by Jory Strong
He kept his tone light but she knew he was serious, and fear crept in, because her mortality affected them. It was the price they’d paid to claim her, and her them.
Knowing her worries and the fear that came with loving them, Tristan said, “Unless you get close to whoever is wielding the blade, you’ll pose no threat. As long as you keep us informed, we can keep you safe from humans as well as demons.”
“I will.” And she meant it, glad she was no longer ignorant of the existence of the supernatural.
Tristan traced her lips with his forefinger. “It was murder that brought you into our lives. I believe it is murder that will ultimately result in Dylan and Seraphine finding their own happiness. Leave it to him to make the official discovery the blade is missing. But should Lucifer’s Blade be recovered, it cannot be returned to human care.”
She chafed at that truth. Accepted it.
Just as she accepted, as Tristan leaned in, nibbling across the slope of her breast, that denying herself pleasure, that denying the three of them the closeness that came with intimate contact, wouldn’t bring the dead back or lead to the guilty.
Heat returned with Pierce’s hand smoothing over her belly. “What can we do to help you?”
Their best lead now originated from a case that wasn’t even theirs to officially investigate. “Trace and Dylan are pretty sure the woman who killed Nicole Harper was paid to do it. Or rather, her sister was. But there’s no probable cause for a warrant and it’s not our jurisdiction anyway. If we could find the money, we could follow it back to its source.”
“Consider it done.”
“You’ll use glamour?” she managed to ask, the fog of desire thickening with the slide of Pierce’s fingers over her clit.
He laughed, bit her neck before answering. “If necessary. Considering how neatly I maneuvered Tielo into ending up a mated man, I believe Severn will be amenable to setting some of his e-wizards to the task.”
Storm snorted. “A dragon prince with e-wizards?”
“Times have changed. Treasure hunting isn’t as simple as it once was. And Severn has a commercial empire to manage. Humans and supernaturals alike, he hires any number of technologically savvy people, including hackers.”
Tristan’s hand joined Pierce’s fingers, sliding into her. “Speaking of treasure, I believe it’s time your husbands enjoyed theirs.”
* * * * *
“Let’s go. We’ve got a body,” Trace said, interrupting the argument going on in Dylan’s head.
He stood, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair, nearly relieved at having a reason to delay the inevitable, though he knew he’d be going down to Evidence and pulling the box related to the Harper investigation and Miles Terry murder. He didn’t want to believe any of it…
But Jesus. He caught himself lifting his hand to the charm now hidden under his shirt and touched to his skin. His gut twisted. He was grateful for the quiet in his head, but that left too much room for thinking, for images popping and bouncing off the inside of his skull like manic Ping-Pong balls. Lucifer’s Blade. The cut opening in the bar. His bed looking like a murder scene. Seraphine’s bed—and that had his dick threatening to go instantly hard.
“Details?” he said, doubting they’d be enough of a distraction.
“Female. Dumped a little ways out of town alongside one of the roads butting against swampland. Probably hoped an alligator would take care of the disposal problem.”
“COD?”
“We’ll find out when we get to the scene. Some confusion there, initial call came in as a suicide.”
“Like suicides typically take themselves to another location after they’re dead. Anonymous caller?”
“No. Freaked-out tourist.”
“I’m driving.”
After yesterday’s little surprise, he wasn’t letting Trace take control of the vehicle anytime soon.
His partner grinned. “Fine.”
Traffic didn’t require enough of Dylan’s attention. A question popped, escaping before he could stifle it. “It bother you? Aislinn owning Inner Magic? Always involved in that kind of shit?”
“You love the woman, you accept what comes along with her.”
Which was why he had no intention of mentioning where he’d ended up this morning. Man, there were times he felt as if he were the only one still fighting the good fight about the woo-woo stuff, when not so long ago they’d all hated anything that couldn’t be bagged, tagged and labeled evidence.
Evidence. Fuck. Conscience was a free-fall weight from chest to gut.
He should have gone down and had the boxes pulled. He should have warned Seraphine up front that he wasn’t what she was looking for in a man.
Even if he got over the whole witchcraft thing, he’d just end up hurting her. Sometimes there was no beating genetics.
How many times had he seen his mother crying, the light inside of her dying a little bit more at discovering her husband was having another affair? How many times had he sworn he’d never be like his old man?
He touched the gun in his shoulder harness. Trace caught the gesture.
“You got something on your mind?”
Dylan waged war for another mile. Finally said, “I talked to the witch.”
Trace’s instant smile had him grinding his molars.
“So that’s why you’ve been wound up tight since you walked into the bullpen. Kind of like a guy just realizing he’s on his way to pussy-whipped.”
“And you’d know what that feels like.”
“Oh yeah.” His tone saying, and fucking happy about it, cutting a little piece of Dylan’s armor away.
He plugged it. “She thinks the blade might be missing.”
The smile went dead. “And?”
Trace paddled his hand, gesturing more and sending irritation crawling along Dylan’s nerves, at himself for dicking around instead of doing what needed to be done.
“And that’s something to pursue when we get back to the station.”
He braced himself for Trace to go off, riding him about why the fuck he hadn’t done it when he got in, or said something before the call-out. He felt Trace’s gaze boring into the side of his face but all his partner said was, “Meeting Aislinn screwed with my head at first too. I’m guessing you did a hell of a lot more than just talk to Seraphine.”
Mercifully they’d closed in on the crime scene. Both of them spotted the news vans with cameramen standing on the roofs.
“Goddamn,” Trace said. Even backed up and kept from crowding close to where the coroner and CSI guys were, the height probably gave the crews a good view.
Dylan parked in front of Skinner’s ride, surprised the head of the crime scene lab was there instead of delegating this to his subordinates.
When they got close, Skinner said, “Dump site. She bled out elsewhere. I’d say a ritual killing.”
And that explained Skinner’s presence on what would normally have been a routine call-out. He had a fascination for the weird shit.
Dylan’s heart did double-time in his chest while his skin went clammy.
I believe there was a sacrifice last night, probably a human one.
Dry-mouthed, he asked, “Why a ritual killing?”
“No proof to back this up yet. But at a guess I’d say whoever killed this woman also killed the woman whose skeletal remains Conner found in the swamp. I had a look at her this morning. The bones at both wrists showed deep slash marks.”
Dylan glanced at the media trucks and wondered just how long it’d be before they got wind of this.
One of the guys from Skinner’s unit lifted the tarp they had over the corpse. Dylan had enough time to see a strawberry-blonde who’d probably been a looker when she was alive, to note the deep cuts across her wrists, and then vertigo hit.
It slammed into him. Shrieks rising from the corpse, pounding on his brain like fists pummeling him until he staggered over and puked his breakfast out for media consumption.
Th
e shock, the attention it garnered, helped him ignore the craziness going on in his head. Fuck. He grabbed the chain around his neck, jerked the token out of his shirt and fisted it, holding it against the cut.
Silence, blissful silence. Enough of it to make him sweat wondering how much of what he’d just done had been caught on film. But the hell of it was, he couldn’t do anything except rub the back of his neck and surreptitiously unclasp the chain to free the token.
He got his situation under control and returned to the scene. “Coming down with something,” he said, ignoring everything but the dead. “We have an ID?”
“Snyder thinks she was a working girl.”
Dylan glanced at the uniformed cop by that name. “What streets?”
“Fifth, anywhere from D to J Street. First started seeing her maybe two weeks ago.”
“So she may or may not be in the system yet. At least it gives us a place to start canvassing. Maybe someone saw her get into a car with a john.”
They remained at the scene until both the coroner and Skinner’s guys were done. It didn’t chew up hours since it was a dump site absent any trace evidence.
Trace claimed the driver’s seat. Dylan didn’t protest.
With the engine started, Trace said, “So do we swing by the station and pull the evidence box in order for you to see for yourself Lucifer’s Blade is missing, or you think maybe it’s time to let the captain in the loop since he’s the one who’s going to have to deal with the fallout?”
Dylan fished out his phone. The token slipped from his hand in the process.
He grabbed for it reflexively, realized with the dead prostitute’s body gone he had to strain once again to hear the whispers and low-level wails.
Trace’s hand lashed out, grabbing his wrist, twisting it, exposing the slash across the palm. “You fucking cut yourself on it!”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t fucking believe it.”
“Believe it.”
Trace shook his head. “I hope you plan on moving in with Seraphine.”
Christ, he wanted to, and not just to silence the noise.
He couldn’t do that to either of them.
I don’t need her. To prove it, he left the charm where it’d dropped on the seat and made the call.
“I’ll get back to you,” Captain Ellis said.
Dylan’s phone rang minutes later. The captain said, “It’s not there. I’ve just launched a full-scale search and audit of what’s stored in the evidence room. Pass the word to your partner.”
* * * * *
Camille quivered with anticipation at the sound of the tumblers moving as Helene opened the office safe. She felt like a hunting dog about to be released, but it evoked no resentment in her.
She opened and closed her hand where it rested against her thigh, the movement meant to keep her from reaching, grabbing, though she stilled and blanked her face when Helene turned from the wall, the wooden box housing the athame held between expensively jeweled fingers.
“Anxious, pet?” she asked, her smile a knowing one, and that did unleash a flash of resentment hidden in the submissive duck of Camille’s head.
“I enjoy pleasing Mistress,” she said, using soft tones and silently laughing at how it was very much like those used with the toss of grain to lure a game bird closer.
Helene hardly qualified as a mistress. She was nothing more than a bit actor caught up in tawdry role-playing because her ego enjoyed the fantasy of being able to dominate a far younger, far more beautiful woman.
Camille doubted Helene had ever stepped foot in an actual BDSM club. She wondered how much longer this game would suit her purposes. But those thoughts scattered when Helene set the box on the desk and opened it.
“Come, pet,” Helene said, and Camille went eagerly, even enjoying the fondling that followed as Mistress stroked her through the thin negligee.
“May I, Mistress?” she asked, unable to hide the trembling that came at being so close to the athame.
“Yes, pet. You may handle it. Perhaps one day I’ll allow you to use it in a ceremony.”
It was a lie, but Camille didn’t care. She had no desire to summon demons or involve herself in magic.
Near ecstasy charged through her as she lifted the blade. She shivered, moaned, barely aware of the lips touched to her neck as she remembered the slide of the knife across Robert’s throat.
“We’re going to do another summoning tonight,” Helene murmured. “It’s best to act quickly since it’ll grow more dangerous for you to pick up prostitutes once the body of last night’s sacrifice is identified.”
Greedy, greedy Mistress. It was an excuse, nothing more. She’d known Helene would never content herself with binding only one demon lord.
There would always be whores. They were easy pickings. But who was she to complain when she enjoyed using the blade?
“I’ll be careful.”
“Of course you will, pet. I’m going to work from home today. I need you to charge the athame and return with it, then you may hunt for tonight’s offering.”
Camille smiled, thinking about the redheaded nurse she’d followed home the night before. She’d always been a planner.
If she concentrated, she could feel the medallion where it lay between them, hidden beneath Helene’s tailored shirt. How many demon lords could be summoned and captured before something went wrong?
One? Two? Three? At some point it would be foolish to continue trusting in Helene’s ability to wield magic.
The hands on Camille’s breasts stroked downward. Power was an aphrodisiac, and she had it now that Lucifer’s Blade was in her possession again. She spread her legs slightly, allowing access to her clit, willing to surrender herself to orgasm.
The shrill ringtone designating one of Helene’s legal assistants interrupted. Camille ground her teeth as Mistress put business in front of pleasure, though she didn’t miss the absence of the body that had been pressed against hers, caging her between it and the desk.
Her hand tightened on the blade so hard the goat’s ruby eyes burned into her palm. Heat pooled in her cunt, her channel spasmed.
In that moment she hoped Mistress’ attention remained diverted. She had no desire to feel Helene’s touch.
A glance at the doorway betrayed the longing to escape the room and pursue her own orgasm with the rub of the blade’s hilt against her clit, the plunge of it in her hole.
“Find out what’s going on,” Helene said, the anger pulsing through her voice enough to pique curiosity and delay the craving for carnal satisfaction.
Helene slammed the phone into its cradle. The show of emotion intensified Camille’s interest, excited her further when Mistress grasped the chain around her neck and tugged it to free the medallion so she could clutch it.
“The police have swarmed on the evidence room. Sandra alerted me because of the possibility evidence impacting some of my cases might have been compromised or contaminated. That won’t be the case. The police know Lucifer’s Blade is missing. There’s only one way they could have made that connection. The witch. I should have suspected it when they found the clerk’s body so quickly.”
The fingers on the medallion bleached white with the force of her grip. “She’s a problem. She’s after the athame and is ingratiating herself with the police to get close to it.”
“You know who the witch is?”
“Yes. Her name is Seraphine Jordain.”
“Do you want me to take care of her for you?” Camille asked, the eagerness in her voice unfeigned. Getting close enough to use the blade on the witch might present far more of a challenge than killing Robert had.
Helene took a deep breath. “No, pet.”
The harsh lines of Helene’s face softened. A smile formed and Camille’s lips curved in an answering one.
She welcomed Mistress’ hands on her breasts with a moan when Helene returned to her previous position. “My preparatory work isn’t quite as exciting as yours perhaps, bu
t I’ll see to it that the witch is taken care. Just in case she survives the arrangements I make for her, I need something that belongs to her. Something personal. Her home will be warded and quite possibly protected by lesser demons, but her office at the university won’t be. It’s far trickier to keep innocents from harm in a public setting. Pay a visit and bring me something Seraphine Jordain would value. Bring it with you when you return Lucifer’s Blade before leaving to acquire tonight’s sacrifice.”
“Yes, Mistress,” she said. Sexual desire becoming sexual compliance and nothing more because of Helene’s continued insistence that the blade be returned rather than allowed to remain in her possession until it was needed to summon a demon lord.
Chapter Nine
“Chesna!” Seraphine yelled, the legs of her pants caked with swamp water and mud where she’d misjudged the firmness of the ground and sunk to her knees. “Chesna! Please answer me!”
For once she didn’t see the beauty surrounding her. All she felt was fear. Too many irresponsible pet owners had dumped their exotic pets when they grew tired or afraid of them, and those pets had found Florida the perfect habitat. Now the swamp was far more treacherous than it had been when alligators and poisonous snakes were the things to worry about.
“Chesna!” she yelled again, guided only by what Jasmine had seen in her scrying, and that had been hours ago.
Time and time again, Seraphine’s hand dropped to the phone in her pocket. She wanted to call Electra, but doing it would only make this worse. Even finding Chesna here would in all likelihood undo the positive change of yesterday. For the first time in years she’d felt she and Electra were moving closer, not further apart.
Electra was afraid of the swamp. She hadn’t been when they were younger, but she was now.
Her sister wasn’t the one who’d brought Chesna here to explore, to connect with the natural world. That blame would fall on her because she was the one who’d spent hours upon hours here under the guise of exploration—before Chesna’s gift and interest in witchcraft manifested—showing her niece how to find the things she might one day use in working magic. And now… Now Chesna desperately needed to be trained.