Witch Blood (2 page)

A
T THE SAME TIME, SHE FLOODED HER BODY WITH
magick. It exploded from the center of her chest with a warm pulse. Power shot down her arm, centering in her fingers. They tingled and twitched as she fought to retain the heavy burst of emotion-drenched magick. The water in his groin responded instantly to her will, the molecules jumping to do her bidding. They grew cold, then even colder.

Stefan's eyes bulged out of his head and shock took his expression from arousal to terror in under a quarter second. A soundless scream erupted from his mouth, his lips forming an O of unvoiced pain.

“I thought you liked it rough, Stefan?” she asked through gritted teeth. She had him right where she wanted him. She'd known she'd had to get him by the balls…literally. There was no other way to trap a warlock as powerful as he was. She'd needed to get close enough to get him in a susceptible position, without his hired muscle present, make him let down his guard and then take advantage of his vulnerability.

She squeezed the soft flesh of that vulnerability in her hand a little tighter. “Awww…not having fun? I'm sorry.” She twisted until he gasped. “
Really.
”

Stefan made a gurgling noise somewhere in his throat.

“Does it frighten you to stare into the eyes of your own mortality, Stefan? Do you ever wonder what happens to us when we die? Do we blink out like a light, or do we live on?” She paused, tilting her head to the side. “Is death only another life? Hmm…what do you think?”

“I don't…know,” he gritted out.

“I think you're about to find out.”

“Who…are you?” His lips formed the words, but there wasn't enough breath to give them life. She eased up a little. He'd pass out otherwise and it was too soon for that.

“That is not the relevant question at this juncture. The real question is about Angela, Stefan.”

Confusion clouded his eyes.

Oh, that was the
wrong
answer. Power flared down her arm, making her fingers ache. His head snapped back in pain and she forcibly eased up on him.

“Angela?” he gasped.

“Angela Novak. The last witch murdered by your demon.” She clamped down harder. “You can't even remember her name?”

His lips peeled back in a grimace. “Not…my…demon.”

“Well, no. Maybe not technically. Your father, William Crane, raised the demon that killed Angela. Crane and his minions. But your father is dead and you've taken his place at the head of the Duskoff. The Duskoff is the reason the demon exists in this dimension. Therefore, the Duskoff is responsible for Angela's death and the death of Melina Andersen, the first witch the demon killed.”

“But I wasn't with the Duskoff then.”

“Oh, spare me. You've done enough horrible things to warrant this, Stefan, and don't try to tell me you wouldn't raise another demon if you could.”

“No,” he whispered, his head falling back from the pain.

“No? What do you mean, Stefan? Wasn't it you who was going to sacrifice those four witches last winter to pull a demon through? If it wasn't for the Coven, you would have succeeded. That alone makes you deserving of punishment.” She cocked her head to the side. “And aside from all that, what about Naomi Nelson, that earth witch you roasted when you were eighteen? What about Robin Taylor—”

He pulled his head forward and focused on her. “I can help you. Help…help find the demon. Right the…wrong.”

He was making bargains now, was he? How dare he try.

She opened her mouth to respond, but heat flared white-hot against her palm. They both cried out in pain. Isabelle snatched her scorched hand away. Damn it, she'd lost focus for a moment and he'd taken control from her.

Stefan rolled to the side, his hand between his legs, cupping his privates. Her hand hurt like she'd been holding it over a flame, but he had to be in more agony than she was. He'd burned himself in a very sensitive place in order to unseat her.

Isabelle raised power as fast as she could, despite the pain. The air crackled as Stefan also drew magick to defend himself. In the same moment, the entire limo lurched to the side. Isabelle slammed against the opposite seat and cried out as her back twisted. The limo came to a swerving, squealing, smoke-under-the-tires halt. She fell to the floor of the limo, her face contorting from the pain searing down her leg and through her lower back.

She glanced up through her tangled dark red hair, seeing Stefan kneeling on the floor of the vehicle in front of her, looking as though he might retch. Outside the sounds of boots pounding on pavement and shouting reached her ears.

Fighting through the discomfort, she resumed drawing magick and directed it at Stefan. Sensing the swift buildup within the confines of the limo, his head snapped up and he also tapped power. The air snapped with electricity from their combined efforts. It was a magickical showdown and they were both battling through injuries.

But his were worse.

Isabelle shot her hand out in a near unconscious effort to increase her power, commanding the water in Stefan's body to do her bidding—to freeze.

The limo door opened. Confusion and fury from the unknown observers pressed against her empathy. The intense emotions around her settled like a bitter wine on the back of her tongue, but she focused all her attention on Stefan.

“No,” came a commanding male voice. “Stop it now.”

She ignored the order. Stefan's spine snapped back as she intensified the freezing process. She had him now and, dear Lady, it had to hurt. It was nothing compared to what the demon had done to Angela, though.

Her sister had died the one way she'd always feared, by a demon's hand. Angela had had nightmares about that since she'd been a child, after one of their “uncles” had related to them how demons killed their victims.

Isabelle had been the one to find her body, but she still couldn't bring herself to visit those memories. Not in detail. Her mind had blocked them and she was grateful for that.

In front of her, Stefan keened.

Funny, Isabelle thought she'd feel satisfaction when this moment came, perhaps a release and a lifting of the heavy emotion that had weighed her down for so long. But she felt none of those things. She only felt sorrow.

“This is for Angela, Stefan,” she said woodenly. “This is my sister saying hello from the grave.”

Where was the fulfillment she thought she'd feel? Where was the righteous justification? She stared into Stefan's eyes, watching pain explode his pupils. Her magickal grip faltered. She couldn't do this…Damn it!

From her left, a man approached her. “Isabelle,” he said gently. “He's the scum of the earth, but he didn't kill your sister.”

Her face contorted, her eyes filling with tears. “He did. He's the head of the Duskoff. Without the Duskoff, the demon wouldn't exist.”

“I'm asking you for the last time. Stop.”

This revenge, once a red-hot, pulsing, living thing in her heart and mind, now tasted bitter and cold.

Still…
Angela
.

“I can't,” she whispered. “I can't stop.”

The man threw himself at her, breaking her hold on Stefan. Pain cut up her spine and down her legs, making her cry out, but she still fought the heavy weight on top of her. He pinned her down, struggling to gain control of her limbs. Exhaustion and her back injury forced her to go passive. Her magick sparked and died in her chest, spent like a candle burned too long. She made a choking sound of grief.

He stared down at her, his face shadowed by a long fall of blue black hair. Thomas Monahan, head of the Coven. The hair branded him. She didn't even need to see his face.

She winced and let out a small sob. “It's because of him, because of the Duskoff, that my sister is dead.”

“He won't get away with what he's done, Isabelle,” came his low voice. “But his punishment can't be like this.”

“How do you know my name?”

Behind them she could hear witches subduing Stefan. The limo rocked with the motion. “You said you're Angela's sister. I can only assume you mean Angela Novak, the water witch who was killed by a demon a couple of months ago. That makes you Isabelle. We're on the same side. If I let you up, will you be good?”

Her mouth snapped shut and she nodded.

He moved away from her, Monahan's face—set in handsome, brutal lines—finally coming into view. She glanced around the limo's interior, seeing Adam Tyrell and Jack McAllister, both fire witches she was well acquainted with. The two men restrained the injured Stefan, who wasn't fighting anymore. He knelt with his hands between his legs, looking like the only battle he could wage was against unconsciousness.

“We are not on the same side,” she growled at Thomas. “You are preventing me from—”

“Taking your revenge. I know.”

“I didn't kill her sister,” spat Stefan.

Thomas cast a look at Stefan that reminded Isabelle of how a cat might regard a worm, beneath his bother but something interesting to play with. “In general I'd prefer Stefan dead,” he drawled, “but we need him.”

Cradling her injured hand, Isabelle only glowered at him through her hair in response. She sought Monahan's emotions, but got nothing more than a flicker. Either she was too tired to sense them or he was hellishly repressed.

“Ah, Isabelle? Not that I mind the view, but…” Adam looked at her pointedly, helping her remember her state of undress.

She glanced down, registering her lack of clothing. In her rage, that little detail had been lost. Hell. Could anything more go wrong?

Making sure Jack had ahold of Stefan, Adam tossed her dress to her and she gingerly slid it over her head, wincing at the pain in her back.

Thomas jerked his head at Stefan. “Incapacitate him for transportation.”

Jack stared down at Stefan—his expression dangerously dark. For a moment Isabelle wondered what he'd do. The warlock had tried to kill Jack's girlfriend last winter.

Jack glanced pointedly at Stefan's privates. “You should see a doctor about that.” Then he punched him—hard. Stefan slumped to the floor of the limo, unconscious.

“You could've just drugged him,” said Thomas with a twist to his lips.

Jack glared down at Stefan. “That was one option.”

“You could've just let me kill him, too,” Isabelle added. “That would have been much less trouble for everyone. I know I would have been far happier.”

Thomas turned and regarded her with eyes that seemed blacker than obsidian. They were unsettling, yet beautiful, and they matched the hair that swirled around his shoulders. The man truly did look like a witch—a very, very wicked one. “Really? That would have made you happy, Isabelle? Tell the truth.”

She glanced away from him, suddenly feeling far more naked under his gaze than when she'd been undressed.

The head of the Coven was better looking in person than he was in his pictures, like some beautiful fallen angel, although the rough-hewn lines of his face saved him from the more perfect type of male prettiness. His sensual, lush mouth seemed at odds with the rest of him, set with deep lines on either side. He had a powerfully built body, long of leg and broad of shoulder. Every inch of that massive body had been pressed against her and it had hurt. Her back twinged with the memory and she grimaced.

“So how's it going, Isabelle? Long time, no see,” said Adam as though they'd met up by chance at Starbucks or something.

Her lips turned up in a smile. Grinning at Adam Tyrell was something you had to do because of his charm, especially if you were female. Even under these circumstances, she couldn't help it. “Not too great, Adam.”

“Get him out of here,” Thomas growled at Adam. He turned to Jack. “Can you heal her back and hand?”

“Isabelle's hand and back, yes. Stefan's dick, no. My hands aren't going anywhere near that.”

“We'll let Stefan heal on his own, I think. It's the least he deserves.”

Adam heaved Stefan out of the limo and Thomas followed, casting one piercing look at her over his shoulder before he went. “I want to talk to you. Don't disappear.”

She narrowed her eyes at his back. Asshole! He had no right to order her around. She'd left the Coven. Hell, what she'd just done made her a flat-out warlock. Thomas Monahan held no power over her.

“Give me your hand,” said Jack.

She unlocked her jaw and raised her hand, shifting gingerly on the floor of the limo and snagging the heel of her shoe in the carpet.

He took her hand between his palms. Jack was a fire witch and, therefore, could heal. She'd always found it odd that the power resided in such a destructive element. Her hand grew warm, tingled, and the pain receded. When he released her, the skin was pink and healing quickly. He jerked his chin at the seat. “Sit down with your back to me.”