“What?” she demanded.
“Too complicated to explain, but don’t worry, okay?” Dominic shrugged restlessly and cocked his head, straining to hear something outside the house.
But his ears weren’t cooperating and it wasn’t until the car turned onto their street that he even heard it.
“Don’t worry,” she muttered as she followed him through the house. “Don’t worry, he tells me.”
Dominic waited on the dark porch, peering out into the night. Sure enough, a Mustang convertible shortly turned into their driveway. As before, his ears and his senses might not be working as well as he’d like, but he could see just fine.
Fine enough to see that it was only Ana and the kid with her—her little brother. A little brother that stood damn near half a head taller than her, too, Dominic noticed as Brad climbed out of the car and came to stand by Ana, one hand resting protectively on her shoulder.
Duke wasn’t there, and neither was Jazzy.
Brad mounted the steps, Ana following close behind. Brad’s purple blue eyes moved from him to the woman standing just a few feet behind him, then back to Dominic’s. “Guess you found who you were looking for.”
“Yeah. Where are Duke and . . . his friend?”
Brad smiled. “Headed to Virginia. Figure that’s a good place for the friend to be.”
Yeah. Excelsior was about the best place imaginable for Jazzy, Dominic figured. “Okay. So . . . why are
you
here?” he asked, cocking a brow at Brad. The boy’s only response was to tap his temple.
Dominic scowled. He didn’t need Brad to explain in any more detail. The kid was a psychic. He felt a need to be here, so that’s where he was going to be. It also explained
how
they were here—the safe houses weren’t exactly advertised, but a kid like Brad wouldn’t need a map.
According to the news Dominic had heard through the grapevine, Brad had been approached by the Council eight months earlier. The kid had spent much of the past few months completing the initial, intense training—rumor was it made boot camp look like something designed for sissies.
Brad had passed with flying colors, despite the fact that he was still mortal—more or less—and physically weaker than many of the other Hunters.
Shifting his gaze to Ana, he said, “What about you?”
She shrugged and lifted her hands. “Ask him.” She pointed to her brother.
Something rippled through the air, far off, at the very edge of Dominic’s senses. Behind him, he heard Nessa’s soft intake of breath. Shifting, he turned so he could see her, as well as keep an eye on Brad and Ana.
“It’s okay . . . Morgan,” he said, forcing the name out of his mouth.
It left a bad taste on his tongue, and he was surprised as hell she hadn’t felt the lie. Calling her Morgan—it was nothing
but
a lie. To him. For him. He saw the surprise flicker across Ana’s face as he spoke.
She’d recognized Nessa. He just hoped she didn’t go asking questions right now, because there was no way he could explain anything just yet. Hell, maybe never. How could he explain what he didn’t understand?
“She’s doing this.” His witch stood there, glaring at Ana with distrust in her eyes.
Ana swallowed. Dominic sensed the fear inside her, but she shoved it aside and angled her chin up. “Yes, I am.”
“Quit it. It’s not . . . It’s not safe,” she said, shaking her head.
“I have to.” Then she cocked her head, peering at Nessa with narrowed eyes. Her eyes shifted to a point past Nessa’s shoulder, as though she was looking at somebody. Something.
Her gaze was so intense that Dominic found himself doing the same thing, but he saw nothing . . . nothing but the night sky and the darkness of the ocean.
Brad rested a hand on his sister’s shoulder, squeezed. She turned her head, staring at him.
Unspoken communication always left Dominic feeling tight, edgy. They said nothing, nothing aloud, anyway, but Dominic knew for damn sure they were talking.
Psychics. He shoved a hand through his hair and looked away from them. His skin crawled and now he understood why psychics sometimes left other non-humans feeling more than a little on edge.
There was something downright spooky about that kid, about the unspoken conversation that passed between him and his sister.
“Dominic?”
He looked up and met Nessa’s summery blue eyes. Giving her a smile, he said, “They’re okay. They aren’t here to hurt you.”
She shook her head. “That’s not it. There’s . . . It’s more than that. Something feels wrong.” Her mouth twisted in a spasm and she reached up, rubbed the back of her neck. “I don’t know. Man, my head is killing me.”
“You’re fighting it. Your head hurts because you’re fighting too hard.”
It was Ana’s voice, quiet, soft, shaking just a little.
Nessa frowned and looked at the other woman. “Fighting what?” she demanded sourly.
Ana licked her lips and shrugged.
“Yourself.” She glanced away, staring out at the ocean. “I . . . uh . . . well, I can see . . .”
“We’re psychic.” Brad moved, putting his body between Ana and Nessa. “We hear ‘whispers,’ both of us. And there’s just a crazy amount of whispers coming from your head.”
Dominic scowled. That wasn’t entirely true . . . just the faintest bit of lie colored Brad’s words. Catching Brad’s gaze, he narrowed his eyes.
The young man returned his stare levelly.
Then, clear as day, Brad fucking
spoke
inside Dominic’s head.
Not a good idea to go into any more detail than that right now.
Dominic wanted to know why the hell not.
You’ll just have to trust me.
Then he looked away and met his sister’s gaze.
Trust him. Dominic swore and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “What in the hell is going on?” he muttered.
He lifted his head and slanted a look at Ana. “What do you call your gift?”
“Not much of a gift.” She shrugged and tucked her hands into her pockets. “It’s called ‘blocking.’ Not much more than me playing psychic chameleon. I don’t have the instincts of a fighter and my instinct is to withdraw, hide away. When I sense something threatening, I ‘block’ and it makes it seem like I’m just a typical human, no psychic skill whatsoever. Makes it harder for non-mortals to sense me. But I can’t limit my range, and when I’m blocking,
everything
around me is blocked as well. So nobody can really sense me, but they can’t sense others, either.”
“You’re dangerous.”
It was Nessa, her voice low and hard.
Ana’s lashes lowered, shielding her eyes. “I’m aware it’s not the ideal gift to have, but I didn’t choose it. The best I can do is control it.”
“Then why aren’t you controlling it now?”
“Because something’s coming . . . and I know that for a fact.” Her eyes met Nessa’s, held her gaze steadily. “Brad saw them. He knows how many, and he knows when. We won’t
feel
them coming, but Brad already knows about them. And while we can’t feel them, they can’t feel us, either. They know about Dominic, and you. That’s it.”
A weak smile curled her lips and she shrugged. “Think of us as your ace in the hole . . . especially Brad. And trust me, he’s one hell of an ace.”
M
ORGAN stared at the woman, wondering if somebody besides her realized how insane this sounded.
“Somehow I don’t think a kid just barely old enough to shave and some chick who’s afraid of her own shadow are exactly the people I want at my back if a fight is coming.” Backing away, she glanced at Dominic and said, “I’m not hanging around for . . . whatever this is.”
“You aren’t leaving,” he said, turning and meeting her eyes. His voice was flat and level. He could have been discussing the weather for all the emotion he showed.
“You
can’t
keep me here,” she snapped.
“Yeah, so you’ve already told me. But know what? I damn well am.”
She flexed her hand, tempted to reach up, smack that sexy, lean face. He watched her, pain in those dark eyes . . . longing. “Why, damn it? What in the hell do you want from me?”
A smile quirked his mouth. “If I tell you that, I’m really going to terrify you.”
“I don’t think I could get any more freaked out than I already am.” She wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing at her arms. She was cold. Cold, tired and hungry. “Just spill it, Dominic. What in the hell do you want from me?”
“Everything.” Then he turned away. He stared off into the night.
While she tried to get a grip on that, he took a step toward the waist-high railing on the elevated porch.
A car turned down the street.
Morgan tensed.
Dominic took a deep, slow breath. “Showtime,” he said quietly.
CHAPTER 18
“
Y
OU’RE sure they are here?” Isis demanded, glaring at Marty.
He curled his lip at her. “No, you stupid bitch, I’m not. I can’t sense fuck, and something’s messing with my nose, too, so I can’t be sure I’m following the right scent. But this is the best I can do unless you can figure out what’s screwing with my senses, my instincts.”
Arrogant bastard.
Isis wondered if she should just kill him when this was done.
If she did that, she left one of her borders open though and she really did hate that. But perhaps fate would smile upon her . . . and she’d be welcoming her dear daughter back into her arms. She laughed quietly. No, she and Morgan hadn’t ever been on good terms, but the younger woman had the makings of a powerful witch and she’d gotten hooked on the blood magic early—there was no way she could fight those cravings, not while she lived.
If.
It was one big, fat
if
. She had sensed nothing but an echo of Morgan’s presence when she’d fought the old witch that wore Morgan’s body. But Agnes Milcher was strong. Damn strong. Isis suspected the old hag could have just suppressed any lingering traces of Morgan. If anybody could have done it, it was that old Hunter bitch.
She closed her eyes and extended her senses, trying to pick up . . . something.
Something. She didn’t know what. “Can you smell anything? The witch? The vampire?” she asked.
Marty grunted. “I smell a woman. Think it’s her, but can’t be sure. Vamp is a little stronger, lingers in the air a little longer. But like I said, everything is faint.”
Isis rubbed her temple, frustrated. She couldn’t
feel
anything.
Not a vampire. Not a witch.
If a low-level witch was a buzz on her senses, then a powerful witch like Agnes would have been like an electric shock. But she couldn’t feel a damn thing.
“There.” Marty pointed ahead, at a house that stood apart from the others, a little closer to the water.
It was a small, elegant-looking cabin with a motorcycle parked in the front, along with a convertible.
“Why are we doing this again?” Marty demanded. “I’d rather just steer clear of the Hunter bastards. It’s how I’ve stayed alive this long.”
“Nobody lives forever.” Isis smirked. “Do you know I had another daughter? Her name was Morgan. A few years ago, she got into a fight with a Hunter by the name of Agnes Milcher.”
Marty’s eyes popped wide. Something shifted in the depths of his gaze, the first shadow of his beast. The wolf stared at her from Marty’s still normal-looking gaze, gnashing his teeth and snarling in fear.
“Agnes . . . shit, Isis, there is no way I’m going to square off with
that
old bitch.”
Isis smiled. A few years ago, she would have said the same thing.
But then again, a few years ago, talk of the old woman seemed to . . . stop.
“They say she died,” Isis murmured. “They say she died fighting my daughter. That’s what the rumors were, but I’ve never been one to put much stock in rumors.”
Especially not this kind—Morgan was a screwup, had always been a screwup. How could that idiot kid possibly have done enough damage to kill the strongest witch the Hunters had?
Marty stared at her, shaking his head. “What the shit are you talking about? What’s going on?”
“Tell me, wolf . . . that idiot witch, did she look like this?” She brushed a hand over her face, felt the warmth of illusion settle over her features as she turned to look at Marty.
“Exactly.”
A smile curled Isis’s lips and she let the illusion fade. “The witch I fought a few weeks ago, she wore my daughter’s face, her body. But her magic wasn’t Morgan’s. It was a Hunter’s magic. She stank with it.”
“The kid I saw earlier wasn’t any Hunter. She smelled of violence. Bloody death.”
“Yes . . . and she calls herself Morgan. It makes me wonder what happened the night Morgan and Agnes fought. Which of them truly died . . . and which one lived.”