by Anya Bast
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.
Isabelle shivered, despite the warm air. She stood for a moment, staring out into the darkness. Somewhere in the distance, thunder boomed.
A storm was coming.
FIVE
THOMAS WAITED IN THE RECESSES OF GRIBBEN Prison for Isabelle to arrive. Micah, his cousin, stood near him.
The building was named for the Coven director who’d had it built on the sprawling Coven-owned lands. The Council had decided long ago that witches who harmed others could not be allowed to roam free in non-magickal society. First, they posed a threat to witchdom by calling attention to themselves. Second, non-magickals were ill-equipped to protect themselves against a witch with a will to harm.
The Coven had a contingent trained to deal with those who broke the rules they called witch hunters. Wayward witches were tracked down and killed outright by Coven hunters if they posed an immediate danger to others. Witches guilty of lesser crimes or only suspected of violence were caught and brought in to stand trial. If the witch was found guilty, he was housed in Gribben, an underground facility with wardings and spellcastings cemented right into the construction by some of the best earth witches to ever live.
Here, no witch could use magick—not the tenants, not the caretakers or guards, not even visitors. Working here was no treat, so the employees tended to be witches with little inherited magick, who noticed the loss less. In addition, they only worked part-time to limit their exposure to the place.
Thomas hated being in Gribben. Crossing the threshold first made him nauseous, then, as his ability to tap his power vanished, he began to feel like a piece of melba toast—dry, flavorless, and easily breakable. It was probably how the non-magickicals felt all the time.
Some of the prisoners went mad from being imprisoned in Gribben and he could see why. The threat of imprisonment here was a very effective incentive to not break Coven law. Because of that, they didn’t have a huge problem with offending witches. Only the most incorrigible or crazy ended up in Gribben.
Warlocks, witches who had publicly turned their back on Coven law and made a career of breaking the rede, often found protection within the Duskoff Cabal. The Duskoff was as organized and as powerful as the Coven. Therefore warlocks were difficult to catch. Still there were about twenty warlocks within Gribben’s walls…along with their leader, Stefan.
“Where the hell is she?” muttered Micah, glancing at his watch.
“What’s the matter? Got dust to get back to?”
Micah was the Coven archivist and self-appointed researcher. Thomas’s cousin had always been a bookworm and had graduated top of his class at MIT, though at first glance he defied the stereotype of a book geek.
He had the same body that all the males in his family possessed—strong, broad-shouldered, and tall. Micah looked more like a well-built surfer than a scholar. His dark reddish brown hair hung a little past his collar and sharp green eyes and handsome face attracted women, though he didn’t know what to do with all that female attention. Womanizer, his cousin was not.
“I just want to get this over with and get the hell out of Gribben. I can’t believe you’re letting the woman who tried to kill Stefan in cold blood help questio
n him, by the way.” Micah shook his head of shaggy hair. “Where does that get productive?”
Thomas shifted and leaned against the wall. “Her attempt wasn’t made in cold blood. Trust me, this woman doesn’t know the meaning of cold.”
Micah lifted a copper-colored brow. “So you think she’s hot, huh?”
Thomas ignored him. “I suspect she has a hell of a temper, isn’t someone to mess with, and I think she’s grieving. I also believe there’s something else going on with her, but I’m not sure what.”
“What do you mean?”
Thomas shook his head. “I don’t know yet. Her records only went back so far. The mother is a wealthy drifter, looks like. She travels all over the world, befriending men of means.”
“Prostitute?”
“Maybe not an outright prostitute, but a woman who hunts rich men for money and trinkets. There’s no record of a father for either Isabelle or Angela. Either their mother doesn’t know who fathered them or it’s because Isabelle doesn’t have a complete set of records in the archives. I actually thought I’d get you to do some more research on Isabelle and her mother, Catalina Novak. Can you do that? Dig a little deeper than what’s there now?”
He shrugged. “I can try.”
“I get an intuitive hit off Isabelle. She’s got secrets and I think they’re the kind deep hurts are made of.”
“Why do you care? I mean, why snoop into her past? Why is that relevant?”
Thomas rubbed a hand over his chin. “I want to know what we’ve just invited onto our team. If she’s got a bunch of unresolved issues that are going to muck up our investigation, I want to know about it. Anyway, I don’t think Catalina knows her daughter died yet. I thought maybe you might discover her whereabouts while you poke around for information.”
“I’ll keep an eye out. But that still doesn’t explain why you’re letting her help question Stefan. She’s dragging in a bunch of baggage.”
He studied his cousin. Micah’s mother, his aunt, had been killed by a warlock when Micah had just been a child. “You have your own issues with the Duskoff and you’re here.”
He glanced away. “Don’t we all?”
“Look, Isabelle spent a long time hunting the demon and struck out, just like us. Her sister was the second witch killed. She has a right to be here.”
“Yeah, well, I have a right to not like it,” he mumbled.
They looked up at the distant sound of clicking heels on the concrete floor. Isabelle turned a corner and walked toward them, dressed in a scoop-neck red top, faded, close-fitting jeans and a pair of red boots with heels. She wore her hair loose and long, little makeup, and no jewelry.
“Damn, you were right about her being hot,” Micah said under his breath.
“I never said that.”
“Yeah, whatever. That’s why you’re practically drooling on the floor right now.”
“It’s just the water-to-earth attraction. That’s all.”
Micah gave a derisive snort. “Uh-uh. I think I’m feeling it, too.”
Dark circles marked the smooth skin under her eyes and her face was a shade paler than normal. “This place is horrible. It’s so bad my skin wants to walk away without me.” She shuddered.
Thomas frowned. “You look tired. Are you all right?”
She glanced at him, then at Micah. “I didn’t sleep well.” She stuck her hand out toward his cousin. “I doubt Thomas will introduce us, so, hello.”
Thomas fought the urge to grind his teeth. “Isabelle, this is Micah. He’s sort of our official historian and record keeper. We don’t know much about the demons, but out of everyone in the Coven, Micah knows the most.”
His cousin shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Pleasure. Now, let’s get this over with. I’ve already been in Gribben way too long.”
They passed through the set of swinging doors at the end of the hallway and allowed a guard to let them through another set, giving them entrance into the cell block. All the small containment rooms held just one prisoner each.
The chambers were uniformly bare, with only a bed and small bathroom apiece. There were no bars. The place was set up more like a psych ward in a hospital than a traditional prison. The inmates were allowed little to no contact between them and they were never allowed to go outside, not for the entirety of their terms, since outside meant beyond the charmed walls.
“Has anyone ever escaped this place?” asked Isabelle, her gaze eating up the austere, depressing surroundings with interest. “Bribe a guard? Escape into the ventilation?”
Thomas shook his head. “There have been attempts, none successful.”
She glanced up at the white walls and shivered. “If I were an inmate here, I’d spend every second of my time trying to get out.”
“You’d probably succeed, too.”
She gave him a coy glance, big brown eyes warm beneath long ginger-colored lashes. “Flatterer.”
Accompanied by two armed guards, they walked to a room at the end of a long corridor and stood in front of a metal door with a viewing slit in the top. One of the guards produced a key and led them inside.
Stefan sat on the bed wearing light gray Gribben prison clothes and soft-soled shoes. He appeared so harmless when he was powerless, just like any other silly, millionaire playboy who’d been naughty and been thrown in county lockup. His pretty boy face wore a morose expression, his shoulders slumped. In a word, he looked humiliated.
Was it an act, or was he genuinely suffering under the burden of having his magick removed? Stefan was an extremely powerful warlock and Gribben tended to be harder on them.
Or maybe he was feeling the injuries Isabelle had dealt him. He’d still be able to sire children, but the doctors said it had been a close thing. The thought of Stefan being a father sent chills through him. Perhaps Isabelle should have been more thorough.
Isabelle and Micah hung back by the door with the guards while Thomas took a few steps into the bare room, the heels of his shoes sounding on the concrete floor. Despite his approach, Stefan only had eyes for Isabelle and they sparked with pure murderous hatred.
Thomas walked into his line of sight, blocking Isabelle’s form and forcing Stefan to move his gaze to Thomas’s face. He did, slowly.
“Do you know why you’re here, Stefan?”
“Because of that bitch.” The words were low and clearly pronounced.
“Wrong.”
Defiance flared across his face, hot and unrelenting. His blue eyes seemed to burn in his ashen face. It made it clear that, though he may be suffering under the effects of Gribben and from his injuries, Stefan was not down for the count, not by a long shot.
“Do you really think you and your Coven could have taken me, Monahan? I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for that bitch of a witch.”
“I’d be happy to try and freeze it off again, Stefan,” said Isabelle, “if you’re not happy with my first attempt.”
Stefan bolted toward Isabelle, but the guards aimed their guns at him. The cold, metallic sound of their weapons being repositioned and aimed rooted Stefan in place not far from his bunk. Stefan had no magick to call and he knew it. He slid slowly back to his original spot, his baleful gaze centered on Isabelle.
“If you can’t resist goading him, Isabelle, I’ll ask you to leave,” said Thomas in a low, icy voice without turning around.
“Sorry.” She didn’t actually sound sorry, however.
“Stefan, you’re here because you tried to kill four witches in a demon circle last winter and because you’re the head of the Duskoff, the organization responsible for the demon currently residing in our dimension.”
“I was a child when that demon was birthed. I bear no responsibility.”
Thomas ignored him. “You’re also here because we need information.” He paused. “If we didn’t need that information, I would’ve let Isabelle kill you.”
“You want to know about the demon, the one who will not go home,” replie
d Stefan. “If I tell you, will you still kill me?”
“If you cooperate, you buy your life.”
Stefan laughed harshly and looked up. “Right. You would not kill me here. Not now, when I am stripped of my magick and defenseless this way. That is against your precious code of conduct. Harm ye none. But you don’t understand I would rather die than stay here in this magickless place. To imprison me here is to harm, you fool.”
Thomas blinked slowly. “You brought it on yourself. Think of it as karma.”
“I will not give you anything without receiving something in return.”
Thomas had anticipated this, but it made his blood heat all the same. Being divested of his magick had stripped Stefan of his usual bravado, though it was clear that he still possessed his will…and his gall.
He took two steps forward and yanked Stefan up by his shirt front. “Didn’t you hear me?” his voice shook with emotion, trembled with the restraint it took not to punch Stefan out cold. This warlock had nearly killed his cousin last winter and Thomas took threats to his family very seriously.
“I guess I didn’t. Explain it again.” A sneer saturated the words.
“You’re alive only because of the information you can give us. You will tell us what we want to know without any concessions on our part.” He let go. Stefan sat down hard on the bed. “You have no leverage here. You have no power here.”
Stefan didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look at Thomas. He simply stared past Thomas at the wall, barely banked rage in his eyes. Stefan looked ready to snap and Thomas wondered for a moment if he would attack him in an attempt to commit suicide by prison warden.
Micah stepped forward impatiently and broke the tension. “Why didn’t the demon go home, Stefan? Usually they’re yanked through the doorway created in the Duskoff’s demon circle, they serve the warlocks, have their fun, and they return to their world. They don’t want to spend their entire existence here. So why has this one stayed?”