by Nadine Mutas
He slipped into the teen’s mind, prodded him awake and erased what little memories there were of his presence and involvement in what had happened. Walking past the wide-eyed young human, who trembled at the sight of the three dead men around him, Rhun patted his shoulder. “Run along now. Find some shelter.”
After mentally reinforcing his words with a compulsion, he turned his back on the scene. He had to check back on a certain scrumptious little witch.
Now that he’d fulfilled two of his nourishment needs, his head was much clearer, his power calmed. Walking through the streets of Portland, the Oregon rain a whisper on his skin, he absent-mindedly took in the changes in his city while he pondered his strategy.
One thing was for sure—he would never go back into the Shadows. For twenty fucking years, he’d known nothing but pain, darkness, hunger, and more pain still. It had eaten him, slowly, inexorably, gnawed on his mind, his soul, chewed him up until he was not much more than a broken shadow himself.
For the longest time, he’d imagined Rowan might give him the benefit of the doubt and unleash him again. Considering the tenuous friendship they’d had, the years they’d been working together, she could have at least given him the chance to explain. In the end, though, her distrust of his kind had won out, and she’d reverted to treating him as the natural-born enemy any demon was to witchkind. When he’d felt her die a few years back—through the faint bond tying him to her after she’d bound him—the bitter knowledge that she’d really left him to rot in the Shadows had eroded whatever altruism he might have had left.
Now that he finally had a shot at his freedom, he’d do anything to gain it, to avoid returning to the Shadows. Anything. He’d have even killed the pretty little witch—would have been a first to take a female’s life, and a real pity considering she was a beauty, but if it assured his freedom, he’d have done it in a heartbeat.
A ruthlessness born of two decades in pain and darkness.
However, her mention of the “failsafe measure” had thrown him for a loop. He couldn’t be sure whether she spoke the truth, and he wouldn’t risk his freedom finding out. So, as he’d fought her in the dark of the mausoleum, feral hunger shredding him from the inside, he’d decided to switch tactics. There was another way to break the bond that leashed him to her, one requiring patience and skill. He’d have to win his freedom bit by stealthy bit, had to coax her to give in to him. Which was fine, as long as the result was the same.
He followed the pull of the leash to Merle, and not surprisingly, it led him to the MacKenna residence. He’d already guessed she’d go straight back home, where all her supplies would be. She would have to mix up something—one of those witchy decoctions that resembled mire but held impossible power—to replenish her blood and energy before she could track him down as she’d threatened.
Well, no need for that. He came to her willingly.
Shaking his head at the irony of that, he approached the veranda of the old Victorian. It hadn’t changed much in the past twenty years. Proud and sturdy, its lavender walls and white décor weather-worn and chipped, it rose up at the end of the long driveway like a small castle. For a fleeting moment, he half-expected Rowan to walk out and greet him as usual—with an impossible, fragile blend of trust and suspicion in those gray eyes of hers.
The wind picked up and whipped at him, rustled the leaves in the nearby trees, and he blinked, focused, pushed the past and all regrets into the darkest place inside him.
Eyes trained on the faint shimmer of the magical wards protecting the house, he took the steps to the veranda and paused, his hand almost touching the edge of the spell. The buzz of power brushed his skin. He couldn’t break down the wards, but he might get in anyway. There was no guarantee this would work, though. If it didn’t, he’d bounce off and probably crash down hard in the driveway, feeling like a mosquito that had tried to snuggle with a bug zapper.
Holding his breath, he pushed forward. The witch magic sparked at his touch, a slight charge electrifying the air, a precursor of the power that would strike him down if the ward decided he was unwelcome company. Heart racing, he waited. The hum in the air quieted. Slowly, the prickling on his skin subsided, and with a sigh, the magic gentled. His hand slid through the shimmer and touched the door.
He blew out his pent-up breath. Well, what do you know? He’d taken so much blood from Merle that the ward had indeed recognized it in his veins and allowed him in.
With a small mental command, he unlocked the door, stepped into the foyer and stopped for a moment. He’d never been inside the house, what with the wards and Rowan’s cautious nature, her deep-seated mistrust of demons, even after decades of knowing him.
He inhaled the various scents that hung in the air, among them—most prominently—Merle’s natural perfume, a delectable fragrance that stirred his hunger in more ways than one. Underneath it, though, hovered the combined scents of all the witches who had lived here over the decades, laced with the smell of the wood and the stone of the old Victorian, the herbs of all the potions that had been mixed and sampled here, topped with the unmistakable aroma of active magic.
Brushing his fingertips over the wallpaper, he closed his eyes for a moment and absorbed. Beneath his skin, the walls hummed with power, so strong, so vibrant, simultaneously drawing him closer and repelling him. Witch magic, he mused, is a curious thing. So different from his own, less intuitive and more of a craft, as it demanded careful study and vast knowledge to be wielded right. And yet, it could be so powerful.
It had been this fascination that had brought about his downfall. Yanking his hand back from the wall, he clenched it into a fist. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
He followed the pull of the leash and the freshest trace of Merle’s scent to the living room, where he found her slumped on the sofa, sound asleep. There was a pitcher containing some unidentifiable sludge on the coffee table, and her fingers loosely held an empty glass tainted with the same kind of muddy residue. Yep, she’d mixed up some herbs for a potion that would recharge her batteries, energy- and blood-wise, and she’d likely passed out from exhaustion as her body regenerated. Witches might not have the accelerated healing of most otherworld creatures, but the Powers That Be favored them, and they had more magic and magical remedies at their disposal than anyone else.
Halting in the middle of the living room, he studied Merle’s sleeping form. Her face was still pale, though not as ashen as it had been when he’d left her in the mausoleum. She had the usual fair complexion and ginger hair of the MacKennas, with freckles sprinkled over her nose and cheeks. The tantalizing curve of her neck was bare of any bite marks—he’d made sure to lick the wounds sealed before he’d left—and not a drop of blood stained her clothes. Well, he was nothing if not neat. At least when it came to females.
Merle’s chest rose with her slow and steady breaths, drawing his attention to those feminine curves that had felt heavenly pressed against him. He wanted to explore that softness, inch by luscious inch, wanted that fair skin of hers flushed pink with arousal. Two decades of sensory starvation had left him ravenous, aching for touch, for the sizzling heat of skin-to-skin contact and the mad tumble into the depths of carnal pleasure. Merle was a package of witchy hotness, everything he hungered for in a female—not only lush curves and silken skin, but a fiery strength to her aura, a hint of danger in her power that he craved to play with.
The kiss—which had been meant to distract her—still heated his blood, made him yearn for more. Her passionate, wild response surprised him, revealing a hidden streak of temper. His own personal little witch volcano.
Right now, though, her magic was curled inwards, her energy pattern subdued and faint in sleep. She looked delicate, fragile. Sure, there was a core of strength in her, so powerful he could sense it even with her magic all but dormant, and he’d seen the spark of her fighting spirit in her eyes when they’d quarreled in the mausoleum. As he studied her now, however, the way she lay there with her guard
down, peacefully asleep, she was all soft, vulnerable female.
A twinge of pain in his chest, a stir of doubt. If he went through with his plan, he would render her even more vulnerable, would smother that fire inside her, leaving her bereft and broken. He gritted his teeth until something painful popped in his jaw. Closing his eyes, he tried to breathe past the pressure on his chest. If there was another way…
But there was none. It was either this or a return ticket to the Shadows. And he’d win his freedom at all costs, so he grabbed that annoying, persistent sliver of a fucking conscience and beat it into silence.
Reaching out with his power, he prodded Merle. Her shields were airtight even in sleep, testament to her strength as a witch, but she would still feel his nudge as a mental knock. And, sure enough, she came awake with a jerk and a gasp. Eyes wide, she scanned the room, locked on to him, and froze.
Her gaze slid down his body, and to his great surprise—as well as enjoyment—he sensed an emotion in her that trumped the fear and shock in her aura. Amusement curling inside, he turned to study the contents of the shelf on the wall, giving her an unobstructed view of his fabulous backside. The flavor of appreciation in her energy pattern surged, and he barely stifled a chuckle.
He brushed his fingers over the backs of what looked like thin VHS cases, and threw a glance at her over his shoulder. “Ah. She’s awake at last.” Turning his attention toward the collection on the shelf again, he lightly added, “Wonders will never cease.”
Fury boiled in Merle’s aura, and with an adorable huff, she hurled the glass she’d still been holding straight at him. He casually caught it in midair. And there was that fiery temper of hers. Beautiful. Bringing the glass up to his nose, he sniffed at it, grimaced and gingerly set it on a side table.
“You should work on that recipe. Maybe a little less…” He made a show of searching for the word, snapping his fingers, then pointed triumphantly. “…mold.”
She narrowed her eyes and fixed him with a stare close to lethal. “You!”
“Yes. Me.” He pulled a case out of the shelf, opened it and studied the interior. Huh. A disc, like a CD, though it supposedly featured the movie Ghostbusters. Weird. He returned it to the shelf, aligning the back precisely with the other movie CDs. “I have a name, you know.” He met her gaze. “It’s Rhun.”
“How did you get past the wards?”
He pursed his lips. “Must be all that sweet, sweet blood of yours coursing through my veins.”
Merle’s aura flared with anger. Her power flickered, all but throwing visible sparks around the air. It was a tangible force humming over his skin, making him want to step closer, rile her up some more so he could relish the strength of her magic.
She stood, keeping a wary eye on him. “Where did you get those clothes?”
He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Took them off some guys.”
“Are those guys still alive?” Her voice was deadly quiet.
Tilting his head, he smiled at her. “What do you think?”
“I think,” she said, her power drenching the air, thickening, clearly ready to clash with his own, “that I told you not to spill innocent blood.”
“Ah. But they weren’t innocent.” He could still taste the humans’ auras, dark and tainted with death and pain. That kind of flavor, it came from killing. As in plural.
“I should just bind you in the Shadows again.”
“You could, and maybe you should, but then how would I be able to help you?” He strolled over to the impossibly flat TV and crouched down in front of it, examining what looked like some morphed version of a VCR underneath it.
Merle’s energy flickered with conflicting emotions, most of them dark, though there was a hint of arousal—just like when they’d kissed in the cemetery. Interesting. He deliberately flexed his muscles. The touch of arousal deepened, much to his delight.
He stood up again and trailed his fingers along the top of the TV. Where was the back of it? “We do have a deal, don’t we?”
She blinked at him, her face a study in incredulity. “You’re really going to help me after all?”
“What, you thought I’d renege on our agreement?”
“You attacked me, almost drained me within an inch of my life, and then left me there to rot. What was I supposed to think?”
He pressed a hand to his heart. “You wound me, little witch. That you’d think I have no honor...” Sighing dramatically, he gave her his best look of long-suffering sainthood. “Besides,” he added with a smile, “I wouldn’t want to miss out on all the fun I could be having with you.”
“Fun?”
“Why, yes.” Oh, he was already enjoying this. Pushing her buttons proved to be a whole lot of fun he hadn’t anticipated. And that wasn’t even part of the plan. He caught her gaze and prowled toward her. “You promised you were going to feed me.”
Her heart thumped loud enough for him to hear. “You drank my blood. Lots of it. You should be sated.”
“My species’ name,” he said as he came to a halt inches in front of her, “is misleading. Blood is only one of the components a bluotezzer demon requires for sustenance. Besides blood, we feed off pain…” He raised his hand to touch her cheek. “…and pleasure.” His finger ran down the line of her jaw, and she trembled. So soft, so delicate. “I have had your blood. I have caused some pain. Now I need…pleasure.” With deliberate slowness his finger followed the tender curve of her throat down to the neckline of her sweater, lingering there.
Merle swallowed, obviously trying hard to appear unfazed. The beautiful blush creeping up her cheeks told a different story. “Pleasure? As in sex?”
“Hmm.”
“You want to sleep with me?”
His hunger rose, snapped at him from the inside. He reined it in. “Of course. You’re beautiful, intriguing, and sexy, and there’s nothing I’d rather do than lock myself in a secluded room with you and make up for twenty years of involuntary celibacy. But—” He stroked her mental senses with his power, teasingly, gently. “—since I don’t want to overwhelm you right now, making you come will do.”
“No.” Her voice was husky, and the enticing scent of her arousal spread in the air, in blatant denial of her outward refusal.
“No?” he asked softly. His finger rubbed her collarbone.
“No,” she repeated, even as her nipples visibly hardened underneath her sweater. “You won’t get that from me.”
“I need to feed in order to help you.” He studied her, those clear blue eyes, the alluring blush on her cheeks, her quickened breathing. If she really didn’t consent, he wouldn’t force her, and not just because it would be difficult to take pleasure from someone who wasn’t into it. But she was interested, if ambivalent. He decided for another push. “Do you want me to take it from someone else then? I do so like debauching the innocent.”
It was only partly an ultimatum—mostly it was the blunt truth. He would have to feed in order to be in full command of his powers, and if she refused him, he’d have to find someone else. Even with the whole of the city at his disposal, though, he’d rather take pleasure from Merle. It would bring him one step closer to winning his freedom, yes, but that aside, he simply wanted her.
She took a step back, putting space between them. The unmistakable fragrance of female interest followed her retreat, belying her harsh words. “Why don’t you find some not-so-innocent woman to lavish your charms on? A murderous slut maybe?”
He had to smother a laugh. She really did have some spunk, and damn if he didn’t like it. Giving her a sufficiently insulted look, he said, “Believe it or not, I do have certain standards.” Tilting his head, he then looked up as if remembering something, a slow smile spreading on his face. “I think I’ll pay a visit to that luscious blonde a few houses down. She looked very much agreeable.” And with that he turned to leave.
Behind him a firestorm of emotions erupted from Merle. The air was so charged with her power—buzzing louder and louder the mor
e her control on it seemed to slip—that the lamps in the room flickered. The hairs on his neck rose. His own magic, so much simpler and more instinctive in nature, surged in response to the power brushing up against him.
Keeping it tightly under control, he continued walking out of the living room.
He was about to open the door in the foyer when Merle blew out a breath that was laden with enough conflicting emotions to make a psychiatrist giddy with excitement.
“Wait.”
Chapter 3
His hand on the doorknob, Rhun glanced at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Yes?”
Merle ground her teeth together. Was she really going to do this?
Even as every female hormone in her body screamed, Yes, yes, yes, jump him like you know you want to, she couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling of foreboding. She shouldn’t let him get any closer to her. The fine line she was walking by having him barely leashed would get thinner with every piece of herself she ceded to him. If she wanted to keep him under control, she’d have to prevent him from gaining more power over her, and letting him take pleasure from her required a measure of trust that would hand him a great deal of power.
But just the thought of allowing him to feed from someone else sent her into a fit of worry. What if he snapped? Took more than just pleasure? He was her responsibility—she’d freed him from the Shadows, and it was on her to make sure he didn’t hurt anyone innocent.
She put her hands on her hips. “I’m not letting you loose on the female population. At least I can defend myself against you.” Being a witch gave her some means of keeping him under control, and if he snapped with her, she’d be able to fight him. Letting him go to take a human woman, on the other hand, would be like sending a wolf into a herd of sheep.
He narrowed his eyes. “Just what kind of beast do you think I am?”
“You’re a demon.”
“Ah, and that means I’m a rapist bastard, is that right?” His tone was light, but his hand tightened on the doorknob until his knuckles flashed white, and his aura flickered with such darkness, almost as if…