Everlasting Bad Boys (14 page)

Cynthia Eden

S
he summoned him at midnight. The witching hour. Power swept through every inch of Serena Tyme’s body, pulsing, growing, and the words of the spell poured from her lips, faster,
faster
.

Her arms shot above her head, and the air crackled with magic. Thunder roared and lightning flashed across the cloudless night sky.

Her eyes squeezed shut, just for one fearful moment, and when her lashes lifted,
he
was there.

The relief that rushed through her body had her trembling.

Then he spoke. “Nice body, sweetheart.” Voice deep and rumbling like the thunder. Golden eyes drifted over her skyclad form. Heat flared in those depths, then, voice slightly rougher, he snarled, “Now why don’t you tell me who the hell you are and
where the fuck I am.
”

Serena drew in a deep breath and watched the man’s eyes dart to her chest. Jeez. Men. All alike—mortal or immortal—they always got distracted by a pair of breasts.

But she hadn’t called him across space to ogle her. She crept forward, keeping an anxious eye on him. She knew how much power he possessed, far more than a mere hereditary witch could hope to control. The sooner she explained things to him, the better.

After all, it wasn’t an easy task to summon the devil.

The fire she’d built flared higher. Not her magic,
his
. Serena reached for her black robe, belted it quickly.

“You didn’t have to dress,” he muttered, and his powerful legs were braced apart, arms resting easily at his sides. “But I am
waiting
on my answers.”

His tone implied that he wasn’t a happy waiting camper. She really hadn’t expected him to be, though. She licked her lips, cleared a throat gone dry from chanting and the flames and said, “M-my name’s Serena Tyme. I’m a witch and—”

He grabbed her then. Moved far too fast for her to follow, even with her slightly enhanced senses.

The circle she’d drawn should have held him in place, at least for a few minutes.

But it had failed.

Oh, damn.

His hands locked around her upper arms. A hold too tight to break, but not fierce enough to hurt, not yet. But the threat was in his steely grip, and in the eyes that blazed down at her.

“I know you’re a witch.” The flames were reflected in his golden stare. A stare that burned brighter every moment. “No one else could have forced me here. Dammit, tell me—”

Her chin lifted. “Look, I’m
answering
your questions, OK?” He’d wanted to know who she was, and well, question one was now answered. As for the second question…“You’re in Atlanta, Georgia.” When those eyes of his narrowed, she added, in a questioning tone, “The U.S.?” The guy spoke with no accent, and she had no idea where he had been when her spell had grabbed him. Although the where didn’t really matter to her. All that mattered was that he stood before her now.

She saw a muscle flex along the hard, square line of his jaw. Black brows fell low. The brows were a perfect match to the slightly too long, night-black hair that brushed the collar of his shirt. “
Why
am I here, witch?”

Ah, this was the tricky part. She took a moment, letting her gaze dart down his body. He was dressed as any man would have been. Loosely buttoned black shirt. Jeans. Ragged boots. Oh, yeah. He looked normal. Could have been the guy next door.

If the guy next door happened to be the most powerful paranormal being known in the
Other
world.

For, despite what most folks thought, paranormals
did
exist. They lived right alongside the humans. Demons, vampires, and witches like her—they were everywhere. But the humans, well, sometimes they had a hard time seeing what was right in front of them.

But she could see exactly who, or rather
what,
was in front of her.

The man before her had many names. After all, if the legends were true, he’d been roaming the earth for centuries, and he’d continue to roam and fight and raise hell long after she was dust.

Cazador del alma
. Soul-hunter. Destroyer.

The rarest of the paranormals,
cazadores
were produced from the mating of witches and all-powerful, level-ten demons—the terrors of the demon world.

Cazadores
were gifted with the full powers of a hereditary witch, the full powers of a demon,
and
the soul-hunters, well, they could live forever.

All the better to hunt.

She stared at him, unable to stop the nervous tremble that shook her body.

Hell, when she’d been a kid, her parents had told her that he was the boogeyman.

The immortal who came after the
Other
when they crossed that fine line between right and wrong. Because a
cazador
had more than just witch and demon powers. He was the immortal who could also steal a life away, with but a simple touch.

“Always be good, Serena.”
Her mother’s husky voice echoed in her mind. “
Because the cazador, he comes after witches when they’re bad.”

Oh, yeah, the threat of the big, eternal badass had kept her on the straight and narrow for years.

His fingers tightened around her arms. “Are you trying to piss me off?”

Serena blinked. “Uh, no. Really—I—” Oh, hell, what had he wanted to know? Damn, but she was tired. And scared. And so weak.

The first binding had hurt her more than she realized. She’d barely managed to focus enough power for the summoning spell.

When his fingers moved, just a bit higher on her right arm, and he brushed the still tender flesh, she winced.

“Why. Did. You. Summon. Me.” Gritted from between his clenched teeth.

Ah, yes. Simple enough answer for that one. “Because I need you.”

He glared down at her and she realized his features
could
have been handsome but weren’t—no, they were far too hard. As if they’d been carved from ancient stone. Too-sharp cheekbones, nose too long, high brow. Thin lips. Skin a darkened gold—made only more so by the flickering light of the flames.

As she stared at him, that hard mask slackened—just for a moment—and disbelief flashed across his face as he said, “You know what I am.”

Of course. Would she have gone to the trouble of bartering for a dark spell if she hadn’t?

“You know what I am, and you still summoned me.” He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe she’d actually called for him. “I bring death.” He freed her. Stepped back. Clenched his hands into fists. “I’m not some kind of idiot demon that you can screw around with, sweetheart. I’m—”

“A soul-hunter.” Soul-eater. OK, that was the less-than-respectful term. Her voice was soft but firm as she continued, “I
know.
I also know that you’re exactly what I need.” The others in her coven had said that she was crazy. That she was courting the devil.

Summoning him didn’t mean that she could control him, and the
cazadores
, well, they were damn unpredictable.

In fact, until the menacing guy before her had appeared, she’d actually wondered if
cazadores
were just myths. She’d never actually met anyone who’d known a
cazador
, and certain paranormals had sure been crossing that good/evil line at will lately.

Which brought up just why she needed her hunter.

“What is it that you need from me?” The words were a rumble of sound that seemed to shake through her body.

“I need you…to save me.” The mark on her arm burned with remembered pain. “And to do your damn job and kill the bastard who is after me.” Not just her, but her entire coven.

If the
cazador
didn’t help her, well, they’d all be dead before Halloween, just a few terribly short days away.

Serena was
not
ready to die. Not without putting up one hell of a fight, anyway.

Because she was one witch who wasn’t about to burn easily.

Luis D’Amil shook his head and stared in disbelief at the shapely witch before him.

Dammit.
One moment, he’d been sitting in his favorite bar in Cozumel, and the next, he was in the middle of a forest, facing a naked woman.

A woman with a lot of power.

A woman who’d dressed far too quickly.

The witch had ripped him across time and space—hell, the least she could have done was let him look at those pink-tipped breasts a while longer.

The witch had
gorgeous
breasts. It’d been far too long since he’d seen breasts that—

“Are you going to help me?” she demanded, and her voice held a tight, hard edge.

Luis sighed and gave up the tempting image of her bare flesh. “No.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Now do your magic, and get me the hell out of here!” He had a bottle of tequila waiting on him.

Her mouth dropped open. Good lips, he couldn’t help but notice. Sexy. Red and full. Just the way he liked ’em. Nice little heart-shaped face. Pretty. Cute nose, even if it did turn up a bit. High cheeks. Wide eyes. Green eyes.
Cat eyes.
Those eyes seemed to glow at him. And her hair…

Wild
. A thick, curling black mass that skimmed her shoulders. The firelight burned brightly around them, making the red highlights lurking in the darkness of her hair flare to life.

But even if the flames hadn’t burned, he would have been able to see perfectly. It was the
cazador’s
way.

Made the hunting easier.

His witch was all curves and soft skin. Not too thin—good, he’d never been attracted to a woman he couldn’t hold tight. Lush breasts and hips and legs that—

“Didn’t you hear me?” she nearly shrieked at him and Luis winced. “I said I need your help. Someone’s after me—”

“Then go to the cops. The
Other
are everywhere these days. You’ll be able to find a paranormal to help you.”

“I don’t trust cops.”

“No, you don’t trust
human
cops.”

“I don’t trust
any
of them.” Said with absolute certainly. Ah, so his witch had experienced a bad run-in with the law, eh? “I’ve seen cops on the take,” she muttered, “humans,
Other
—they can all be bought if the price is right.” She exhaled, shaking her head. “Besides, no crime has been committed yet. Even if I went to them—and I’m
not
—what would I say? Someone’s trying to bind me? Like they’d care!”

Someone’s trying to bind me.
Luis stiffened.

Witches were bound all the time. Some willingly because their powers were too much for them to handle. And some, well,
not
so willingly.

Long ago, the binding spell had only been used for protection. To bind those who would do harm. To stop the negative forces and to bind them safely. But the spell had been perverted by many over time, and the old ways were long gone.

“The cops can’t help me.” She glared at him. “Shit, isn’t your job to catch the
Others
who go bad? To stop them from killing?”

Sometimes it was. Sometimes his job was just to clean up the blood left behind and make the humans forget the chaos they’d seen.

“Please.” Her voice dropped, and for an instant, Luis swore he saw a flash of tears in her eyes. “I
need
you. My coven—someone’s trying to destroy us.”

He swallowed, memories flooding through his mind. No, no, this couldn’t be—

Serena pulled aside the top of her robe, baring her upper chest, the tempting swell of her breasts. Then she twisted, bringing her right shoulder forward and he saw…

The first binding mark.

A long, angry red slash cut across the top of her arm. A slash that could have been made with a red-hot knife.

But had really been made by magic.

“It takes three to bind,” she said, but he already knew that. His mother had been a damn strong witch, and she’d taught him all the magic she knew, both light and dark. “Some sick bastard is out there. I don’t know who he is or how he’s doing this, but he’s binding the members of my coven, one at a time.”

A bound witch was a weak one. Perfect prey.

So very easy to kill.

Almost as easy as a human.

“Half of the coven fled when the first mark appeared on their flesh. I don’t know how long the others will stay. They’re scared,
I’m
scared, and I don’t know what the hell to do.”

She fixed her robe, tightened the belt, then closed the space he’d put between them. Serena reached for his arm. Her fingers felt so soft against his flesh.

Her scent teased his nostrils. Roses. Lavender. A sweet, light blend. One that reminded him of innocence. Youth. A time long past for him.

Poor little witch. She thought the danger was hiding out there in the night, stalking her.

She didn’t realize that the real threat was standing right in front of her.

One touch, just one. If he focused his power, he could drain her dry in an instant.

By the time she gathered the breath to scream, it would be too late.

Soul-eater.
Yes, he knew that was what many called him. Because he didn’t just hunt. He took. Drained his prey dry until nothing was left but the shell of the body.

No soul. No power. No life.

Because he took everything.

“Three years ago, this same thing happened in LA.” Her nails were long and sharp. Red. The hand that clasped him shook. “I wasn’t in the coven that was marked, but my aunt—she was.” Pain echoed in her voice and he saw the faintest quiver in her lips. “My aunt raised me,
cazador.
Took me in when my parents died.” She shook her head. “I was eleven, she was seventeen—
and she raised me,
all those years, all by herself.”

The pain was deeper now.

“Then she got marked. I couldn’t help her.” Rage with the pain. A hard fury. “I couldn’t help any of them. The witches in her coven were bound by a force they couldn’t fight. Then one by one, they were killed.”

His gut clenched. Hell, yeah, he knew about that case. He’d been fighting his ass off in Brazil at the time, because a pack of panther shifters had laid a trap for him and he’d been forced to eliminate them.