He went back to the front where he’d parked the truck. The house was secure, and she was inside according to the tracking device. Get in the truck and drive away.
His boots were rooted to the ground. Uneasiness tightened the back of his neck. Why had she sung?
Earlier today, she’d been attacked. He’d seen her fighting off that demon-possessed man. What if she was in trouble and he just couldn’t hear it? She was blind; anything could have happened. Maybe she got up and fell, was hurt, and used her voice to try to heal. Maybe …
“Fuck.” He’d been down this road before with his mother. The constant worry and struggle about her. He hadn’t been able to leave her for fear of what the voices in her head would tell her to do. And when he did leave her, all he did was worry. Years and years of that shit and it still hadn’t been enough.
He didn’t want to be this witch’s caretaker. She wasn’t crazy like his mom, but she was too damned vulnerable. She had too much baggage, she wasn’t one of his “get in, do the job, and get out” bounty hunts. This witch was soul-destroying trouble, and he should just walk away.
But he couldn’t leave. Not until he was sure she was okay. Quietly he opened the truck door, got out a case containing slim tools, and moved up to her door. He’d learned to pick locks on empty buildings, desperate to find him and his mom a warm, relatively safe place to sleep. Other times, when his mother wasn’t in the grip of the voices but was fully with him, they’d get into empty buildings just to explore and find treasures. Those were the good times, the memories that were like bright, dazzling stars in his dark mind. He went to the door, dropped to one knee, and went to work on the dead bolt.
Using his witch hunter ability to bend sound waves, he muted the scrapes and clicks and opened the bolt. It all felt depressingly familiar. He’d worked and made a good amount of money, built a custom home, and he still felt like a street rat. Standing, he slid the tools into his pocket and then opened the door.
He would just check. If she was asleep, she never needed to know he’d been in her house. He closed the door and inhaled her mango scent. He ignored the living room, kitchen, and dining room, following his nose to the first bedroom across the hallway.
The scent was stronger. She smelled too damned good, too alluring. Just a hint of coconut blood, but enough to stir his bloodlust. The thought of slipping into her room, pulling his knife, and cutting her for the cooling relief of her warm blood splattered in his head.
Shit, he belonged in the gutter. Breaking into her house, then thinking about cutting her … Enough. He stepped into the room. He’d leave as soon as he knew she was okay.
Then he saw her. Ailish lay still, twisted up in tan-colored sheets, the burgundy comforter thrown back. Her body was tensed—he could see the definition of her biceps, the bulge of her jaw, and her clenched fists. But even though her lids were closed, her eyes were doing that rapid movement thing.
Something wasn’t right. He didn’t like this; he could almost sense that she was trapped and hurting somehow.
He clenched his jaw. She was asleep. He was going to leave.
But he walked toward her, dropping the shield that muted the sounds he made. “Ailish?”
She made a desperate noise in her throat, her face screwing up as if she were in pain. Then he saw her hips rising, her body curving as though she were arching for a lover. A sex dream? He shifted his gaze back to her face and saw one lone tear slide down and disappear into her hair.
A burnt butter smell was overtaking her scent. She was in pain! He didn’t think, just reacted, putting his hand on her bare shoulder, his finger touching the strap of her tank top. “Ailish, wake up.”
“Can’t!” she cried desperately.
Her tone set off a shriek of rage in his head. What the fuck was this? He reached for the sheets beneath her breasts and jerked them off her. Still not thinking, he scooped her up, turned, and sat down with her on his lap. “Come on, Ailish. Wake up.”
She jerked in his arms. “No! I refuse!”
Refused to wake up? No, wait … when she’d thought he was a demon last night, she’d told him she refused. She started to fight him in earnest, one fist catching him on his shoulder.
If she hit him with her magic …
“Ailish! Damn it, it’s Phoenix. Stop!”
The fight drained out of her. “Phoenix?” Slowly she opened her eyes. The pupils were dilated, her silvery eyes damp. She tried to scramble out of his hold. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He let her go, and as soon as she broke contact with him, his skin felt as if it were being peeled back from his nerves. Shit, the bloodlust hit hard. Rising, he snapped, “You sang and called me to you like a damned dog. Why, Ailish? You were asleep, so don’t tell me you were trying to break the handfast.”
She backed up to the wall and crossed her arms over herself in a protective gesture. “You can’t break into my house!”
“Can and did. Answer the question.” He should go, yet he couldn’t seem to leave her alone in the house, blind, with no protection.
She rubbed her forehead. “The demon trapped me in a dream, and I sang to wake up. Once I woke, I remembered what you said, so the next time, I didn’t use my voice.” She dropped her hand. “I won’t go back to sleep now. No reason for you to be here.”
He tried to tell himself to just walk away. But the memory of her trapped, that single tear running down her face, the acid scent of burnt butter, battered the hell out of his chest. “What kind of dream?”
Her fingers dug into her crossed arms. “Sex dreams. Asmodeus amps up my lust, hoping to break me down so I give in to the next possessed man. But tonight, I think this was just about revenge for today.”
That three-headed prick of a demon was hurting her with lust. Phoenix couldn’t stand it, could not tolerate it. Her scent was torturing him. Mango heat, teasing coconut, but it was the burnt scent that was making his nose twitch. He took a step toward her, drawn to her, unable to stop.
Ailish snapped her head up. “I told you I’m not going to sing. I don’t want you here.”
It was like a slap. “You think I want this? Suddenly leashed to a blind witch who is handfasted to a demon?” He was so close to her, he could feel her breath, feel the warmth of her skin.
She flinched, her voice dropping to icy control. “No one’s leashing you, hunter. No one asked you to be here. Get the hell out of my house.”
He clenched his fists at his sides to keep from touching her. “Not like I had a choice! I got my ass tossed off a two-story building tonight when you started that singing shit. Then I was compelled to come here, had to check to make sure you were okay, like I’m a fucking babysitter.” He knew he was being an asshole, but goddamn it, he’d fought to build his life. Nothing had caged him, not even the bloodlust. He’d controlled that by copious amounts of sex and taking out his rage on rogues. Now it was all being ripped apart and he was powerless to do anything about it.
She lifted her chest, her cheeks and neck darkening with angry color. “Lucky for you there’s an expiration date on your babysitting job.”
Her sarcasm cut through his roiling emotions. Forcing himself to calm down, to get control, he said, “What does that mean?”
Her silvery gaze settled on his face, as if she could almost see him. In a calm, talking-to-a-two-year-old voice, she said, “If I don’t get this handfast off by my twenty-fourth birthday in less than two weeks, I’ll die. Then you’ll be free.”
Die. The word clanged in his head, banging around like a pinball machine. She’d die. His soul mirror. The new tattoo began pulling at his skin, as if trying to reach out to her, to somehow get its wings around her and hold her safe. While Phoenix’s chest felt like a heavy stone of failure.
First his mother.
Then his soul mirror.
Ailish walked past him, straight out of her bedroom.
It snapped him out of his shock, and he turned, following her. She moved with a surety and grace t
hat was surprising in a woman who couldn’t see, not pausing until she got to the front door. She yanked it open. Stood there, one hand on the door handle, the other on her hip, chin up, sightless eyes defiant. “Next time you get the urge to drop by and break in, don’t.”
He strode to her, jerked the door out of her hand, and slammed it. Then he backed her to the wall and pressed his hands against the plaster on either side of her head. “That’s why you came back here, because time is running out. So here’s the question: What are you going to do if you can’t get the handfast off?” All kinds of thoughts rushed through his mind. Including the scenario that if he finished the bond with Ailish, his soul would become one with hers.
What would happen to his soul if she became a demon witch?
Her face was impassive. “Die. I’ve resisted for seven years, eleven and a half months. I’m never going to serve the demon.”
The stone in his chest was crumbling into hot, possessive lava rocks. His biceps twitched with the need to hold her, to somehow stop death from touching her. Yet the bloodlust whispered to kill her now, slide his knife from the holster and cut her, bleed out all the power in her blood. And then there was the ache in his groin. It was all gathering, all pressing in on him. Yet she stood there with her shoulders pressed back against the wall, alone and self-contained, with no one to help her. It twisted his balls. Before he knew it, his hands slid to her face.
Her skin was hot against his palms, and the dark, bloody craving faded beneath a recognition when he touched her. Something he couldn’t define, but a real, this-is-where-I-belong feeling that Phoenix had never had.
Ever.
As if he’d searched and searched for a century and finally found his home. Now he had to taste it, touch it, learn it. He leaned his head down. “I want to believe you, believe in you, Ailish. Believe that you will fight this demon even into death.” But how could he believe she’d fight to the end when there was a way out by becoming a demon witch? Hadn’t he found his mother bloodied and dead by her own hand, unwilling to fight the voices anymore? Not even for him.
She sucked in a breath.
He felt the swells of her magic wash over him in waves of velvet heat. The need in her was so vivid, his cock went hard and ready, while her mango-tropical scent saturated his lungs. No more acrid burn, only clean tropics with the lush, buttery desire. “Christ, I can feel your need. Even your magic is yearning for touch.” It hurt him to feel it.
She put her hands on his chest. “I can handle it—”
“I can’t.” He cut her off by brushing his mouth over hers, back and forth in a plea. He could ease her. He wouldn’t go too far, just feed some of her need, give her some pleasure.
She dug her fingers into his chest, her body twanging with desire.
Phoenix shifted, opening his mouth over hers, sliding his tongue into the damp heat that tasted like warm mango. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her from the wall into his body. The feel of her breasts against his chest, his cock pressing into her stomach, her hips arching … He swept his hand down the curve of her back to cradle her hip.
More! She was so enticing, her hot body fitting against his, her magic shimmering over him, her tongue stroking his. More skin, more of Ailish. He snaked his hand under her shirt, sweeping his palm and fingers over the curve of her waist and up the bunching muscles of her back.
Lifting his mouth, he looked down into her flushed face. “You’re strong.” That enticed the shit out of him, the realization that she was strong enough to handle him, all 240 pounds of him thrusting into her, with nothing between them. He shuddered at the image. He slid his hand down her back, dipping his fingers into the waistband of the little shorts she wore.
Deeper.
Until he felt the globe of her ass in his hand. Felt exactly where she got the pure power behind her kicks. So sexy … Still watching her face, he said, “Let me take you back to your bed and …”
Her brilliant witch-shimmer dimmed, her magic pulled back, and he felt her muscles tense. “No. I … no.” She pushed against his chest. “Let go of me.”
Her voice rose slightly, an edge in there he couldn’t pin down. Taking his hand from her sweet ass, he fought the raging need. He stepped back but kept one hand on her upper arm. He didn’t dare let go, not when he was so fired up. The bloodlust would rush in like a geyser. “What’s wrong?”
Her eyes tightened at the edges; even her neck was tense. “I’m not sleeping with you. Not with anyone. I’m not.”
He couldn’t get his head around her sudden shift. “Is this about the soul-mirror bond? That takes full-on intercourse, along with an exchange of blood. But we can do other things.”
She shook her head, her gaze shifting around as if she couldn’t focus. “No. I’m not … just no. You don’t want this, either, you said you don’t want this.”
Shit, he’d been too long without sex. It was making him willing to drop to his knees and beg. But Phoenix didn’t beg, and he’d never had a shortage of willing women. “Do us both a favor, then, Ailish, and don’t sing.” He turned, still holding her shoulder, and yanked open the door. Then he let go and hurried out.
The first wave of bloodlust hit him on the porch. “Lock the damned door!” he snarled. By the time he got to the truck, he was sweating, his guts were cramping, and his veins burned. He climbed in the truck, jammed the keys in the ignition, and told himself to drive. Get away from her and find a woman to help him ease the pain.
He couldn’t bring himself to turn over the ignition.
Couldn’t leave her there, alone, blind, and unprotected.
He slammed the steering wheel with his palm. “Idiot.” But the battle was lost. He was right back where he’d been as a kid, trapped in the cage of a caretaker.
And his patient was slated to die. He was doomed to failure.
“Fucking perfect.”
DAYS REMAINING ON HANDFAST CONTRACT: TWELVE
“You stayed here again?” Phoenix asked as he walked into the condo kitchen, inhaling the scent of freshly ground coffee beans.
Key had just finished working out. His hair was matted with sweat, and that weird-ass dragon on his chest seemed to watch Phoenix. “You had my truck until you dragged in an hour ago.”
He’d slept in the truck, parked in front of Ailish’s house. “My bike was here, and there’re several vehicles parked in the garage. Something is eating you.”
Key grabbed two mugs and poured out some coffee. He slid Phoenix’s cup across the granite bar and spooned some sugar in his. “I’ve been drawing Liam again.”
Phoenix snatched the spoon from him to stop the massive sugar dumping. Key’s family considered him a puny runt and tried to kill him, as if he were the runt of the litter. At just a hair over six feet, Key was tall for a mortal, but not for a witch hunter. He’d escaped, running away and living on the streets. Through Haley Ryan, the woman who ran the homeless shelter, Key and Phoenix became friends since they were both witch hunters. And Sheri took to Key, too, loving him nearly as much as she had Phoenix … when she wasn’t caught up in the voices. “You sure Liam’s even alive? He’s rogue, went rogue at what, fifteen?”
“If I’m drawing him, my brother’s alive.” The muscles in his chest and shoulders rippled with his old rage. “I see him in the drawings, and that he’s killing witches, but not where he is.” He lifted his gaze. “He is alive. That bastard breathes while …” He snapped his mouth shut on the words.
Phoenix took a drink of coffee but tasted only bitter memories. Key’s brother lived while the girl Liam had tortured and killed to find out where Key was hadn’t breathed in over a decade. She had been Key’s first love.
Key hadn’t been able to find Liam to kill him as he’d killed all the others who came after him. At the time, Phoenix thought he’d go insane with the rage and grief inside him. He had felt so furious and helpless, and he hadn’t known how to help Key.
But his reality-challenged mother had been there, stepping in
and caring for Key, giving him a safe place to fall apart, then teaching him how to cope by spending his inner rage in drawings.
Key drained half his mug of java, then ran his hand over his face. “I have to find him and—”
Someone pounded on the front door. Loud and long.
Phoenix slid off the stool and stalked to the door, then jerked it open.
Joe paced in the hallway, his hands fisted, his hair looking as if it’d been combed by a shredder, his face pulled back in a grimace. He jerked to a stop, whipped his head around, and said, “Morgan thinks I’m working for Eric.”
Phoenix couldn’t be more shocked if Joe had said he’d started life as a woman. “She was there when her husband clamped you to a table to torture you for sleeping with her. Morgan knows you love her.” Joe did love her. He was willing to take on another man’s kid. Hell, the kid was a witch hunter, not a mortal like Joe.
“It doesn’t matter! She’s not listening! Carla and Darcy told me to leave, that I was upsetting her too much. They’re afraid she’s going to start having contractions.”
Phoenix narrowed his eyes, feeling the old anger rise. At Morgan’s dead rogue husband, and all rogues who did this shit to women. But there was more … letting the craziness in her head hurt Joe sent Phoenix off the edge. “This is bullshit.” He stormed out into the hallway, went right, then opened the door to Joe’s condo.
Morgan sat on the couch, her hands clenched beneath her belly. Her blond hair was pulled back in a clip, her face was thinner, and she was rocking slightly. Carla sat on the coffee table facing her, her hands on Morgan’s knees. Darcy sat next to her with the laptop open.
They all looked up in surprise. Morgan sucked in a breath. “See! He’s brought help! They’ll take my baby!” She jumped up, almost tripping over Darcy as she tried to run to the hallway on the far side of the condo.
Phoenix moved at high speed, getting in front of Morgan.
“Phoenix!” Darcy called out.
He ignored them, looking at the woman in front of him. He could smell her too-sweet fear, and it tugged at his chest.
Night Magic: A Wing Slayer Novel Page 10