Dylan's Witch: 10 (Supernatural Bonds)

by Jory Strong

Trace laughed. “I hear you, partner. Let’s get out of here.”

  Dylan stood and snagged his jacket, the high of success doing a nosedive a step away from where his desk was pushed against the front of Trace’s. In the old days they’d head to a cop bar full of badge bunnies. They’d have a few drinks, talk shit with any other detectives who might wander in. Then one by one they’d select their entertainment for the remainder of the night from a wide selection of very available women and part ways.

  Those days were gone. Permanently.

  He didn’t need to see the smile on his partner’s face or notice the quick pace of their steps to know Trace was already halfway in bed with his wife, at least in his thoughts. Hell, he was probably banging Aislinn against the wall next to the front door.

  Fuck. And it pissed Dylan off that his cock didn’t even twitch until a picture of that redheaded witch Seraphine flashed into his head like a neon sign inviting entry—of a carnal kind.

  Not happening. Not going there.

  He’d made mistakes in the past. He’d learned from them. Hell, he’d even made that particular monster fuckup.

  He didn’t need the refresher course. And he sure wasn’t going to repeat the lesson with Seraphine, no matter how his dick had gone from limp to raging hard-on the instant he’d met her. Christ, he could have hit a baseball out of the park with the wood he’d sported that day.

  Just thinking about it was enough to have half the blood in his body heading south. He was screwed.

  He sent a glower in the direction of the ring Aislinn had given him as a birthday present, one he still cherished despite Storm’s winding him up with the supernatural shit. The green glinted in the light, and yeah, what Trace and Aislinn had was the real thing, but he didn’t believe in heartmates or destiny.

  Dylan hit the light switch. The bullpen was empty, not that it would have mattered if any of the other homicide cops were in. He’d still be heading out alone.

  Conner, back from vacation and now shacked up with a fulltime woman he planned to marry.

  Brady joined at the hip to a psychic, for fuck’s sake, one who read tarot cards and runes.

  Miguel, gone from the bar scene—out of his mind in love with some woman he’d met only a few days ago when she’d shown up at the cookout over at Conner’s place. Not exactly a surprise when it came to Miguel. Poor fucker hadn’t made it a secret he wanted to be a married man. Conner had it right when he said his partner was carrying around a ball and chain, hot to engrave some woman’s name on it before shackling it to his dick.

  Jesus.

  And Storm—not that they’d ever been drinking buddies—out of the blue coming into work after they’d wrapped up the Anita Vorhaus, VanDenbergh Senior and Senator Harper murder cases and announcing she was married to a university professor.

  There was something hinky about that situation, though he hadn’t figured it out yet. Hell, there was something completely wrong with the picture when it came to the homicide squad. Its members were like a row of dominos lined up and toppled—all except him.

  “Resistance is futile,” Trace said out of nowhere, the downside of working with a partner so long, they got in your head.

  “You quoting from Star Trek now?”

  “Just saying. Call Seraphine.”

  And the heat that charged down to his dick said, Yes! Yes! Yes!

  “Fuck no. Just because you’re happily married doesn’t mean all of us lean in that direction.”

  But Jesus, sometimes when he saw Trace and Aislinn together, he couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to have what they had. And it didn’t even matter she owned a freaking shop selling tarot cards and crystals and runes and the kind of shit people who believed in that stuff went for.

  They hit a turn into the homestretch toward the exit. An evidence room clerk coming from a different hallway emerged, stumbled, nearly collided with Trace.

  “Surprised to see you’re still here, Katcher,” Trace said.

  Dylan shook his head when Katcher turned beet red, like Trace was accusing him of being a nerd instead of a hard worker.

  “Ugh…vacation,” Katcher mumbled. “Making sure everything’s good. Taking two weeks off.”

  They pushed through the back exit and Katcher scurried off. Guy probably had married pussy waiting for him at home too.

  Dylan threw the notion off. What did he care?

  He ruthlessly squashed the lingering sense of aloneness that came with thoughts of the welcome Trace had coming. The cure was a few miles and few beers away. “See you tomorrow.”

  He peeled off, going to his car and the cop bar that had been a favorite hangout since his rookie days. Something passing for music blared from the stage as he walked in. A look at the band and he thought at least one of the members must be some cop’s kid, barely legal and there under parental supervision.

  Mettes and Patterson were in their usual corner. He snagged a beer at the bar before claiming a seat.

  “Look who’s slumming tonight,” Mettes said.

  Patterson laughed, turning more than one badge bunny’s head. “You kidding me? Hanging with Vice gives him a wider selection of women. The babes love our down and dirty.”

  Mettes nodded. “You’re definitely right about that. Could be right about his reasons for joining us, though I’m starting to sweat here. They’ve got some kind of epidemic sweeping through Homicide from what I’ve heard.”

  “Yeah, I heard that too. Guys up there, and gal, though Storm’s an ass kicker, vomiting out I do or on the verge of it. That true, Dylan?”

  “I’m the last man standing.” Dylan carried the beer bottle to his lips and took a deep swallow.

  Mettes shook his head. “Sorry state of affairs.”

  Dylan leaned back in his chair. This worked for him. What more did he need? Life was great. Couldn’t get any better.

  A blonde with a rack sent him an I’m here to serve you smile.

  Patterson caught it. “Lot of silicone in those tits.”

  Mettes snorted. “Not that it’d stop one of us from enjoying them. You answering the call to action, Dylan?”

  “No.”

  Patterson laughed. “You’re behind the times, Mettes. Our friend here is a one-trick pony. He only lets redheads ride him.”

  Mettes hooted. Dylan took another swallow to keep from saying anything.

  Fuck that. They had it wrong. Yeah, he preferred redheads. Hell, he could pinpoint the moment they’d become fantasy material, that first time he’d found his father’s stash of skin magazines and flipped through their pages, getting hornier by the image until finally he’d pulled his cock out and discovered the joys of masturbating with an actual picture in front of him.

  Not that he needed to do either anymore. He had plenty of opportunity, and if he kept the phone numbers pressed into his hand or slipped into his pocket on the way out the door, he’d have a black book full of women he could call.

  Irritation sizzled in his veins and crawled up his neck at remembering his last pickup and how miserably that had ended. He swiveled the ring on his right hand like a married man trying to hide his wedding band. But hiding the green stone only made him flash back to the witch. And that’s all it took for the raging hard-on to return.

  Jesus. She had a mouth made for exploring a man’s dick. A scent he still caught out of the blue sometimes, a phantom whiff as if she were there or thinking about him too.

  Fucking insane. He slammed the door shut on those kinds of thoughts. Next thing he knew, he’d be imagining he heard her voice in his head and could communicate without words, the way it sometimes seemed Aislinn and Trace did.

  He couldn’t keep his attention from dipping to the ring. Trace wore a similar one, also gifted by Aislinn.

  Heartmate stone, that’s what Storm had let slip the other day. Feeding him a line of bullshit about how it would heat up in the presence of his perfect mate.

  Dylan shifted in the chair. Not because he believed—fuck no, his entir
e body had been enflamed by lust that day he met Seraphine—but because it was damn uncomfortable given the size of his dick and the way it wanted freedom and the opportunity to pound into her.

  He never should have accepted the green stone from Commander Joe in the first place, much less shown it to Aislinn and let her set it in a ring for him. But hell, the homeless guy had his pride, and it’d been the price for getting him to take the bear claw and coffee.

  No good deed ever goes unpunished. His old man had been fond of that saying, the lying, cheating prick.

  “Heard you and Trace had a suspect in the Melvin Booker homicide,” Mettes said. “The apprehension team bring him in yet?”

  “Brought him in and handed him over. We nailed him down with a confession a little while ago and put a wrap to our day.”

  Patterson shook his head. “Not surprised Booker met a violent end. Guy was a repeat offender the justice system saw fit to let out on bail rather than keep safely tucked away behind bars. How many times have we tossed that guy’s place over the last couple of years?”

  “Five at least.” Mettes took a swallow of beer. “Though I got to say, I still get the creeps thinking about that last time.”

  Patterson rolled his eyes. “Head games, that’s all. Did we or did we not see Freeman looking good day before yesterday?”

  “Freeman is back in town?” Dylan asked, smiling at remembering taking a couple hundred dollars off the undercover cop the last time they’d played poker together.

  “Yeah.” Mettes leaned forward. “He’s been burrowing in, posing as a rival drug dealer. When we tossed Booker’s place, we found one of those voodoo dolls made out to look like Freeman.”

  Jesus. Dylan wanted to ward off talk of supernatural shit. He figured luck was with him when a couple of detectives from Burglary joined the table, shifted interest to their cases, then to a cop favorite, gossip.

  Dylan had a waitress bring him another beer. A different waitress brought him a third after he’d slowly nursed the second to an empty bottle.

  Women drifted by like bait in front of sharks. He didn’t bite.

  Not because he couldn’t, hell no. He could take any one of them home and make her scream without breaking a sweat himself. Later maybe, for now the camaraderie satisfied him.

  The blonde with the rack made her move. She came over, leading with her breasts and showing a lot of cleavage. She stopped between Mettes and him, fingers tipped with long red nails settling on their shoulders.

  “Dance?” Fuck?

  And he had the feeling she was signaling she was good with two on one if they swung that way.

  “Love to,” Mettes said, standing and guiding her to a postage-stamp dance floor, there for giving the chemistry a test drive before taking the action elsewhere.

  Patterson took a pull of beer then tipped the bottle toward a looker sitting with a couple of friends. “I’m going to make a play for the brunette. Short, curvy, hot blooded. Got a strawberry-blonde at the table with her, close as you’re going to get to redhead tonight.”

  “Pass.”

  Stine from Burglary laughed. “Might have to give him one of your Viagra pills, Patterson, so he can get some interest going for a strawberry-blonde.”

  That’s all it took to get the razzing going all over again. Fuck, not that he cared, even when Rabe, Stine’s partner, said, “Guy probably developed this obsession in adolescence, when he got hold of his first porn magazine.”

  “That explain why you like leather and restraints?” Stine asked.

  “Hell no, that comes with being a cop.”

  Dylan laughed with the rest of them though his balls went tight at imagining Seraphine tethered to the bed. She wouldn’t surrender control for just any man. His gut said she’d probably never given a man that much trust. To be the first, the only—

  No! Not going there.

  He knew the cure for what ailed him.

  He forced himself to mentally undress the strawberry-blonde sitting with the brunette. Before he’d gotten more than the dress off her, sharp pain sliced across his throat.

  He coughed, his skin feeling too tight to contain a sudden humming energy, like he was buzzing.

  What the hell? He glanced down at the beer in his hand. Had the waitress slipped something into it? Or more likely, been distracted by the blonde so she could, hoping to get luckier when she made her move?

  No way could the buzz be explained otherwise. This was a cop bar run by an ex-cop, and he’d paced himself so he’d be good to drive.

  Dylan set the bottle down. He took his hand off it.

  “Shit.” Blood coated his palm.

  The three cops at the table leaned over, looking at the wound across his palm. No fucking way was he going to explain how he got it in the first place—or point out that he’d thought it was totally healed. He sure as hell didn’t want to walk down memory lane and relive the embarrassment of having to stand in front of Skinner, head of CSI, like some rookie cop who’d contaminated the evidence and say, “Better take a sample of my DNA. You’re going to find it on the knife.”

  Not just any knife but Lucifer’s Blade, in the possession of the late Senator Harper and his wife, who thought they could call up demons in their secret room. Christ.

  A chill swept over him at remembering that first sight of it on the altar, the rubies in its black hilt glittering like wicked temptation. And how he’d blown off Trace’s warning, which had come from Seraphine, that the blade was so sharp it would cut with a mere touch. Not that he believed the rest of it, that a single drop of blood forged a link to the dark realms.

  Dylan snorted. Normalcy restored. Nothing wrong with his mental faculties, and the humming had muted. Nothing to do with drugs or drink, just the end result of a long forty-eight hours as they’d worked the Booker homicide.

  He grabbed what napkins were on the table and pressed them to his palm. They turned red. Blood soaked into the handkerchief he applied next, though at a slower pace.

  By the time the bleeding stopped, his mood for bad music and hustle had deserted him. He rose to his feet, the motion shoving the chair backward. “I’m out of here.”

  Patterson shook his head in a way that telegraphed pathetic bastard, half serious and half joking, but then that was the guys in Vice.

  And yeah, maybe he was, because he didn’t bother giving the strawberry-blonde a second look. His dick didn’t even twitch in protest when he left the bar and the possibility of getting laid. But it made its demands known the instant he saw Seraphine.

  Fuck! He blinked, just in case he was mistaken, even if the damn ring felt like it was going to melt down on his finger.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her. What the hell was she doing here? Hooking up with someone?

  No way. He refused to believe she could possibly be interested in any of the cops inside, even Mettes, who from time to time forgot how hard it was to make relationships work and hooked up with a woman for a go at serious.

  Steps away, her smile went uncertain when he didn’t return it, but fuck, his brain felt scrambled. And then his dick set up a howl for attention when she said, “Hi, Dylan.”

  Jesus. Same husky voice, only softer, more intimate, and damn if he didn’t have a hard time looking away from her lips.

  “Hi, yourself.”

  He felt like Alice falling down the fucking rabbit hole.

  Jesus. Just give into it.

  He leaned in, his body hijacking his mind. A whiff of her elusive scent and there was no avoiding full body contact.

  His arms went around her, pulling her into a hug. His cock did a victory cheer. Yes! Yes! Yes! Finally!

  She melted against him, molding soft curves to hard need, eyes meeting his, lips parted.

  This is a mistake, the part of him that knew better warned.

  It didn’t stop him from closing the distance, tasting, exploring, tongues getting acquainted in a hot, slow rub.

  Her hands settled at the base of his spine to send j
agged streaks of lust through his cock and testicles with the touch of her fingernails. He backed her up against the nearest car as if somehow doing it would allow him to grind the clothing that separated them away.

  More. Deeper.

  He did with his tongue what he couldn’t do with his cock. Need taking him, obliterating everything else.

  Christ he had to have her. This was how it’d been the day they met. All he wanted was to peel her clothes off and get inside her. He’d tried to keep her out of his head for weeks and now…

  The first kiss only whetted his appetite for another, and another. It opened the floodgates to fantasy after fantasy, images he’d suppressed at every turn because of where they would ultimately lead—to being in bed with a witch.

  A witch.

  Not again. Never again.

  He’d sworn he’d jerk off in the shower before getting involved with someone like her.

  Breathing hard, he managed to stop touching Seraphine, stop kissing her.

  Breaking contact was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Or so he thought, until he said, “Look, this can’t work between us,” and walked away from her.

  * * * * *

  The blood spray on the yacht’s deck made Camille remember the inkblots that crazy school counselor had made her look at in fifth grade. Borsch test? No. Rorschach test. That’s what he’d called it.

  She glanced at the knife in her hand, unlocking her fingers to see the goat’s head that was part of the sigil of Baphomet carved into the hilt. Ruby eyes sparkled and winked in the moonlight, as if she and the athame now shared a secret.

  A laugh bubbled up and she danced in place, whirled. Feeling carefree, exhilarated, energized by the murder rather than the death itself.

  She’d killed before, a palsied old husband who’d lied about his worth and left her with barely enough money to cover the legal fees after she’d been arrested for his death. She’d rid herself of him out of boredom-tinged necessity, while this was…

  This was pleasure more than anything else. A task given to her by her mistress, yes, but it’d hardly been a challenge to seduce the pathetic man sprawled at her feet.

  She nudged dear Robert. Her bare toe compressed pale, soft, office-worker skin.