, even as she felt herself softening toward him—as ever. “And what does that say about me? How could you choose for yourself a male so disloyal? When I
want
to surrender this bloody guilt?”

“Of course you do—it's been nearly two freaking centuries! Enough's enough.”

“Gods, I was hoping you would believe I've waited long enough.” He exhaled a relieved breath. “I want to look forward.”

“As you should. Cut yourself some slack.”

“Done—if you will do the same for me as well.”

She made a grated sound of frustration. “Oh, you sly—”

“Lass, we're going to have problems between us sometimes. We'll both make mistakes and forgive them. This is one of those times.”

“You're acting like I've signed on for the long-term deal. And I haven't.”

“What would it take to get another shot with you?”

“Nothing you have. My time here's getting short—”

“Nothing? But you have no' seen everything that I have. What if I told you I've an olive branch that the mercenary in you should appreciate?” He curled his finger under her chin. “You've never shied away from anything else, and you will no' regret this now.”

She
needed
to stay strong, to stay furious. But all she
wanted
to do was get back to being with him.

“Take a chance on me, witchling.”

It was then that she made a fateful observation.

Bowen MacRieve was holding his breath.

Damn him! And there went strong and furious, gone with a whimper. Still, she met his eyes. “Don't call me by her name again, Bowen. It hurt.”

“Shh, lass.” He wrapped those big arms around her, drawing her against the warmth of his chest. “I will no', I promise you.” When she finally relaxed against him, he nuzzled her ear. She could feel his lips curl just before he said, “And doona hang my clothes in tall trees.”

B
owen's olive branch for her was a private island just off the coast of Belize, replete with a boat and a mansion in the middle of a breezy palm forest.

And the two weeks she'd stayed there with him had been the happiest of her entire life. Tonight they sat on a blanket on the beach, lazily regarding a driftwood fire. The breeze soughed through the palm fronds, and the stars glittered feverishly. As she lay against his chest, she mused over her time here with him.

At first, she'd thought he'd merely spent a fortune to rent this property, but then he'd said, “If you want it, it's yours.” Apparently, he wasn't just wealthy but obscenely rich. So she answered as any self-respecting witch would: “Gimme . . . deed.”

After their first night here of nonstop sex, she'd woken in bliss, unable to stop grinning stupidly. Had she actually believed that sexual relationships couldn't be perfect? He'd appeared surprised by her reaction, then had done that jutting-chin show of pride. “The aging werewolf's still got it, eh, lass?” He'd tickled her till she'd screamed with laughter.

Then later, once they'd decided to stay for a few weeks, they'd set some parameters for their cohabitation.

She wasn't to do the “mirror thing” while they were here, because, as he'd said, “Every time I see you do that spell, I get a sharp sense of foreboding. My Instinct tells me that it's wrong . . . dangerous, even.”

As for magick in general: “If it slips because you're startled by something, that's one thing, but to willfully chant to your reflection disturbs me greatly.”

All she'd asked from him was not to disparage her kind—or to sound like he was planning to take her away from witchery and the House.

Oh, and she needed clothes.

During the day, they swam the Caribbean, and he caught lobsters that they cooked at night over their beach fires. They explored colorful towns on the mainland, shopping, sightseeing, and necking in back alleys.

Just today he'd pressed her behind a row of fruit stands. With the sultry air redolent with sugar cane, and his hot, possessive hands fondling her breasts, he'd taken her, stifling her cries with his kiss—

“Lass, what are you thinking about that's affecting you like this?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing.”

“You always say that. I canna help but feel that you're holding some of yourself back from me.”

Maybe she was holding back, likely afraid that yet another person she cared for would leave her. And in the back of her mind, she feared he would always doubt that she was his until she conceived. Still, she asked, “How?”

“I doona like that you have your secrets.”

“Secrets?” Her tone was innocent, but she did keep secrets from him—many of them.

For instance, she couldn't seem to give up going to the
mirror, no matter that he'd told her how much it bothered him or how happy he made her. She'd figured out that if the reflection answered only so many questions in a session, then she needed to have as many sessions as possible.

And she hadn't told him that night after night she'd experienced bizarre dreams, so vivid and realistic that when she woke she had trouble differentiating between what was real and what was not.

In one dream, she stood in a shapeless plane of unbroken black. Mari saw her mother, weeping with the palms of her hands pressed against her eyes. Her father was lying on a stone slab, motionless, his eyes closed, his hands in fists.

Other times, she dreamed of a thousand voices begging her to hurry—but to do what, she didn't know. And sometimes, on this balmy, breeze-kissed island, she dreamed of a snow-covered forest with no leaves, the limbs thick with ravens. . . .

Yet even with her misgivings and her secrets, Mari continued to fall for her strong, proud werewolf more and more each day. She had a good feeling about Bowen.