“Finally, you are here. I was becoming most impatient.”
Circe scowled, but wisely said nothing. She placed the incubus within the borders of the chalk sigil Famine sketched on the filthy pavement. With care, the sorceress arranged the male’s limbs in each point of the pentagram within the circle, ensuring his head faced north. He clenched his fists at his sides to keep from backhanding the female across the face and shoving her aside as to do it himself.
Finally satisfied, Circe stepped back and glanced up. They locked gazes, the sorceress’s jaw tight and blue eyes burning with hatred. The flames flickered within her cobalt irises, flaring so bright Famine could almost feel the heat of them. Such dangerous bravado inside this insolent female. She made it clear she despised the manner in which he spoke to her. Too fucking bad. They weren’t equals. If Circe didn’t like the way she was treated, Famine would gladly hand her off to Joshua without a second thought. A sorceress, class eight, would thrill Greed to his very soul. Adding an immortal like Circe to his extensive collection of living showpieces would take care of that petulant attitude of hers. Cuffed and caged, the disrespectful bitch would be tortured every day for the rest of her immortal existence.
“It’s not easy to kidnap an immortal, Famine,” Circe spat, her beautiful features twisted with rage.
Famine stalked over to the mouthy sorceress, sidestepping around the circle until they stood toe to toe. Being a great deal shorter than his near seven-foot human form, he bent in half to meet Circe’s fiery glare. To make certain there could be no mistaking the threat for anything else, he enunciated each word as he glared at the female who skirted dangerously close to crossing a line, the results of which he knew she would regret.
“I happen to know quite a bit about kidnapping immortals, sorceress.” The sassy expression on her face melted and her dark eyes widened. “It is not as difficult as you make it out to be. In truth,” he slowly scanned the female from head to toe, licking his lips as his did so. “It’s quite easy to make someone disappear.” Famine reveled in his victory as the defiance bled out of her posture. The stench of fear flooded his nostrils. “Do not forget your place in this relationship.” Normally, for a Horseman, a fight with a class eight practitioner would be an even match, but with her help, he had become more powerful than her many times over. Destroying the sorceress wouldn’t even make him break a sweat… and she knew it.
He lifted a slender hand and laid the tip of a single bony finger on Circe’s smooth cheek. She tried not to flinch, but beautiful he was not. Few could be touched by Famine—or any of the Horsemen—without feeling the evil within. Her face paled beneath his hand. One millimeter at a time, he ran his fingertip down her jaw to the curve of her throat, dragging a sharp nail across the flawless skin. When he reached the base of Circe’s throat, he exerted just enough pressure to create a tiny puncture wound. The muscles of her throat rippled as she swallowed down her terror.
“I-I won’t forget,” she whispered, finally acknowledging her place in this relationship.
“Good.” Famine stepped back and turned to examine his meal. The energy within the incubus called out and his body responded. He glanced over his shoulder and growled at Circe, “Do it.”
She hesitated, her body trembling. Famine squinted and she moved, stepping around him whilst leaving a wide berth. The sorceress reached into a pocket and removed a small suede drawstring pouch. Sorcerers and sorceresses did not require physical objects or potions to make use of their powers, but according to Circe, this was a spell unlike any other. To say it isn’t easy to kill an immortal would be putting it mildly. Very few things could take an immortal life. The sorceress, even as a class eight, needed assistance to perform the spell. Every time she cast it, Circe required a cursed object, each more powerful than the last. Famine didn’t bother to ask what the bag held and didn’t care as long as he got what he wanted.
Clutching the object in one fist, Circe stood next to the circle and held both hands above the unconscious incubus. Her hands began to glow a pale yellow, the color of the aether. Class eight practitioners cannot tap into the endless power of the aether. Only the rare and coveted nines have that ability, but with the cursed item, Circe could siphon off the energy that surrounds everything on the Earthly plane. How the sorceress learned to do the impossible, Famine did not know, nor did he give a shit. All he cared about was his meal. While the sorceress performed the spell that allowed him to feed on the life-essence of an immortal, his mouth was watering and his entire body cramped from hunger.
The dark alley illuminated for a brief second when a flash of pale yellow lightning shot from Circe’s palms and struck the unconscious incubus directly in his core, the core every immortal possessed including Famine. His eyes still closed, the male gasped and his back arched up off the ground. The incubus opened his mouth and let out a silent scream as Circe manipulated his life-force so that Famine could consume it. Several days ago, he devoured my first immortal, and it was pure rapture. Human souls couldn’t even compare, the bliss nowhere close to the ecstasy of inhaling the power of a demon. It wasn’t a soul exactly, as demons don’t have souls. It’s their very essence he added to his own, their energy, the force that gives an immortal life.
It was euphoric, it was bliss, it was an addiction and it had Famine in its tight grip.
Ruby red tendrils of light wound around the incubus, combining to form a crackling spider web of energy that surrounded his body like a glowing net. Circe chanted the final words of the spell and the crimson life-force of the incubus transformed from ruby red to coal black before reabsorbing into his chest. Once again, the male lay flat and unconscious within the boundaries of the sigil.
Circe took several quick steps back. “He is ready for you.”
He shoved her aside and lit the candles, speeding through the ritual. Once finished with the nonsense, Famine wasted no time getting down to business. He fell to his knees and leaned over the incubus. The rush of his soul was glorious. Thick and rich, the essence entered his mouth. Inhaling deep, he savored every last drop, unwilling to waste a single bit of the sweet ambrosia. Energy as dark and powerful as liquid sin flooded his core, the blackness swirling and growing, until cells in his Earthly form vibrated and hummed with immortal power. A rush like any other. Extraordinary. Amazing. Famine felt… invincible.
He stood and stretched his emaciated muscles as living, pulsing energy flowed through his body. It felt incredible. A snap of his fingers and the chalk circle and pentagram dissipated into a breeze conjured out of the air. He collected the candles and other objects, leaving no traces behind, until only the lifeless body of the incubus remained.
Pale and sweating, he turned and pinned the sorceress with a commanding glare. Even though he couldn’t see it, he knew his eyes to be glowing from the surge of power. “You may leave, sorceress, but don’t go far. I shall call for you soon.” Circe stayed still, seemingly unable to move until Famine broke eye contact. He chuckled.
I could get used to this.
Circe, no doubt relieved to part ways, immediately tore from the alley. Famine towered over the shell of the incubus and grinned. The male’s power now ran through his veins, along with that of his deceased immortal brethren. With the sorceress under his command, the portal would soon be open, his brothers free to join him upon the Earthly plane. She didn’t know as of yet, but the Circe shall continue to feed him and his brothers until they destroyed everything, leaving this pitiful plane in ruins—decimated by Pestilence, Famine, War, and Death.
Feeding upon the essence of immortals, the Horsemen shall thus be unstoppable.
CHAPTER 6
F riday night and Hope sighed, bored out of her skull. To pass time, she painted her nails and washed and blew out her hair until the strawberry blonde strands hung pin straight to skim her collarbones. Then she cleaned her bedroom, scrubbed both her bathroom and Garrett’s, plus washed and dried every last piece of laundry, including the towels and bathmats, and still felt
restless and uneasy. Like bugs were crawling under her skin. With the apartment already sparkling clean, she had nothing to do.
For some reason Hope felt on edge, keyed up. Almost as if, with the trial over, a heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Unfortunately, after months of fretting and stomach aches, it left behind a gaping emptiness she couldn’t managed to fill. The hole began as a slight twinge in her chest. As it grew, the discomfort spread to her limbs, and she ended up with twitchy fingers, restless legs, and a racing mind that never quit.
Frustrated without another outlet for the swell of nervous energy, Hope gave in and flopped down on the couch to turn on the TV, which she hated. Only half paying attention, she flicked through about a thousand channels twice and failed to find anything remotely interesting. Garrett was at work, and for some reason Hope landed a rare Friday night off.
How sad was it that without her brother to take her out, she pretty much had nothing to do but sit around the apartment, her thoughts her only company. For a brief second, Hope thought about calling Verity to ask if she wanted to go out—to a movie, dinner, dancing, anything to do something else for a while and stop staring at the same four walls. In the end, she couldn’t bring herself to call.
Even though the man—or thing—that assaulted her had been found guilty and currently rotted in a jail cell somewhere, Hope was hesitant to leave the apartment, especially at night. Yeah, it was stupid, allowing her overactive imagination to get to her, but her therapist, Mary, said it was totally natural to have lingering effects that could stick around long after an assault.
Okay, Hope understood that. But it didn’t stop her from feeling like any less of an idiot for being afraid of a guy that couldn’t get her anymore.
Desperate to hear a friendly voice, she snatched up her phone and scrolled through the contacts. For several minutes, her finger hovered over Thomas’s number. God, I’m so stupid. She shouldn’t bother the guy. Thomas prosecuted hundreds of cases each year. The last thing he needed was a clingy victim. Heart clenching painfully, Hope closed the contact information and opened some silly game app instead. Halfway through level five, there was a knock on the front door. She froze and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck and down her arms stood on end and she shivered. A ripple of fear made her stomach twist and knot and her pulse began to race.
“Stop being so ridiculous. You can’t be scared of everything forever.”
After giving herself a pep talk, Hope took a deep breath and tiptoed to the door. The peephole sat high enough that it required her to balance on her toes to look out. Thomas. When she saw the object of her obsession in the flesh, standing on the other side of the door, her breath came out in a rush. Now Hope’s pulse raced and body tingled for a reason other than fear. Thomas knocked again and she fell back on her heels.
Get it together and open the damn door.
Her hands shook and she fumbled several times until she managed to twist the deadbolt and slide off the chain. The second the door swung open, the last vestiges of anxiety vanished, replaced with a soothing calm. A gentle wave infused her body with a low, simmering, but persistent, heat. Hope blinked and gazed up at Thomas, which meant bending her neck back as he stood almost a foot taller than her petite five-three. Their eyes met and the breath she had been holding punched from her lungs. Literally, Thomas was by far the most beautiful man she ever laid eyes on, and tonight, with his navy striped tie slightly askew, his dark hair mussed from running his fingers through it, and his blue eyes shining bright, if somewhat tired after a long day at work, he was positively stunning. Tongue-tied, Hope squeaked.
“Thomas.”
A pregnant pause left enough time for butterflies to burst free in her belly, their wings flapping and fluttering in a futile bid to escape. It wasn’t that Hope felt uncomfortable in Thomas’s presence. Not exactly. What she felt was something else entirely. Neither looked away and their gazes remained locked. Neither said a word, either. Under the burn of his intense stare, a slow-moving heat pumped through Hope’s veins. As her body ignited from the inside and her skin flushed on the outside, she noticed the faint presence of tangible threads of tension strung between them. The scorching hot tendrils pulled taut, causing an indescribable awareness, which made her desperate to get closer to the man whose very presence sent her up in flames.
Blessedly, Thomas broke the silence. Hope’s attention wrenched from the weird pull and strange connection she couldn’t explain.
“Hope.” He sounded wrecked, his voice deep and gravelly, as though he had been adrift at sea for days with no way to quench his thirst. “May I come in?”
Her mouth opened but no words came. Instead, she moved aside and allowed him entry. He brushed past, the fabric of his jacket grazing her arm. Hope inhaled and grew dizzy, awash in Thomas’s scent—sweet and sharp and deliciously male. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeper, the fragrance filling her lungs. Whatever pheromones Thomas put off shot directly to her sex and Hope bit back a moan. A second wave of lust surged, electricity crackling and sparking, waking every nerve ending and making her skin extra sensitive. The sleeve of Thomas’s jacket grazed her arm again, and Hope shivered as a cascade of goose bumps pricked along her spine.
“So…” Hope shifted her gaze, avoiding the undeniably attractive, sinfully handsome, Thomas More.
“So,” Thomas replied. From the corner of her eye, Hope saw him scratch the back of his head and exhale. He’s as uncomfortable as me. Thomas laughed without humor. “I um, wow. This is a lot harder than I thought.”
She flicked her gaze back to Thomas and when she really looked at him, she had to admit the man was tense. The confident, smooth-talking lawyer she met was gone. The hardened prosecutor who had witnesses squirming, nowhere to be found. The guy in front of her was… human. To be honest, seeing Thomas a little apprehensive was both adorable and charming. He shifted from foot to foot, hands thrust in his pockets.
“What’s harder than you thought?”
Color rose on his high cheekbones and Hope’s heart melted at the sweet vulnerability of the quick-witted, silver-tongued Thomas More blushing in her presence.
“So… the case is over…”
Hope waited for Thomas to finish his thought. When nothing happened, she gently prodded and prayed her voice sounded steady instead of wavering from the lump of nerves lodged in her throat.
“Yes, it is. But… why are you here, Thomas?”
He blinked and the hesitation cleared from his eyes—gorgeous, passionate, deep blue eyes, that locked onto hers. Hope’s pulse skittered and she held her breath in anticipation.
“I guess… I um, wanted to see if you maybe wanted to go out. To dinner. Uh, to celebrate. You know. With me.” Hope noted the way Thomas’s eyes grew hopeful and his nostrils flared as he spoke. That strange connection tugged her forward, urging her to fall into his arms.
“I…” Her face burned. She swallowed to force down the temptation to take a running leap and wrap her arms and legs around Thomas’s hard body. To climb it like a tree and never let go. “I-I think I would like that.”
He grinned and a bolt of lightning struck Hope in the chest, only instead of fire and pain, the flash brought with it a shocking burst of affection and red-hot desire. Suddenly, Hope knew Thomas, like really knew the man. In ways that just weren’t possible considering she hardly spent any time with him. Plus, they were only alone on a few of those instances. Yet, in her heart, Hope had known him her entire life.
Nothing had—or could—ever felt so right.
Truly happy for the first time in a long time, she returned Thomas’s smile. “Let me grab my things.” Hope spun to find her purse and slip on the pair of sandals she left by the couch.
“Did you find what you needed?”
Hope startled. Thomas had snuck up behind her. A wave of that seductive scent of his assaulted her in the very best way. Her eyes fluttered shut and she basked in the gentle, lapping waves of emotion. She didn’t know how or w
hy she felt it, but her instincts recognized it. Knew it represented home. It was affection. It was desire. And it was love. And she’d be damned if she let whatever it was to slip away.
Thomas held the door then waited as Hope locked up. When he placed his hand on her lower back to guide her to the elevator, Hope bit her lip to keep from moaning out loud from the sheer pleasure of his touch.
A flicker of worry crossed her mind when they reached the lobby. Hope pulled out her phone and sent Garrett a quick text, letting him know she went out with Thomas. If Garrett returned to an empty apartment, he would automatically assume the worst and after what she put him through, Hope didn’t want her poor brother to worry.
“Everything all right?”
Hope stuffed the phone back in her purse and glanced up at his stunning face. Thomas’s brows scrunched and in his eyes, she saw genuine concern.
“Oh, fine. Everything’s fine.” No way would Hope ruin their evening by mentioning Garrett. Thomas isn’t stupid. He had to know Garrett would gladly hand a beat down any man who came too close to his baby sister.
Thomas smiled and her heart stuttered. His hand returned to her lower back and he escorted her out the lobby door. “Let’s go then.”
She mimicked Thomas’s wide grin, but failed to let go of the annoying thought that bounced around in her head.
Garrett was not going to like her spending time with Thomas.
At all.
THE SECOND TONY stepped out of the bathroom, Joan was on him like a starving Hellhound on a decomposing corpse.
“Grab your stuff, Tony, we gotta go.”
She snagged his belt and towed him toward their desks.
“Whoa, wait a minute.” He pried her frighteningly strong fingers off his clothes and brushed his hands down his shirt. “What’s going on?”
Joan squinted, the glare so intense a lesser male would piss his pants.
Hope For More (Trinity Book 3) Page 9