Chapter 8
GREY
All the suppressed tension left an insatiable itch beneath my skin—a constant gnawing hunger begging to be set free. The urge to give in was overwhelming, bubbling just below the surface. I’d been deprived for too long.
I wrapped my hands tightly around the steering wheel, forcing myself to take a fucking breath and enjoy the moment of freedom, no matter how short-lived it might be.
The keys rattled and the Camaro rumbled to life. Damn, that had to be one of the sexiest fucking sounds in the world besides a woman coming. An image of the dark-haired witch popped into my mind, and I wondered what sounds she would make with me buried inside her.
The engine roared as I sped down the road. The tires kicked up the loose gravel, and I pressed down further on the gas pedal, accelerating down the desolate street. The sparsely spaced houses became more densely packed the closer I got to town.
An old, run-down gas station came into view through my cracked windshield. Not a single car was in the parking lot. I pulled in, avoiding a huge pothole, and parked next to one of the three gas pumps.
The silver bell above the door chimed on my way in, and the attendant scowled like my being there was somehow an inconvenience for him. Not like this was his fucking job or anything. He crossed his arms, his frown deepening as I approached the counter.
“I’ll take a pack of Marlboro Lights.” I pointed at the wall littered with different brands of cigarettes and tossed a lighter onto the counter too.
The bastard took his sweet time ringing up the items. “It’ll be nine-forty,” the cashier said, swiping the cash from my hand and chucking the items and my change on the counter.
“Thanks for the outstanding customer service,” I muttered, ripping open the pack of smokes with my teeth. I didn’t even wait until I stepped outside to light the damn thing. Smoke filled my lungs, and I welcomed the familiar burn. After a few drags, the itch under my skin dulled.
I walked back toward the car, stubbing out the cigarette bud with my boot.
The hum of the overhead lights was intensified by the buzzing wings of insects, and I swatted at a few who dive-bombed my face.
I opened the car door but stopped at the tingling in my fingertips.
I yanked my hand back, but the sensation continued to spread up my arm.
Magic thrummed through my veins, stealing the air from my lungs.
I collapsed into the passenger seat, tearing at the fabric of my hoodie, desperate to find the source of the magic.
You’ve got to be shitting me.
Devin must have finally found the parting gift—the wraith—we’d left in the basement because he was trying to fucking summon me.
And was using my blood to do it. I’d left plenty of it behind…
on the door, down the hallway, on the front porch…
a trail down the driveway. This type of summoning was weak, and so was Devin.
Pathetic piece of shit. My blood alone wouldn’t suffice.
He needed to know a specific ritual to truly summon a demon with my powers.
Seconds ticked by, and the pull finally stopped. The scent of his magic—smoky and rich—was replaced by the pungent odor of gasoline.
Red blurred my vision, like a bull ready to charge at those stupid enough to get into the arena with them. When would humans learn that controlling a demon had fucking consequences? If Devin Whitethorn wanted to play with fire, I’d reduce his entire legacy to a pile of ash.
The warning from the collar came a split second before the shock shook my entire body, slamming my head back against the headrest.
A reminder I was still at a witch’s mercy.
I’d spent the past century dealing with the consequences of my mistakes, and I’d never let anyone have that kind of power over me again.
I stared into the darkness, debating my next move.
Whiskey. Always whiskey. The answer to everything, no matter the question.
I slammed my foot on the gas, peeling out of the parking lot. I knew exactly where I was headed—and nothing was going to stop me.