3. A Monster Calls
DAMIEN
The damned witch did this on purpose!
I scan the trembling human, livid at the effect she has on me. I haven’t been able to tear my eyes away from her since I tasted her blood. At first, I’d assumed she was an entitled brat, looking for an easy way out of a problem she’d made for herself. But Gowdie baited the hook with a juicy morsel by having her friend perform the spell naked. Eloise Harcourt is undeniably beautiful. Her long, straight hair is bleached a platinum color that doesn’t particularly suit her, but the rest of her is stunning— a heart-shaped face with a smattering of freckles, defined shoulders, full breasts, a stomach with just the right amount of curve, and a smooth mound at the juncture of two muscular thighs. I fantasize about spreading those thighs and exploring what I find between them. I grind my teeth to keep myself from acting on the impulse.
My throat burns with desire to taste her sweet blood again. Sweet, electric blood that I can almost hear singing in my veins. Gods, the smell and taste of her have given me a diamond-hard erection that presses painfully against my zipper. I’m tempted to free myself and show her the throbbing need she’s ignited. But fuck if I’d give her any more power than she already holds in that cursed candle.
She’s delicious. Mouthwatering. Naked.
If that’s not enough of a temptation, I scent the faint bloom of arousal under the stench of her fear. As I war with myself over forming a pact with this human, I catch the reflection of her back in the window. She has a tattoo. I’d call it a sigil but I’ve tasted her blood and she is no witch. Still, she wears the mark of a witch family, although I haven’t seen this particular one in my almost four hundred years in this realm.
I move in for a closer look, until I’m almost nose to nose with her, and draw her scent into my lungs. Fuck. My fangs throb as bloodlust and physical need barrel into me. I was a fool not to leave when I had the chance. Now I must have her.
“I will help you, in exchange for blood taken from your throat,” I grit out.
“My throat?”
“Would you prefer the inner thigh?” Her pulse flutters but again I catch the slightest hint of arousal beneath the fog of acrid terror. I press a nail into the fragile hollow of her throat, trace my fingers along her collarbone. So delicate. So vulnerable. Saliva pools in my mouth and I swallow it down.
“No,” she answers quickly, but it pleases me that her neck flushes with excitement. My little bird isn’t entirely opposed to the idea. Interesting. “Blood from my throat, and you will save my house.”
I nod once, then hook a hand around her waist and pull her flush against me. Only the edge of the symbol between our ankles divides us. Once I do this, take her blood, I’ll be bound to her will. Again, I see the folly in it. My curse does not extend to friends of the witch family I serve. Why hand this human woman another leash to yank on my soul?
But her skin is soft, her smell like pomegranate and narcissus, and her blood— Gods, the taste of her still lingers on my tongue.
My hand splays across the middle of her back. I want her. It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted anything. An even longer time since I experienced this... this— it takes me a second to name the lightness that bubbles in my oddly stirring blood— hope. I don’t understand why the woman in my arms makes me feel hopeful. There’s nothing about her that should. But maybe it is only the idea of something new, someone who is not a witch and might be controlled as much as she controls. Yes, I suppose that must be it.
“You feel warm,” she says with a note of amazement. “And I can feel your heart beating.”
I scoff. “Are we back to asking what I am, little bird?” I am not the creature her human mind thinks I am.
She shakes her head. I flatten my palm over her heart, then trail my fingers along the side of her neck to the base of her skull, delighting in the way the tips of her breasts turn hard at my touch, even as her pupils dilate and her breath comes in pants. She’s terrified. Terrified and aroused.
“What is your husband’s name, and where can I find him?” I lower my head to bring my nose closer to her skin.
“Tony Denardi. His office is on Parkview Avenue in Richmond, on the twentieth floor. Denardi Enterprises.”
“Then we have a deal.” I start at her shoulder, brushing her skin with my lips as I trace the line of her neck. She arches into me, those lovely breasts pressing into my chest even as she tips her head to give me easier access. “So accommodating,” I say against her throat, and then I strike.
She jolts in my arms a second before her blood hits my tongue. It’s heaven, the nectar of the gods, and when I swallow, a hot tingle surges through my veins. She’s sunlight. She’s a ripe peach on a summer’s day. I grind my cock against her and drink and drink and drink.
Her body sags in my arms. Fucking hell, I’ve taken too much. With one last lick, I close my bite wound and then lower her unconscious body to the floor. “Sleep, little bird. By this time tomorrow, you will be free of Tony Denardi.”
Crouched by her side, I tell myself I must stay until I know I haven’t inflicted permanent damage. What the hell was that? I might have killed her for want of her blood. Relief fills me when I hear a strong heartbeat. She’s fine. She’ll sleep it off and be as good as new tomorrow.
Yet, I can’t bring myself to leave.
Instead, I stand and pace to the other end of the strangely decorated parlor, licking my lips. No human should taste as good as she does or make my blood sing in my veins like hers did. It feels as if someone has plugged me in. And that tattoo. It’s in the wrong place to be a sigil, but its shape promises magical abilities. Still, I’ve tasted witch blood before; it always holds the tang of the element the witch wields. Hers holds no such flavor. And I’ve met representatives from all the magical families. The pattern on her back is not one I recognize.
Human, she has to be. But then, why does she enchant me? What is her story?
Hellfire, if that Gowdie witch is up to something... Although what her motives could be, I haven’t a clue. I’m already her slave. Why enslave me again to this human?
Wine rests on the end table near her head. I sweep it up, and bring it to my lips, drinking it down. I wish it was something stronger. Bottle still in hand, I give myself leave to explore the room.
Dark, handcrafted furniture. A heavy rocker, arms carved with lion heads positioned near the fire. A grandfather clock with astronomical gears of a type I haven’t seen in a century. Even the fireplace itself is something from a different time, oversized with a gilded mantel.
Out of curiosity, I move closer to the gallery wall on the far side of the room, where black and white pictures of men and women are clustered in a decorative pattern. A few of them portray people participating in séances around a table carved with symbols. Mysterious white smudges float between their coupled hands. I chuckle. That’s the motif. I see it now. Vintage 1920s. The room is a time capsule to the decade. I should know. I lived through it.
My gaze locks on a man dressed in safari gear with one of the first cameras of the era. I cut a look over to the woman on the floor. A relative, undoubtedly, based on the resemblance. The man is in a few of the séance photos as well. Pictures of big game are peppered into the others, but no hunting trophies are in the room. No animal hides or tusks either. Whoever decorated appreciated photography and was perhaps an amateur archaeologist, but not a killer. He was, it seems, a spiritualist. Not surprising given the time period.
I drink again from the bottle until it comes up empty. Shit. Setting it back on the end table where I found it, I turn to go, then catch my reflection in the gilt-edged mirror on the wall. My cheeks are pink, and my eyes are a dark sky blue, almost as if I were home again, back in my world and at full power. I glance at the woman in alarm. What has Maeve Gowdie sent into my path? I need answers.
A fluffy pink bathrobe lies in a heap beside the woman. On a whim, I fold it and gently put it under her head. The candle has snuffed itself out now that the deal has been struck. I toss it into the box along with the knife and place it all on the mantel. I’m procrastinating. I can hardly bring myself to leave her, which is exactly why I must.
With a growl, I sift into shadows and travel the web of darkness.
I manifest in Maeve Gowdie’s living room only seconds later. She’s waiting for me, a floral teacup in hand.
“Advocate,” she says by way of greeting.
“You had no right giving her the candle,” I snarl. “My obligation is to you, not your human friend.” I make no effort to disguise my anger even though Maeve has the power to hurt me if she chooses. Gowdie magic is formidable.
That wicked smile of hers stretches wider. “Then, I take it, you agreed to help her.”
I snort. “You made certain of that. Why was she naked, Maeve? In all the centuries your ancestors have called upon me, never were any of them naked.”
She leans back and crosses her legs. “I thought it would increase her chances of enlisting your support.”
“You baited me with her beauty and her—” I swallow, remembering, “—blood.”
“Yes, I did.” She brushes lint from the arm of her black T-shirt.
“Why?” I snap. “You already keep me like some sort of genie in a bottle. Why bind me to her? What is she?”
“You noticed her tattoo?”
“Of course I noticed it.”
“Then you’ve never seen it before, either?”
“No! Why are you asking me? You’re a witch. If anyone would know it would be you. Look in the book.”
“I have, Advocate.” She levels a hard, unsettling stare at me. “There is no record of a family with that sigil. As far as I know, she’s human. Although, I admit, I’ve wondered about the tattoo.”
I ball my hands into fists. “You allowed a woman who you suspected might have latent magical abilities to call on me?”
She brushes her dark bangs out of her eyes and blinks behind her glasses. “I gave her the candle because her husband is a truly awful human being who needs to die, and she is my best friend. I would do anything for her. But as for allowing her to call on you directly, I admit, I did hope you’d be able to solve the mystery of that tattoo.”
I sniff the air, scenting genuine feelings of friendship toward the human. Interesting. And rare. Witches don’t normally associate with other species, especially not the Gowdie witches.
“Her blood was… unusual,” I offer.
“Unusual how?”
“Exceptional.”
“Exceptional, but human?”
“As far as I could tell, it did not hold the flavor of elemental power.”
“As I expected. She’s human,” she says more confidently, then sips her tea.
I take some comfort in Maeve’s confirmation that her friend is non-magical. Exchanging blood with other magical creatures is a danger to my kind. It’s how I was captured by the Gowdies to begin with.
“Now that that’s settled, you have a plan to solve her problem, I presume.”
I flash my most insouciant grin. “Never fear, Gowdie, her husband will be dead by this time tomorrow, and your human friend will be free to go on with her life.”
“Good.”
I step in closer, baring my fangs. “But hear me, witch, the candle may preclude me from harming you, but not your human friends. If I’m called by anyone else, don’t be surprised when I drain them dry. I am not some thing to be lent like a cup of sugar.”
She holds up both hands. “Understood, Advocate. This is the last time I request your services… for a friend.”
Disgusted and hardly satisfied, I break into shadow and return to the darkness, desperate to distract myself from the taste of the woman that still lingers on my lips.