CHAPTER 16
MARTY Russo was thirty miles away before he dared to slow down.
So far, the vampire hadn’t followed him. But he wouldn’t bet on his luck holding forever.
So as he ran, he made plans.
It only took him thirty minutes to run those thirty miles. Though he ran over the ground in his wolf form, inside his mind, he was still human. Mostly. And he planned. Plotted.
What he needed was help.
Help to do something about the Hunter, in case the bastard came after him. He knew the stories. When a Hunter had your scent, they never let go. Once he’d taken care of that stupid witch, he might decide to come after Marty.
And Marty wasn’t going to make it easy on him.
Hell, if he was lucky . . . maybe he could even kill the fucker.
The vampire was young—Marty could tell. Witches weren’t the only ones able to sense that kind of thing with vamps. The Hunter was a strong bastard, too, especially for his years. But he was still young and that made him more vulnerable. Relatively speaking.
I can handle him.
He could. Especially if she helped him.
Under normal circumstances, they didn’t like each other. They were two territorial predators, and she hadn’t liked him encroaching so close on what she viewed as her land.
But she wasn’t on her land now. She was in his territory and he’d allowed it. Allowed her to live.
She’d been weak then, but she wasn’t now. She was stronger, and she was alive. Because of him. She owed him. Marty was going to collect. She would help him handle the vampire. Then, they’d call it even.
SUNRISE was pressing ever closer. Too close. Dominic flicked a glance out the window and then studied her delicate, heart-shaped face. Resting a hand on her chest, he let the steady beat of her heart reassure him.
She was breathing, strong and steady. He could feel the ebb and flow of her life, pulsing inside her.
She was still caught in whatever deep dreams held her, but it was nothing more than that.
Fear, nerves, they tangled inside him.
He couldn’t fight the dawn but he couldn’t risk her running away on him, either.
Here, inside this safe house, he didn’t have to worry about her slipping away. Like so many of the Hunter safe houses scattered across the world, it was owned by some faceless philanthropist most of the world had never heard of. The documentation wasn’t likely to be traced back to Excelsior or the Council, but they were the ones responsible for its upkeep . . . and its secrets.
All of the safe houses had secrets.
This house’s secret was a hidden, interior room that was safe for a vamp to take a rest in during the day . . . and once he sealed the door, it wouldn’t open again until he opened it.
Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten, the deep blue of the night giving way to softer hues. He didn’t have that much time left. Blowing out a sigh, he lifted Nessa’s still form in his arms and made his way to the safe room.
It was small. Considering the house’s design, it had to be small. Although this house sat empty unless a Hunter was using it, they still guarded their secrets closely. They had no choice. The mortal world wasn’t ready to accept them. Dominic didn’t think they would ever be.
The room wasn’t much bigger than a closet. It had a small cot tucked up against one wall. In the corner, there was a small refrigerator. There were no windows. He laid Nessa on the cot, pulled the blanket up over her.
Nessa.
Not Morgan. He couldn’t think of her with that name. He just couldn’t.
He left the room quickly and grabbed a pillow from the couch and then headed back into the safe room. As the door slid shut behind him, he punched a code into the small keypad, activating the locking mechanism.
Now, even if the power went out . . . or the electricity went haywire . . . the door wouldn’t open. He could pry it open if he had to, but there was no way Nessa would get out of this room without his help.
In the back of his mind, an unknowing voice whispered, She could always burn her way out.
No. She wouldn’t do that—too dangerous. She wouldn’t risk hurting him. He was going to have to put faith in that.
She was as safe as she could be, for now.
He tossed the pillow on the floor and checked the locking mechanism on the refrigerator. The last thing he needed was her waking up thirsty and deciding to look for something to drink in there. It held nothing but bagged blood.
Sunrise . . . he could feel it. It hit his body like a tranquilizer, turning his muscles heavy, weighing his steps down, fatigue drawing him.
Sleep. Need to sleep.
Dragging his feet, he paused by the cot and stared down at Nessa. Her face was averted, one thick blond lock of hair curling across her cheek. One hand rested on her chest, curled between her breasts. That was where he wanted to be. He wanted to stretch out and lay his head on her chest, listen to her heart beat as he slept the day away.
He traced one finger down the line of her jaw and then turned away.
Sleep . . .
Unable to resist another moment, he stretched out on the floor, turning on his side so he could look at her. Her face was the last thing he saw before sleep pulled him under.
In his dreams, he found her.
HER name was Isis.
That wasn’t the name on her birth certificate, but the name Marie didn’t suit her.
Isis did. She was a goddess among men, and a woman who should be worshipped . . . and feared.
The man before her now was certainly afraid, but that fear wasn’t inspired by her. Still, that didn’t keep her from drinking it in. It hit her system with a rush, a welcome one. She was still weak. Although her injuries were gone, she had yet to regain her full strength.
Damn that witch.
Damn her straight to hell.
Isis had failed to send her there.
No, she told herself. It wasn’t failure. Not my failure, at least. It’s Morgan’s. Useless little waste.
If Morgan had had any strength to speak of, she never would have lost to that old crone in the first place. Then Isis wouldn’t have had to deal with the mess her daughter had left behind.
It was Morgan’s fault.
That damn witch showing up. The fight and now Isis’s weakness—all Morgan’s fault. Damn the girl.
That soothed the ragged edges of her anger and she was able to smile as she reclined on the ragged, broken-down couch. “Marty, you look like something the cat dragged in,” she purred.
He curled his lip at her, sneering. “It’s payback time, Isis. You owe me now.”
“I owe you?” She arched a brow at him. “How exactly do you figure that I owe you?”
“You are in my territory. Had I chosen, I could have killed you. You were too weak then to fight me, and we both know it. I let you live, and now you owe me.” His eyes glittered as he stared at her, his beast lurking just behind his gaze.
Angry . . . and afraid.
“Well, I’m not surprised you see it that way.” She flicked a glance around the tiny hovel. It was even smaller than the house where her youngest daughter, Jasmine, lived. Jasmine. That treacherous little bitch.
It was nothing like her home. She had a lovely condo on the beach, a place she took her lovers, a place where she practiced her spells, a place where she indulged in her pleasures, however she saw fit.
For now, that place was off-limits to her. She couldn’t go back to St. Augustine until she had figured out how to deal with the witch. If she stepped a foot back in that town without some sort of plan, Isis was dead.
It might well be Morgan’s fault, but she’d still be dead and Isis was rather fond of life.
“How the hell else would I see it?” Marty asked. His lip curled and he watched her with disdain in his eyes. “I didn’t take your life for coming into my territory. I let you live, and you know damn well I could have—and probably should have—killed you were you stood. Bu
t I didn’t. More, I saw to it that you had a place to stay. You didn’t spend those nights helpless and alone on the streets, now did you?”
Isis glanced around the small, cramped house. “I wouldn’t exactly call this a place to live.”
He gave a bark of laughter. “You ungrateful bitch. After all the times you tried to kill me, did you really expect me to put you up at the Ritz?”
“Of course not. It’s a bit too far away.” She smiled and studied her nails. She plucked a file from the rickety table in front of the couch and smoothed the edge of one. “After all, this is where my home is. This is where my daughter is. I’m not about to run off. But you could have done much better than this mess.”
“And I could’ve done worse. You could be dead,” he reminded her.
Isis rolled her eyes. “So you said, repeatedly. It’s becoming a bit boring.” She tossed the file back on the table and looked up at Marty. “Exactly what is it you want me to do? What exactly should I do to make things level between us?” She smirked and murmured, “I’d rather not have any sort of debt to some worthless dog.”
Marty growled. Deep and rough, it rumbled out of his throat, echoing in the small room. “I’m already pissed off, Isis. Don’t make it worse.”
“Oh, did the puppy have a bad day?” She cooed.
His hand shot out, grabbing her throat. In the span of two seconds, she went from sitting on the couch to being held upright over it, her body dangling from his hand. His grip on her throat was tight, too tight. He squeezed in warning, and murmured, “I’m not in the mood for this.”
Isis reached up and closed a hand over his wrist. Her eyes glowed. Under her hand, the skin she touched went cold. The flesh turned white, and the white grew, spreading from his hand halfway up his forearm. He dropped her and stumbled back. “You stupid bitch, what in the hell are you doing?”
“Touch me again without my permission, and see what I do,” she warned.
He gasped for air, weaving back and forth on his feet. Only moments ago, he had all but glowed with health. The energy of a shapeshifter had crackled inside him. Now he was gray, his skin ashen and his eyes sunken.
“What did you do to me?” he demanded, his voice a mere whisper.
“Nothing near as bad as I could’ve done,” she said. He didn’t need to know she was bluffing. She couldn’t do much more to him yet, not until she returned to full strength. But Marty wasn’t exactly a strong werewolf. It wouldn’t take much to train him.
She sidled up to him and rested a hand on his chest, stroking him through the cotton of his shirt. “I could have killed you, you know,” she murmured. She stroked a hand down, toyed with the button of his jeans. “I could have drained you dry, left you like an empty husk. You’re not strong enough to stop me. You know it. I know it. So, Marty . . . don’t piss me off.”
After reaching up to pat his cheek, she returned to the couch. “Enough with the drama already. What is it you want from me?”
“There’s a Hunter. In town.” He spoke slowly, almost reluctantly. The color returned to his face, his altered body repairing the damage she had done with relative ease. She hadn’t taken enough to damage him—just enough to scare him. Just enough to warn him.
With a shrug, she pushed her hair back from her face. “I already know about the Hunter.”
“You know,” he echoed. “You knew there was a Hunter nearby, and you didn’t see fit to warn anybody?”
Isis waved a hand dismissively. “Why should I? You’re not my responsibility. You are responsible for your own neck.”
“I suppose it never occurred to you that the two of us are more equipped to deal with him together than on our own? You increase your chance of surviving by working with me, old witch,” he snapped.
“I cannot face a Hunter right now. You’re on your own with her. She almost . . . ” Her voice trailed off. Scowling, she cocked her head and studied his face. “Did you say ‘him’ ? This Hunter, he’s a man?”
“Yeah.” He frowned as he met her eyes. “I take it you thought it was a woman.”
“I assumed it was the same witch I battled . . . the one who damn near killed me. She’s a Hunter, as well.”
Two of them. Isis rubbed her hands together. Her gut twisted, ran cold with fear. No, not fear. I’m not afraid of a couple of Hunters, she told herself. She didn’t fear them. Closing her eyes, Isis focused. She needed to get control of the fear. She took a series of deep, slow breaths and then focused on Marty’s face once more.
“Tell me about this male Hunter. Is he the only one you’ve seen? Have you seen the witch?”
“Son of a bitch,” Marty swore. He shoved a hand through his hair and started to pace. She caught a glimpse of the glitter in his eyes and realized he was still very afraid . . . and it wasn’t because of her. “Another witch. We don’t need another witch around.”
“Another . . . why do I get the feeling you’re not talking about me?”
“Because I’m not,” he snapped. Glaring at her, he said, “The Hunter I ran across is a vampire. Young, but not weak. He’s got strength inside him. And he came here looking for a witch. Now you tell me you’ve run into a different Hunter—a Hunter who’s a witch. That’s two Hunters. Two different Hunters, and the witch beat you, so that tells me she’s a strong one.”
“She didn’t beat me,” Isis snarled. “It wasn’t even my fight . . . I was cleaning up my daughter’s mess. That stupid, useless waste.”
Marty folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t care what your excuses are. They don’t matter to me. Bottom line . . . you fought and you didn’t kill her. If you had won, you would have killed her, you would have drunk her power, and we wouldn’t be having this discussion.” He turned away and started to pace. “So now we have two Hunters to deal with. The witch and the vampire. With any luck, that idiot Morgan will keep the vampire occupied, for a while at least. Sunrise is coming soon and he will have to rest. That buys us until nightfall before we have to worry about him.”
“Morgan . . .” Isis murmured. She shook her head and then asked, “Did you say Morgan?”
Marty waved a hand. “Yeah. She’s the reason the Hunter is here. He was looking for her. I can’t figure out what she’s done to grab his interest, but she certainly got it. He was more interested in her than me, so she must’ve done something.”
Morgan.
“Describe her to me,” Isis murmured.
Marty rolled his eyes. “Trust me, Isis. That ditz Morgan is not going to be an issue. Hell, she might even be useful. She already has. She distracted the vampire.”
“Damn it, you mangy wolf. Describe her to me.” Isis shot up off the couch, glaring at him. Her power, always erratic when her emotions spiked, flared out of control and the light in the room flickered. And when Marty exhaled, his breath came out in a frosty puff of air.
He stared at her. “She’s just a stupid little witch. Young, I don’t know, in her twenties. Hard to gauge the age of the human, especially the witches. But she’s not too powerful so I suspect she is as young as she looks.”
“And what does she look like?” Isis closed her hands into fists, struggling to control her anger. Struggling to keep control . . . period. She couldn’t spare the energy.
Plus, although Marty was annoying, he wasn’t an idiot. That was why she hadn’t killed him. If she had to have another predator living so close to her territory, she would rather it not be a fool. Fools did foolish things, and foolish things too often caught attention. Isis did not want attention drawn to her, or anywhere near her territory. That was how she avoided the Hunters. She kept under their radar.
Marty wasn’t a fool, and that meant there was no way he could look at Agnes Milcher and not recognize her for what she was. One very powerful witch.
Which meant . . . what?
Morgan.
Isis narrowed her eyes. She sensed the barest remnant of Morgan’s presence, but she’d dismissed it.
The second she laid eyes on the
face that had belonged to her oldest child, she’d known she wasn’t dealing with Morgan—no matter what the witch had pretended.
Hunters had a feel all their own, and Hunter witches—even more unique.
There had been something that felt like Morgan. An echo. A shadow. Hell, maybe Morgan had been haunting the bitch who killed her.
Or maybe . . .
A smile curled her lips. “So, she told you her name was Morgan?”
“YOU have got to be kidding me.”
Brad opened his mouth to respond, only to close it with a sigh as Duke’s pale gray eyes narrowed and shifted to a point somewhere over Brad’s shoulder. The car. The girl. The little witch.
“You so much as touch that door, kid, and you’ll regret it,” Duke said, his voice a rough growl.
Jasmine Wakefield muttered something under her breath. Brad couldn’t quite catch it, but Duke did. Amusement flashed through the shifter’s eyes, and he shook his head. “That girl is a brat,” he said softly.
“Miracle she isn’t worse.” Brad shrugged. He hadn’t ever met her older sister, at least not when Morgan had been the inhabitant of the body, but he’d heard some stories.
Bad news. That was what those stories said. She was nothing but bad news.
Jasmine might be trouble, but she wasn’t bad news.
She definitely was trouble, though, and she was already proving to be a pain in the neck. Brad shoved his hands deep inside the pockets of the fleece hoodie he wore and waited until Duke’s eyes shifted back to him. “There’s no other way to handle this,” Brad said.
“There’s always another way. You think it’s so fucking important for Ana to be there, then fine. I trust your instincts. But we’ll all go.”
Shaking his head, Brad replied, “We can’t. She can’t.” He jerked his head toward the car. “That girl can’t be anywhere around them right now.”
“Why not?” Duke asked.
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