That Voodoo You Do: That Old Black Magic, Book 1

by Jodi Redford

  “Good girl.” Griff thrust deeper, popping past the barrier. He stopped, his hoarse groan filling the air and the hand on her hip tensing. “Fuck. You’re pulsing all around me.”

  The overwhelming feeling of fullness had her perched on the precipice, but it was his observation that sent her soaring over the edge. “Griff!”

  “I’ve got you.” Sinking forward, he slid an arm around her waist, snuggling her close as she shuddered and came.

  And came.

  And came.

  Just when she thought the orgasm would finally peter off, Griff started moving again. The double penetration of his fat cock and the throbbing vibe swept her into an endless spiral of dark pleasure.

  Griff’s sweat-drenched chest teased her back as he pumped in slow, shallow strokes. Sexy purrs continuously rumbled from his throat.

  Wait a minute. Purrs? Oh jeez, why hadn’t she gotten the connection before? And how much of a freakin’ weirdo did it make her that his cat noises still turned her on like nobody’s business? He rotated his hips and she stopped thinking about anything else as the motion drew another orgasm from her.

  “That’s it, baby. Keep milking us both.”

  There he went with the us again—almost as if he wanted to implant the idea that the vibrator was a real cock rather than lifeless rubber. Rather than weird her out, Griff’s fantasy-building ignited every last one of her fuses. Behind her closed eyelids she indulged in the sinful image of Logan grinding into her from below while Griff fucked her ass. She cried out, her body quaking under the fierce tempest of the biggest orgasm of her life. Dimly, she heard Griff’s strangled shout. He swelled inside her, his seed jetting deep.

  Once the waves ebbed to ripples and Griff’s shaft began to soften, he extracted the vibrator and eased out of her. He gently cleaned her up with the edge of the towel before rolling onto his side and hugging her against him. The tender kisses he sprinkled across her shoulder blade filled her with a warm glow.

  And incredible shame. She just came like crazy to the fantasy of Griff and Logan fucking her—the man she loved and the enemy he hated.

  There wasn’t enough therapy in the world to cure her guilt.

  Chapter Nine

  Griffin didn’t know how long he snoozed, but he awoke to the best sensation ever—Jemma cuddled in his arms, all warm and snuggly. Her dusky eyelashes fluttered and she murmured something that sounded suspiciously like Oh, Kermie. Choking back a laugh, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. She sighed in her sleep, and he smoothed a finger along the blonde strand curled across her cheek. The emotions she whipped up inside him were fierce and frightening. What good could come of wanting someone who could never be his?

  As if she’d been waiting for the precise moment that disheartening thought sprang into his mind, Clarissa’s nagging mental energy rapped impatiently against his consciousness. Unfortunately, their physical proximity made tuning out his killjoy boss impossible. Gritting his teeth, he untangled his limbs from Jemma’s and yanked on his jeans. He journeyed into the hall and stalked toward the stairway just as the grandfather clock in the foyer started chiming. The twelfth gong tolled ominously the exact moment his bare foot hit the bottom stair. Midnight. The witching hour. How fucking appropriate.

  Clarissa’s psychic summons led him to the library. She was parked behind the mahogany desk situated in front of the large, shuttered windows. Without looking up from the book spread in front of her, she flicked a hand in the direction of the adjacent seating, where Logan already sat sprawled in one of the armchairs. Responding to the werewolf’s smirk with a low growl, he towed the twin armchair a good three feet away from Logan and sank into the seat. He waited for Clarissa to lift her attention from the leather-bound tome, his impatience spiking. His temper reached its breaking point when he detected Logan’s unsubtle snuffing noises. He knew damn well what the fucking pervert was sniffing at, and he refused to rise to the bait.

  Finally Clarissa deigned to tear her rapt scrutiny from the book. “I trust you’ve taken the first step of planting the seed with Jemma?”

  A lecherous chuckle rumbled from Logan, making Griffin long to punch him in the nose—and throttle Clarissa for her unfortunate choice of words. “Yes.”

  “How did it go?”

  He clenched the striped twill covering the chair’s armrests. “Fine.”

  “Did she enjoy it?” Ignoring his glare, Clarissa rested her elbows on the desk and steepled her fingers. “I’m not asking because I’m nosy. If this plan didn’t work, we’ll have to figure out another.”

  He mentally tracked back to the litany of feminine cries that had tumbled from Jemma as he and the vibrator fucked her in tandem. She’d loved the hell out of it. So much so, he hadn’t been able to resist merging into her thoughts—something he never did outside the occasions when he’d sensed her distress. Guilt had immediately smacked him for invading her privacy and he’d quickly shut the link. But not before he’d glimpsed the vision that’d thrown her into that last doozy of an orgasm.

  The damning part that left him shaken was how he’d responded to Jemma’s fantasy. Even while he’d been torn apart by Logan’s phantom participation in their lovemaking, he’d also been turned on to the point of nuclear orgasm witnessing Jemma’s intense pleasure as she’d visualized the illicit act.

  Clarissa cleared her throat, and he noticed she was eyeing him, her blunt, crimson-painted nails drumming the desktop.

  “No, she enjoyed it.” Understatement of the year. He expected to hear a lewd snicker from Logan. When not even a peep came from the werewolf, he turned his head to see what act of God—or Clarissa—had managed to muzzle Logan. The man didn’t seem to be under the influence of a spell or anything else. Instead, his consuming focus appeared to be riveted on Clarissa. No doubt he was distracted by his own raunchy fantasies regarding the coven’s mistress. Griffin grimaced. Jesus, there was a mental link he was thankful he didn’t share. Peeking into the degenerate state of Logan Scott’s mind would be akin to being locked in a room with a floor-to-ceiling stack of Penthouse and Hustlers. Sure, it’d be entertaining at first, until the insanity and blindness set in.

  For her part, Clarissa was either oblivious to or ignoring Logan’s penetrating stare. She sprang from her seat and crossed to the bookcases. “Fantastic. That means I can concentrate my energy on finding the spell that’ll help Jemma defeat Antoinette.”

  A hot wash of anxiety churned in the pit of Griffin’s stomach. “You better know what the fuck you’re doing.”

  Clarissa tugged another book from the shelf and pivoted. He knew from her expression that he’d overstepped his bounds. Too damn bad. When it came to Jemma, he had no problem getting in Clarissa’s face.

  Her lips pinching into a hard line, she returned to her chair. “I’ll let that slide only because of the amount of stress we’ve all endured today.”

  He watched her rifle through the index of what appeared to be an ancient grimoire. Shit, she was really going old school. The majority of spells in that text probably predated the dark ages.

  Her finger scrolled down the page before tapping to a stop. “Ah-hah. Here’s something that sounds promising.” She twitched her nose in that way that always reminded him of Samantha from Bewitched. “I wonder how difficult it is to find a wishbone from a pterodactyl wing these days?”

  Logan grunted. “Check eBay.”

  Sighing, Clarissa slammed the book shut and returned to the bank of shelves. Griffin’s attention fell on the large leather tome still sitting on the desk. He’d been too preoccupied before to notice the symbols sketched across the top of the sepia-toned pages. A chill skipped down his spine as he took in the coiled serpents. He shot to his feet, his gaze darting between the book and Clarissa. “You want Jemma to dabble in Nettie’s voodoo? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

  Clarissa swiveled, her frown evident until she glanced toward the book resting on her desk. The color washed from her cheeks and she rushed forward. Griffin was faster
. Swiping the book, he held it out of reach, fury bubbling inside him. “I won’t let you do this.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. I have no intention of having Jemma perform voodoo of any kind.”

  He shook the book in her face. “Then what the fuck is this for?”

  “Research.” A spastic twitch danced at the corner of her eye.

  “You’re lying.”

  “Damn it, Griffin. I demand you hand that over. Now.”

  Resisting her command resulted in a searing burn inside his innards—an unpleasant side effect to disobeying his witch. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he focused on the page Clarissa had been perusing. What he saw left him baffled. “Why the hell would you need to break an enchantment spell?”

  Rather than answer, Clarissa snapped her fingers, her expression mulish. “Logan, fetch me that book.”

  Logan stretched to his feet, his mouth curving in a slow grin. No doubt the son of a bitch was in seventh heaven over the prospect of kicking ass and scoring brownie points with Clarissa. “Sorry, Catman, but the boss’s wish is my command.” Not looking the least apologetic, he charged at Griffin with a gleeful howl.

  “Awaken, precious girl.”

  An icy finger traveled the slope of Jemma’s shoulder, making her shiver. She tried to roll away from the offensive sensation but found herself rising to her knees instead. The room was dark except for a shimmering dust mote that hovered several feet above the bed. Fascinated, she stretched her arm toward the phosphorescent swirl. It danced out of reach, the sparkles glowing brighter, twirling in a hypnotic pattern. She stared at the flickering lights, her heart beating in cadence with their strobing display.

  Follow…

  The urge to obey the lights consuming her, she swung her legs over the side of the mattress. Her toes sank into the plush carpet.

  Follow…

  “Yes.” She staggered forward and the door yawned open, allowing the string of lights to dart into the hallway unhindered. As if guided by an invisible magnet, she hurried after the departing beacon. On silent feet, she glided down the stairway. Outside, the humid night clung to her bare skin. Cicadas filled the air with a buzzing symphony, but it was the low, hypnotic beat of drums that lured her deeper into the shadows shrouding the side of the mansion. Each rhythmic pulse echoed within the deepest reaches of her soul.

  Bruumm…bruumm…

  Up ahead, the twinkling lights skipped between the marble obelisks marking the entrance to one of the enclosed garden rooms. Refusing to be left behind, she stumbled after the glowing dots. She entered the garden and the tribal drumming swelled to a crescendo. Candlelight flickered from the sconces in the stone walls, illuminating the assortment of skull rattles and glass vials adorning the built-in benches. The strange compulsion that drew her to the mysterious lights now tugged her toward the odd paraphernalia. She battled against the desire to uncap the nearest bottle and taste its sweet amber essence. The fact that she even knew what the vial contained sent fear tripping through her veins.

  Run. This time the inner voice was hers, but her feet refused the order.

  Something hissed to the right of her, the stench of sulfur and death strong. “You cannot run from your destiny.”

  Cold fingers clutched Jemma’s chin. No amount of ignoring a nightmare would make it go away, particularly when that nightmare refused to slink back into the evil abyss it climbed from. The ghostly grip on her demanded obedience, and she turned toward the presence beside her. If she’d possessed control over her body, she would have recoiled at the soulless grey eyes peering back at her. As it was she didn’t even flinch when the oily black snake coiled around Nettie’s torso snapped open its jaws, revealing needle-sharp fangs. Antoinette stroked the asp’s head and spoke to it in some strange, foreign tongue. Whatever she said must have soothed the snake because the serpent immediately shut its mouth and relaxed its striking pose.

  “The juju fascinates you.” Nettie directed Jemma’s attention once more to the vials and skulls. “I sensed your potential from the first moment I saw you. Let me teach you its way.”

  She stared into the sparkling depths of the amber bottle. Its contents seemed almost alive, bursting with vitality and something infinitely evil. Locked within the prison of her body, she shuddered. It isn’t my way.

  “But it could be. You and I could have everything—the entire world could be ours.” Her voice a seductive whisper, Nettie picked up the vial and twirled it between her translucent fingertips. “I offer you a choice. Take one sip and rule at my side for eternity.”

  Or?

  “Die. Either way, I will win.”

  The vial beckoned, but giving in would be wrong. She couldn’t be party to a zombie uprising.

  “You foolish child.” Nettie spat the words, drawing another angry hiss from the snake. “I offer you everything that those other witches will not. You think they will protect you? Provide you loving sanctuary within their house of lies? I am the only family you can trust.”

  Family? She wasn’t one of Nettie’s zombie pets.

  As if they’d been waiting for their cue, a pair of corpses shambled into the garden, their glassy eyes pinned on Nettie.

  A low laugh that resembled the rattle of bones shook from Antoinette. “The coven has kept you in the dark, I see.” Her crimson lips pulling into a chilling smile, she caressed Jemma’s cheek. “I told you they are not to be trusted, my dearest granddaughter.”

  She peered into the twisted, fathomless depths of Nettie’s eyes, the ugly truth unfurling within her consciousness like the withered petals of a rose. The deadly prick of its poisoned thorn finally broke the spell of her paralysis, and she screamed in denial.

  Chapter Ten

  Griffin was in the middle of throwing a chair at Logan when Jemma’s mournful scream exploded in his head. He let the chair thunk to the ground and barreled from the library. His feet barely touching the stair treads, he thundered onto the second floor. He registered Clarissa and Logan’s pounding footsteps behind him but quickly tuned them out as he concentrated on reaching Jemma.

  He crashed into her room, his heart somersaulting when he noticed her empty bed. “Where?” He scrabbled to reconnect the psychic link with Jemma but kept slamming into what surmounted to a brick wall. “Something’s blocking her.”

  “Nettie.” Clarissa streaked back into the hallway. Griffin overtook her on the stairs and beat her through the front door. He sniffed the air. His human senses were a pale substitute for those he possessed in his alter-ego form, but unlike Logan, he couldn’t transform without his witch’s agreement. Given his lack of control over his shifting, Clarissa’s spoken permission was a necessary—if not pain-in-the-ass—safeguard. Clarissa stumbled out onto the porch. Knowing he had precious seconds to locate Jemma, he rucked his jeans over his hips. “Say it.”

  “Logan can—”

  “Fucking say it.” Baring his teeth, he kicked his pants aside.

  Irritation pinched the corners of Clarissa’s mouth but she nodded. “Familia tacchi.”

  The shift started in his bones and sinew. Dropping onto his haunches, he elongated his spine and flattened his palms against the porch’s pine floorboards. Tufts of orange fur sprouted from his skin, and his hands and feet retracted into paws. His vision sharpened, the velvet darkness no longer an obstacle. Transformation complete, he released a primal roar and leapt down the steps. Claws digging into the parched turf, he ate up the ground in long, bounding strides, the thrill of the hunt a liquid fire in his lungs. Death’s stench rode the wind and burned the insides of his nostrils.

  He galloped over the river-rock tiles leading to the enclosed celestial garden. His acute hearing picked up the muffled sounds of a struggle, and he hurtled across the final fifty yards. Primed for attack, he vaulted through the archway. Two zombies had a naked Jemma cornered on one of the stone benches. She was trying to fend them off by lobbing various voodoo artifacts at their heads. Though her aim was on the money—a shard of glass protrude
d from the bald corpse’s noggin—the zombies weren’t deterred by her improvised firepower. Bloody Nettie watched the scene from the opposite corner, cackling in demented delight.

  He snarled another ear-splitting roar and catapulted over the bronze sundial blocking his path. Gardenias and night-blooming jasmine fell victim to his ferocious sprint. He sprang at the bald zombie, his jaws sinking into the corpse’s hindquarters. The dead man’s outraged squeal bounced off the fieldstone. A second later its body accepted the same fate when Griffin sent the zombie flying on a collision course with the adjacent wall. The remaining corpse dove on top of Griffin. While he twisted and bucked, struggling to get the creature off his back, Clarissa and Logan raced into view.

  Clarissa hurled one of Rose’s antique salt shakers at the ground beneath Nettie. The crystal container shattered, sending salt spraying into the air. Nettie screeched in raging fury before her astral body disintegrated. Not for good, unfortunately, but the salt bought them some time. At least as far as vengeful ghost voodoo queens went. The zombie riding him like a goddamn bronco was another matter. Kicking and snarling, he tried to throw the creature off, but it dug its bony fingers into his thick ruff and tweaked his tail.

  Oh yeah, they always went for the goddamn tail. Motherfucker.

  From the corner of his eye he spotted Clarissa jogging toward him, the base of the heavy sundial clenched in both her hands. She took swing. A crunch sounded and the zombie thunked to the ground, its face at an opposing angle to its front end. Freed of the dead man’s burdensome weight, Griffin swung in Jemma’s direction. She shrieked and flattened herself against the wall. He was baffled by her reaction—until he remembered he was still in form. His alter ego had a tendency to make even the most badass of men piss their pants, much less a tiny wisp of woman like Jemma. Growling at his own stupidity, he shifted into his human body. Thankfully he didn’t need Clarissa’s verbal permission for that part of the transformation.

  Her fingers slowly loosening their white-knuckled grip on the fieldstone, Jemma gaped at him. “Griff?”