Witch Blood

by Anya Bast

  Catalina looked up from her shoes.

  Isabelle sucked a sharp breath. “Oh. You’re here about the will, aren’t you?” She nodded. “Of course that’s why you’re here. I’m so stupid.”

  Catalina lifted her chin. “It’s not the primary reason I came. I wanted to see you, see how you were doing with everything. I came for you, Isabelle.”

  Before Catalina had even finished her last sentence, Isabelle had turned away and wrapped her arms across her chest. “The will has been read, Mother. You weren’t in it. There’s nothing for you.”

  Catalina shook her head. “That’s not possible. Angela had some jewelry, diamonds. She said once that if she—”

  Isabelle rounded on Catalina. “There was nothing in Angela’s will for you. She left everything to me, even the diamond jewelry. I don’t wear jewelry, so I plan to give it all to charity. You see, Mother, you came all this way for nothing.”

  “Isabelle, you keep those diamonds in the family! Do you hear me? I will not allow you to give those Harry Winstons to charity!”

  “What family, Mother? What we have is not family! Don’t even use that word when you’re talking about our relationship.” She narrowed her eyes. “And don’t say another word to me about those diamonds.” Isabelle whirled, left the room, and slammed the door behind her.

  Catalina stood frozen, staring at the door. “My daughter has always been a handful, Mr. Monahan. She’s always been…volatile.”

  Thomas took a moment to answer. “I like her that way.”

  “That didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Catalina’s perfect face crumpled for a moment before she regained her composure. “I do want a relationship with her. I do love her, you know.”

  “That’s not something you should tell me, Catalina.”

  She turned her gaze to his and he was jarred once again by Isabelle’s eyes staring from her face. “You’re with her romantically, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “She won’t stay with you, you know. She never stays. Isabelle is like me that way. She’s a traveler, a mover. Isabelle might hate me, but she’s a kindred spirit in that regard. Even when she was a child she liked it when I moved them between caregivers and countries.”

  “Are you so sure about that?”

  She licked her lips and glanced away. “I was not cut out for motherhood.”

  “Then why have children?”

  She shrugged. “It happens. You know Angela has”—she swallowed hard—“had a different father than Isabelle?”

  “I suspected, yes.”

  “They were both accidents. I never meant to have kids at all. It probably would have been better if I hadn’t.”

  “I strongly disagree. The world would have suffered for the lack of Isabelle and Angela.”

  A smile flickered over her lips. “Through no help from me they both turned out well. Especially Angela. I still don’t know how that happened. Must have been her father’s genes. Isabelle is—”

  “Perfect. Isabelle is perfect in every way.”

  Catalina tilted her flawless face toward him. Vulnerability engulfed her expression for a moment. “Does she still have claustrophobia?”

  Guilt filled his stomach with lead. When Isabelle had revealed her phobia of locked rooms right after he’d locked her in one, he’d felt so bad he would have done anything in the world to make it up to her. “Yes.”

  “She has that fear because of me, because I left her with someone who mistreated them.”

  “What?” Anger simmered. “Mistreated them? What are you talking about?”

  She turned away from him, showed him her rigid back, and took a couple steps away. “They spent time with some people they shouldn’t have once or twice.” She shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe more often than that. Isabelle was a handful, always misbehaving. Once, when she was six, one of her caretakers locked her in a closet for four days. No food, no water, no light. She ended up in the hospital, would have died of dehydration if Angela hadn’t spilled water under the door’s crack. That’s why Isabelle is claustrophobic. She used to have recurring nightmares, too.”

  Four days. She’d only been six years old.

  The anger simmering in his blood came to a boil. He took a step toward the woman in front of him and clenched his fists so hard he probably drew blood from his palms with his fingernails. “Why are you telling me this?”

  She turned toward him with sorrow in her eyes. “Because someone who cares about Isabelle needs to know.”

  Thomas closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at the woman who had caused Isabelle so much pain. “I’m going to ask you to leave now, Catalina.” The words came out steadier than he’d expected.

  “Yes, it’s past time. I’m more than happy to since I failed so miserably with Isabelle.” She paused. “Where is Angela buried?” The words came out barely a whisper.

  “Groveland Cemetery.”

  “Thank you.”

  Thomas listened to the click of Catalina’s shoes on the floor and the door gently close behind her. He stayed that way for a moment, confused.

  Catalina did love Isabelle, though in a mystifying way that he couldn’t wrap his mind around. Catalina was far too self-serving and egotistical to be a decent mother, yet she knew it and felt guilty about it. It was clear she regretted how she allowed her daughters to be raised and what had happened to them in the care of others….

  One of her caretakers had locked Isabelle in a closet for four days.

  Thomas tried to find some pity in his heart for Catalina, some way to help her make the connection with her surviving daughter that she was too clumsy to make herself…and came up short. He only felt searing rage for Catalina right now. Maybe sometime later he’d feel something else.

  All Thomas wanted now was Isabelle in his arms. All he wanted was the impossible—to turn back the clock and make the pain go away for her, to give her a childhood like he’d had. One in which she’d been safe, loved, and protected.

  He turned on his heel, sought the door and the woman he was falling in love with.

  ISABELLE STOOD ON ONE OF THE MANY BRIDGES IN THE Coven conservatory, watching gardeners tend the plants and flowers that grew in profusion. This was the first place she’d thought of when she’d left her mother, a quiet, serene place where she could be alone with her thoughts.

  And there was water here. The sound of the small stream burbling happily underneath the bridge upon which she stood calmed her. She focused on the current, the flow of the water around rocks and over pebbles, sluicing by the koi that swam in it. Isabelle joined her consciousness with it for a moment and all her residual tension leaked away.

  Water took the path of least resistance.

  For just a flicker of time when she’d first seen Catalina, she’d seriously wondered if her mother had come because she was grieving Angela. Perhaps her mother had made the trip to Chicago because she cared that one of her daughters had died. Maybe Catalina had even come for her remaining daughter, Isabelle. The little girl inside her who still yearned for her mother’s affection had experienced a flash of guarded happiness. That one instant of hope had made the realization Catalina had come only for the will that much more devastating.

  Isabelle closed her eyes. She couldn’t deny there was still a part of her that longed for her mother to be a mother. Clearly, that would never happen. She needed to stop wishing for it.

  Isabelle sensed Thomas behind her long before she heard his step on the bridge or felt his broad, warm hand on her shoulder. She closed her eyes and sighed. How could it be that his presence made everything seem better?

  She wasn’t some stupid woman whose problems were solved by the touch of a man, but maybe this was what everyone talked about, sang about, and wrote books about—love? At the very least perhaps it was the magic of a close relationship.

  Thomas massaged her shoulders, his strong fingers seeking out and easing away all the knots and tension that exist
ed there. Isabelle opened her eyes and let a smile play on her lips. Whatever it was, it was good.

  He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “You okay?”

  She shook her head. “Not really, but I’m better now.”

  “Your mom is fascinating. I think a shrink would have a good time with her.”

  She snorted. “She’s not really my mom. She’s just the woman who gave birth to me.” Isabelle didn’t want to believe that, though. The words felt too harsh in her mouth.

  Thomas pulled her back against him and enveloped her in his arms. She nestled into his chest, inhaling the scent of him and enjoying the warmth of his body. “I think Catalina is starting to understand what she missed in you and Angela.”

  Tears pricked her eyes. “Do you think she’s capable of that? Truly?”

  Thomas went silent for a long moment. “Yes.”

  A sob of grief bubbled up from somewhere deep inside her, like a pocket of sorrow that had been stored in the depths of her soul had suddenly been popped. “I miss my sister, Thomas.”

  She hadn’t cried once since she’d found Angela, not really, but now it seemed like all the tears she’d stored up rushed forth in a torrent.

  Thomas eased her down to the bridge and sat, holding her in his lap, and let it happen. He made soft sounds at her and brushed his fingers through her hair, seeming to understand as well as she did that she needed this release.

  Memories flooded her mind. Playing jacks with Angela on the front steps of the brownstone where they’d lived for a time in Chicago. Running down to the pond in France where they’d watched the other kids race toy sailboats. Isabelle remembered her first date and how her older sister had given her a small amount of advice based on her own limited experience. She’d helped her do her hair and then sat up with her when she’d returned home crying because the boy hadn’t been all she’d hoped.

  Lord and Lady, she missed Angela.

  Isabelle cried until her eyes were dry, her makeup was nonexistent, her nose ran, and her head pounded. Despite all that, at the end, she felt better than she had in a long time. She felt emptied of the heaviness she’d been carrying around since her sister’s death.

  As the afternoon faded into twilight and the small lights illuminating the pathways in the conservatory gradually grew brighter, Isabelle rested her head against Thomas’s shoulder and sighed. “I ruined your shirt. My mascara ran all over it.”

  “I didn’t like this one anyway.” His low voice rumbled through her, rough and silken at the same time.

  All of a sudden Isabelle wanted to be in bed with him, craved the slide of his skin across hers, the slip of his lips over her mouth and all that wonderful dark hair brushing over her body.

  But it would have to wait. Twilight had fallen and they had a demon to hunt.

  “Do you really think it’s possible my mother could regret?”

  He stroked her hair. “I believe she is regretting now, Isabelle. It’s just that she doesn’t have the first clue how to make amends.”

  “And maybe it’s too late.”

  “Yes, and maybe it’s too late. That’s for you and her to work through.” He paused. “She mentioned that sometimes she left you and your sister with people who didn’t treat you well. Is that true?”

  Isabelle stiffened against him. “It didn’t happen that often. There were two times…Neither was very long. But once she paid this woman, Marie, to keep us for a while. She lived in Marseilles. Anyway, I was a little kid, always getting into trouble. Smacks never really bothered me as far as discipline went. So one day…I don’t even remember what I did anymore…Marie got fed up with me and locked me in a closet.” She swallowed hard, still able to feel the press of the darkness like a physical presence and her throat working dry from a lack of water. “And there I stayed for four days.”

  Thomas tightened his arms around her.

  “Angela tried and tried to open it, but couldn’t. She stayed with me the whole time, tried to push food and water under the tiny crack beneath the door.”

  “Catalina said that’s why you’re claustrophobic and that you used to have recurring nightmares.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “What did your mother do when she found out what happened?”

  She shrugged. “She moved us somewhere else. That time we went to live with her and her flavor-of-the-month, Fredrick, in Switzerland for a while.” She sighed. “Anyway, all that’s ancient history. You can’t change the past. I rarely have nightmares anymore and the claustrophobia is much better than it used to be.”

  Isabelle lifted her head, aware that she probably looked horrible—no makeup, tear-stained face—and was happy for the dim light in the conservatory, though she felt comfortable with Thomas, even looking like shit. “So when do we go?”

  “Go?”

  She wiped at her cheeks. “When do we leave to make the rounds for Boyle?”

  His face tightened. “I don’t want you going tonight.”

  Damn it. Pleasant mood shattered, Isabelle pushed away from him and stood. “I really don’t care, Thomas, what you want.”

  Thomas rose. “I’m going with Adam and Micah. I want you to stay here with Jack McAllister. He’s been instructed to guard you against Boyle if he shows up here again.”

  Isabelle stared at him for a moment, her teeth clenched. She had to force words through her locked jaw. “I can take care of myself. Just because you’re fucking me doesn’t give you the right to tell me what to do.” She turned on her heel and stalked away.

  She got five steps away before his commanding voice filled the air. “As the head of the Coven, under which you are subject at this time, I order you to stay behind tonight. This has nothing to do with the fact I’m fucking you.”

  “Bullshit, Thomas.”

  Isabelle summoned her magick, feeling it flicker warmly in the center of her chest and spread down her arms. She reached out to the nearby stream and manipulated the molecules to do her bidding. A splash and a series of curses met her ears. Isabelle didn’t even break stride.

  SEVENTEEN

  THOMAS HAD CHANGED INTO DRY CLOTHES. NOW HE wore a pair of jeans broken in enough he could move in them, leather boots, and a dark sweater. Sheathed to his back was a short sword, a long black coat covering it. It was warm outside and he felt stupid wearing the thing, but it was the only way to keep the blade concealed.

  Worse, based on the experience Isabelle had had with the demon in the library, it was possible the blades wouldn’t even work. However, copper was still their best—and only—weapon against Boyle.

  Isabelle descended the stairs. She wore a pair of well-worn jeans, black boots, a black sweater…and a stubborn set to her jaw. Clearly, she had every intention of accompanying them.

  Clearly, she was mistaken.

  Thomas knew logically that if the demon desired it, he could find Isabelle anywhere and at any time. The Coven walls were no defense. However, the likelihood of surprising the demon at some point during their nightly canvasses of the area was higher than the demon returning to the Coven.

  So Thomas presumed anyway.

  He just wanted—needed—to do all he could to keep Isabelle safe and this was the best way he knew how.

  “You’re not coming,” he said flatly as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Micah and Adam hadn’t shown up yet.

  Isabelle opened her mouth to reply, but someone rang at the Coven’s guard gate, cutting her off. Douglas, the witch who managed the house, emerged through a door, but Thomas waved him off and walked to the entryway console and pressed Talk.

  On the front gate’s video monitor, an image of Catalina appeared. She was seated in a black convertible. “Mr. Monahan? I’m here to see Isabelle.”

  Thomas looked over at Isabelle who had gone from looking stubborn badass to vulnerable in about two seconds flat.

  She hugged herself. “If it’s about jewelry, don’t let her in.”

  “It’s not about jewelry,” answered Cata
lina right away. “It’s about me and Isabelle.” She pursed her lips. “It’s private.”

  Thomas looked at Isabelle again. She only nodded once, slowly.

  “Are you sure?” Thomas asked.

  She nodded again. “Goddamn it, yes.”

  Thomas pressed the button to open the Coven gates and watched Catalina drive through. Then he took a couple steps toward Isabelle, holding her now uncertain gaze, as Adam walked through one of the doors leading off the entranceway. Thomas halted.

  “I have a feeling about tonight,” Adam announced, walking toward them as he rolled up the sleeves of his dark blue shirt. “I think tonight—” He stopped short. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Isabelle answered, breaking Thomas’s gaze to look at Adam. “Everything is fine. Thomas didn’t want me to come and, now, conveniently, I can’t go.”

  She turned and walked upstairs. “Can you please tell Catalina to meet me upstairs?” She stopped and looked at Thomas, her face grim. “And please be careful. I have a feeling about tonight, too.”

  THE RED ROCK WAS A BAR ON THE FRINGES OF Chicago owned by a witch and patronized by the same. It was also one of three witch-frequented watering holes where Boyle was known to hang out. Thomas had a hard time picturing the demon slamming back a cold brew, but apparently he enjoyed one now and again.

  Or maybe it was the witches he enjoyed.

  Adam entered the bar after Thomas and headed straight over to order a tall glass of Absolut. He couldn’t blame him. This was the last stop after a long evening of dead ends.

  Thomas was sick of dead ends, sick of flying blind. If there was one thing in this life that made him insane, it was his inability to control situations. Especially situations that put people he cared about at risk.

  The tattoo on his back twitched with the extra large store of magick he’d infused it with. Thomas wanted a fight, wanted something, anything, with Boyle. The entirety of his magickical body trembled with the urge to engage.