Witch Blood (4 page)

Damn it, why did he care?

He nodded. “Just tell them who you are at the front gate and Douglas will meet you. He manages the house. When you return there will be a room ready for you.”

“And a prisoner to torture.” She clapped her hands together and rubbed them with glee. “If we play good cop, bad cop, can I be the bad cop?”

“After what you did to his dick, Stefan probably thinks you're the baddest thing around.”

She smiled broadly. “Now I can die happy.”

Lady, what had he just done?

I
SABELLE ENTERED HER SISTER'S POSH CONDO IN
L
INCOLN
Park, the rich scent of vanilla and roses enveloping her as soon as she stepped within. She'd been staying there since Angela had died and still burned her sister's favorite candles every morning in a vigil of sorts.

She set her keys down on the bar that separated the gourmet kitchen and large living room and glanced around at the homey furnishings. The place was decorated in calming blues and silvers, filled to bursting with overstuffed couches and chairs, soft throw blankets and plush area rugs covering the shining hardwood floors. Soothing modern artwork adorned the walls, pastel colors swooping and arcing across the canvases.

This place was Angela. It embodied her very spirit—cool, composed, emotionally centered, and sensitive. It didn't really suit Isabelle's personality, but she wished it did. She wished she had a few more of her sister's qualities, rather than their mother's. Angela must have inherited her easygoing calmness from her father, whoever he'd been. Angela's father hadn't been the same as Isabelle's. Their mother, Catalina, got around.

Isabelle slipped her shoes off and unstrapped the small, pretty knife with the copper blade she wore sheathed to her wrist. Laying it on the counter, she ran her finger over the swoops and whorls engraved in the handle. Angela had given Isabelle the knife after a trip she'd taken to Peru. Isabelle had been wearing it to demon-hunt ever since Angela's murder. Not built for anything more than looks, it was really just a symbolic gesture. A nod to her sister.

After fishing a pint of Chunky Monkey out of the recesses of the freezer and grabbing a spoon, she padded across the area rug in the living room to the window that overlooked the heavily tree-lined street below. There she stood and contentedly picked out the chocolate chunks from the banana ice cream while she watched a woman with a stroller walk by, men in business suits arriving home after a day at the office, and kids coming home from school.

Normal people with normal lives.

Angela hadn't been killed in her condo. Rather, the demon had followed her to her work, a law office, no less. Angela had been a defense attorney, specializing in the magickally inclined. Witchdom had such professionals across all aspects of society, helping hide their existence from non-magickals—the normal people with normal lives.

Knowledge of their existence only brought fear and burnings, history had shown that amply enough. There weren't enough witches in the world to fight against what might happen if their existence was discovered. Elemental witches were woefully outnumbered so they did all they could to hide.

Since both bodies murdered by the demon so far had been found by witches, the Coven was handling the crimes internally, within witchdom, and would do so for as long as possible. There was no need to involve non-magickal authorities, who would have no way to pursue the killer or investigate the paranormal crimes. The non-magickal police force would only end up hindering things.

Earth magick cleaned up the site and the victim was reported missing to the non-magickal authorities. Rites and burials were performed by the victim's magickal kindred. Most witches made out special wills with the Coven that were handled within witchdom as well. So when a witch died as violently as Angela had….

Isabelle closed her eyes, unable to make her mind go there. She still couldn't bring herself to remember what she'd found when she'd entered the law office to pick her sister up for a late dinner. Her mind went white when she ventured anywhere close to those horrible memories.

Hungry no longer, Isabelle set the ice cream container on the windowsill in front of her.

Angela had been her only relative of consequence. Not only that, she'd really been Isabelle's only friend. Their mother was still alive, but she didn't know where Catalina was or how to get into direct contact with her.

Catalina wasn't the warmest of mothers. She flitted around the world, hopping from one meaningless relationship to the next. She didn't even know her eldest daughter had died yet. Isabelle had left messages with some of her mother's male friends in Europe, but who knew when she'd contact any of them?

No, there was not much mother-daughter affection between herself and Catalina. The only way their mother knew how to express her love was through money. Catalina had set her daughters up nicely in that way, but true motherly guidance, compassion, or caring lay beyond her grasp. Isabelle had heard her mother express sentiments of love for them a few times in her life, but she wasn't sure Catalina really meant it. As they'd been growing up, her older sister had filled the place for Isabelle where their mother had been absent. Most called Catalina a
charming free spirit
; Isabelle called her detached and selfish.

And yet, these days Isabelle seemed to be much like Catalina, a fact she'd only become aware of recently. The last person Isabelle wanted to turn into was her mother. The very thought gave her hives. It had been why she'd been in town to visit Angela. Isabelle had been seeking counsel from her calm, steadfast sister. Counsel Angela had never been able to give.

Without Angela, Isabelle felt adrift.

Although even in death Angela had given her an anchor. In her will, executed by the Coven, Angela had left her condo, all her belongings, and financial assets to Isabelle.

Isabelle turned and glanced around the living room. Now she had a
home
. She hadn't had an actual residence since…ever. In childhood she'd never known what it was like to live in the same place for more than a year or two at a stretch.

In adulthood, Isabelle had always prided herself on being able to pack all her belongings into a suitcase. She lived in hotels and rented villas wherever she traveled. Having this condo meant she could no longer do that unless she sold it. Selling it, since it had been Angela's, was out of the question.

So, in a way, she was no longer free.

At the thought, her throat closed up and her heart pounded. A memory swelled. Closing her eyes, she took a deep, hitching breath, relegating that old pain to the same place where her sister's mangled body lay. The deep recesses. The small, dark places she never ventured. It was better that way. Far safer.

Isabelle stayed away from small, dark places.

Isabelle shook her head and swore under her breath. She did not need this self-indulgent shit right now! It was time to pack a bag, pay some bills, and get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow she was leaving for the Coven.

After stuffing the ice cream container back in the freezer, she pulled a duffle bag from the hall closet, laid it on the bed in the master bedroom and started packing.

When Thomas Monahan had offered her the chance to come to the Coven and aid in finding the demon, Isabelle's heart had leapt into her throat with joy. She'd acted cool and a little reserved in accepting the offer, but there had been no chance in hell she would've turned him down. The Coven had far more resources than she had on her own.

She shoved some clothes into the duffle bag and then stood there, her mind suddenly awash in thoughts of Thomas Monahan. He was an interesting man, the head of the Coven. Unyielding and a control-freak. She could see
that
in every inch of his ultrafine, muscled body, even if she hadn't known him by reputation.

And Thomas Monahan had
quite
the rep in the witch world. Protective to a fault, stubborn, quick to temper, and totally devoted to his responsibilities. From what she'd heard, the man didn't have a life outside of his job. He'd devoted everything, every aspect of himself, to the Coven.

In witchdom, he was famous, or infamous, depending on one's particular point of view. A witch didn't cross Thomas Monahan and get away with it. Plus, he could be very Machiavellian in his protection of the Coven. That's why she didn't like that he had control of Stefan. She wanted Stefan punished, but if Thomas saw a more pragmatic path, a deal to cut that might help the Coven, Isabelle worried he'd take it. That's why she'd made Thomas agree she be there during any Coven dealings with Stefan. She wanted to make sure nothing like that happened.

She couldn't believe she'd been the one to allow them to finally capture the head of the Duskoff. Seems she'd been working with the Coven all along without knowing it.

She finished packing, paid some bills, and finally turned off the lights and snuggled into bed. Angela's bed. Despite everything, Isabelle had been sleeping better here than anywhere else she could recall. Maybe because Angela's energy still clung to this apartment, to these pieces of furniture, the blankets and sheets that now covered her. She'd miss the place when she was at the Coven.

With Thomas Monahan. His face flashed into her mind as she closed her eyes: his full mouth, his blacker-than-black eyes. Monahan was a good-looking man and she was not immune. Normally, a man like Thomas—controlling and single-minded—would turn her off. In the past she'd gravitated more toward artistic types: painters, musicians, and writers. But Thomas Monahan wore those type A qualities strangely well. He intrigued her. As a result, she found herself powerfully drawn to him, more than the natural water/earth magnetism should engender.

Earth witches were plentiful, so she frequently ran into male earth witches to whom she was attracted on a physical level. It was a phenomenon she'd grown used to dealing with and it usually faded quickly once a balance of magicks was found. What she felt for Thomas Monahan was far, far stronger than anything she'd experienced before.

She wondered if he felt it, too.

Remembering the hungry way he'd looked at her in the library earlier that day, Isabelle decided he did.

But how to deal with it? She'd gladly sleep with him if that would help. Isabelle had a feeling one night with that particular witch would blow her mind. She'd like to find out if her hunch was correct. Yet they'd be working together, so maybe it wasn't the best notion she'd had all day.

Not that she was having particularly good notions lately.

Sighing, she tried to calm her mind enough to sleep. She tuned into the water in her body, sensing it like the ocean. She concentrated on the rise and fall of her breath and the gentle rush of the blood through her veins. Eventually sheer fatigue dragged her under with heavy hands. Her body relaxed into sleep.

But nightmares caught her instantly.

 

The smell of must and mothballs stung her nose. Did spiders have a scent? She swore she could detect the fragrance of their frail, dry bodies in the recesses of this place, where fabric brushed her cheeks, and hunger gnawed at her stomach. Despair and sharp-edged fear overwhelmed her and she clawed and beat on the door until she was too weak to do it any longer.

Still no one came.

 

“No!”

Isabelle sat straight up in bed with her heart pounding and tears streaming down her face. Grief twisted cold and empty through her stomach, weighed heavy in her chest. The sensation made her dizzy and sick.

Just like when she'd been a child.

Breathing hard and shaking, she glanced at the clock. She'd only been asleep ten minutes. Isabelle drew her knees up and covered her eyes with her hands. REM didn't happen that soon after one fell asleep. How had she dreamed?

Especially about that.

A whimpering sound reached her ears and it took a second for her to realize it came from her. She hadn't had those dreams in years. Lord and Lady, she thought for sure she'd gotten past all that. Frustrated with herself and her weakness, she squeezed her eyes shut, banishing the memory to the recesses of her mind.

This
had
to stop. The past was the past. Period. Move on, Isabelle.

Her heart rate slowly returned to normal and Isabelle became aware of a smell amidst the vanilla and lavender, a scent that shouldn't be there—a dry, earthy fragrance, almost like incense but a little more acrid. A little like how she'd imagined spiders might smell when she'd been a child. It was faint, but definitely there.

Movement out of the corner of her eye. A large shadow, darting.

She turned her head just in time to see a figure flit across the bedroom balcony past the sheer curtains and beyond the sliding glass door…no
through
the sliding glass door.

Isabelle threw the blankets back and lunged out of bed. She reached the patio door in a few long strides. Whipping the curtains to the side, she looked past the pane of glass to the dark sky. No one stood on the balcony. Nothing there.

She fumbled with the lock, slid the door to the side and stepped outside. The warm wind whipped around her bare body as she examined the balcony. The condo was on the fifteenth floor. The only place for the figure to have gone was straight up to the balcony above. She gazed skyward, but saw nothing.

There had been
something
, though. She knew she hadn't imagined it. Unless the dream had shaken her so badly, she'd hallucinated. But was it possible to hallucinate a scent? And a scent as strange as that? Like earth, but not of
this
Earth.