“So tell me what else there is to it. Do you kill witches?” A hunter . . . a hunter of what? A witch hunter, maybe? Is that what Isis was talking about?
His eyes narrowed. “I have. But not unless I had to.”
Morgan sputtered, a disbelieving laugh falling from her lips. This man killed witches—he’d admitted it. And he had Jazzy.
Shit.
He wouldn’t hurt the girl.
Snarling, she spun around and pressed her fisted hands to her temples. “Would you just shut
up
?” she spat out. That voice in her head, it was going to drive her nuts. If the pain didn’t kill her. It felt like it was trying to split her head into a thousand tiny fragments.
“Exactly why would you
have
to kill a witch?” she asked, the words reluctant. They didn’t want to be spoken. They felt
wrong
. “Does somebody order you to do it? Are you afraid of them . . . what?”
“Ordered? No. I don’t kill on command.” He moved up behind her. She sensed him, even though she didn’t hear him. “I kill when I have to . . . to protect others. Like your sister. Like you . . . those men earlier, they would have hurt you, forced you to do things you couldn’t ever undo, no matter how much you wanted to. I’m not a murderer . . . I don’t indiscriminately kill witches or . . . well, anybody.”
“He’s lying,” Isis whispered.
Morgan glanced up, watched as her mother sidled closer. Her platinum-streaked hair fell in a straight line to her waist and her blue eyes were a shade between the blue green of Jazzy’s and Morgan’s own summery blue. Completely lovely. Completely evil. Swallowing the knot in her throat, Morgan gritted out, “I don’t remember you but I know enough about you. I know what my gut says . . . you’re one of the best liars in the world. Why should I believe you?”
“Don’t believe
me
.” Isis shrugged. “Believe yourself. He doesn’t speak the truth, or not the whole of it. You can feel that, the same as I can.” She curled her lips and glanced around. “If you’d end this damned spell, you could sense even more of his lies.”
“I didn’t cast any spell.” Her all-too-familiar headache settled at the base of her skull once more, pounding in time with her heart.
Out of the blue, she found herself staring at Ana.
You’re fighting it. Your head hurts because you’re fighting too hard.
That was what Ana had said.
Fighting too hard—fighting
herself.
The other woman waited on the porch still, standing silently by her brother. Her mouth was a thin, tight line. Fear clung to her, but she didn’t flee. Didn’t cower.
Courage . . . that woman had it in spades.
“Somebody cast this fucking spell,” Isis snarled. “I feel almost powerless, and something is causing it. It’s not
him
. So if it’s not him, and you claim it’s not you . . . ”
Isis narrowed her eyes and understanding glinted in them.
As she turned to face Brad and Ana, the younger man moved, placed his body between Isis and his sister. With his hands tucked in his back pockets and a cocky grin on his face, he looked like some college kid.
Cute, confident . . . harmless.
Isis glanced at him and then to the woman behind him. Cocking her head, she said, “You’re not a witch.”
Ana said nothing.
“Whatever it is you’re doing, stop it now or I—”
Brad laughed. “Damn, woman. You got balls. Making threats you can’t possibly follow through on.”
Marty slunk around behind them. How had he gotten up there? He’d just been down here only seconds ago. Now he was up there on the porch without making any noise. Quiet, so quiet . . . how could these people move with such utter silence? In the shadows, Morgan could hardly see him.
But as he lunged for Ana, the brother shifted and lifted a hand.
Morgan’s jaw dropped as Marty’s body froze in midair. His mouth was open, his eyes half wild. A snarl tore free from his lips. He shouted something, but Morgan had no idea what.
She was too busy staring at his mouth. His teeth. Long, wickedly curved. Utterly inhuman.
Shaking, she backed away. Her body brushed against Dominic’s and she flinched. As his hands came up, she sidestepped away, keeping all of them in her sight.
What is going on?
CHAPTER 19
I
SIS swore, staring at Marty’s suspended body.
There was no magic.
She would have felt that.
There had been a faint, damn near unnoticeable crackle of energy, but it wasn’t magic.
Psychic—
Her face contorting in a scowl, she looked at the young man. Him and the woman—she’d written them off entirely. They weren’t witches, shifters or vamps, therefore they weren’t worth her concern.
Wrong.
Utterly wrong.
She shot the vampire a dark look and then focused on Morgan’s face.
Indecision swarmed inside. What did she do? She could run, and that might be the wisest decision. She’d live that way. Somehow, she knew the vampire wouldn’t take the time to mess with her, not yet. Whatever he wanted from Morgan, it was his priority. She could live, plan and then try again . . . or just disappear, start all over.
No. You’re not running. It’s one damn vampire. A couple of psychics.
Morgan.
This all had to do with Morgan. Everything came back to her. Morgan . . . Nessa . . . whoever she was, whatever she was.
Willing the woman to look at her, Isis said, “You know he isn’t being honest. If he isn’t being honest, then you’re a fool to trust him. How can you trust him with your sister?”
Morgan’s mouth twisted in a sneer. “Don’t pretend to care about her. I don’t remember you, but I
know
her. You never loved her. Hell, you
can’t
love. So don’t use her against me.”
“Loving her and not wanting to see her mixed up with
his
kind are two different things.” Isis shrugged. “One has nothing to do with the other. But you do love her. Can you really risk her?”
“Shut up,” the vampire snapped, his voice cold and hard. He started toward Morgan, but she backed away from him, staring at him with indecision written all over her face.
He froze. His hands curled into fists, hanging useless at his sides.
There was pain in his eyes.
Isis breathed it in, tasted it. It was finer than wine . . . almost as good as the hit of power she got from fear. Almost as potent as death. Drinking it in, she closed her eyes . . . and that was one major mistake.
She sensed the movement, but not in time. A hand closed around her throat, and one heartbeat later, she was suspended in the air, her feet dangling a good foot and a half above the floor. The vampire’s eyes glowed, glints of red dancing in his dark brown irises.
“Get it somewhere else, you parasite,” he said.
She gurgled out a laugh, struggling to breathe past the hand that could crush the life from her. “Parasite . . . oh, now that’s irony for you.
You
. . . calling me a parasite.”
“I take no pleasure, reap no power from the misery of others.” His fingers squeezed warningly and he brought her closer, holding her weight easily in one hand—untouched by it. “I feel it again, witch, you die.”
Wheeling her eyes around, she gave Morgan a beseeching stare. “This is the freak you’ve chosen to trust?”
His hand tightened and black dots began to dance in front of her eyes. Terror bloomed in her mind and she struck out, calling for the one power in her arsenal that could really hurt him. The fire came, but it was sluggish, barely responding to her call.
She hurled it at him, but before it could so much as singe one hair on his head, it was doused.
She crashed to the floor, just in time to see Morgan coming for her.
A snarl peeled her lips back from her teeth and the sound coming from her throat barely sounded human.
Adrenaline spurred her movements. Acting on instinct, Isis reached down and drew the athame she liked to carry in her boot. Grabbing the hilt carved from bone, she jerked it up and lurched to her feet. Brandishing it in front of her, she snarled, “Come on, worthless bitch. You never did a damn thing to help me in your life . . . so I’ll just settle for your death instead.”
The knife Isis held didn’t slow Morgan down—not for a microsecond.
She moved with a speed that Isis hadn’t ever seen her daughter display. Speed . . . and skill. Her foot came up, swept out in an arc, knocking the blade out of Isis’s hand. Isis hissed out a breath and backed away. The knife . . . she needed that damn knife.
There—
A fist came flying toward hers, clipping her on the temple. Pain exploded through her head and she went with it, letting it knock her to the ground. Nausea and agony roiled inside. Her head ached, pounded. Just a few inches away, though, she saw the glint of her knife.
Panting, she closed her hand around it, used her body to hide it as she rolled over and glared at Morgan.
Morgan pounced and Isis waited—waited—just before Morgan would have been on top of her, she whipped the knife out. Morgan jerked aside, just barely missing the blade.
Isis swore and then cried out, enraged. Hard, cold fingers closed around her wrist. With her face an implacable mask, Morgan battled Isis for control of the knife . . . and she was winning.
She fought with skill . . . confidence.
Isis had only fear on her side.
And her magic . . . she tried to call it to her hand, but she was still too drained. Just calling the fire had been too much for it.
“Worthless,
useless
bitch.”
A
DRENALINE dulled the pain.
Although Morgan’s head ached, although those annoying, nagging whispers wouldn’t shut the hell up, she wasn’t blinded by the pain.
No, instead she was blinded by rage. Sheer, utter rage.
The bitch had pulled a blade on him.
Him . . .
Without any conscious thought, she struggled with Isis, rolling on the ground, grappling for control of the blade. As the woman hissed out, “Worthless,
useless
bitch,” Morgan gave her a taunting smile.
The pain swelled—like her brain was trying to split apart. In that voice that sounded so unlike her own, she taunted, “What is it the kids used to say? Oh, yes . . . it takes one to know one.”
Isis shrieked, and in one last moment of desperation, she wrenched her knife hand free and swung out.
Morgan caught the wrist, closed her fingers around it, shifted with an ease born of long practice.
Natural.
It felt so natural to move like this, to fight like she’d done so her entire life.
Bone cracked. Isis still held the blade, but now Morgan was in control, her hand curled around Isis’s hand, guiding the blade. Staring into the other woman’s eyes, Morgan forced the blade into Isis’s belly.
Isis screamed, and the warm wash of blood flowed over them.
The air was filled with the acrid, sour stink of a gut wound. Rising, she stared down at the other woman.
As her life ebbed away, that greedy, dark hunger rose inside, side by side with a cooler wash of energy.
You don’t need the blood, do you now? Breathe now, girl. Come on . . . that’s a girl . . . breathe . . .
Groaning, she brought her fisted hands up, pressing them to her brow, mindless of the blood.
Shit.
The voices in her head—the whispers—that nasty black hunger. They were going to drive her insane—rip her apart.
As the adrenaline rush faded, the pain in her head returned, mounted. A hand came up, brushed her shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
Dominic . . .
Jerking away, she stared at him. Okay? No. She
wasn’t
okay. Confused, scared. Terrified.
She forced the words out of her tight throat. “Where is my sister?”
“She’s safe,” he said, his voice gentle. “I swear to you, she’s safe.”
Truth . . . it felt like truth.
But Morgan couldn’t . . . no . . . didn’t
want
to trust that. This man . . . somehow . . . this man had the power to hurt her a great deal. Fear tore into her, vicious, jagged claws. She needed to get away—find Jazzy and get away—get very, very far away. Someplace where she could hide, where she wouldn’t have to face whatever pain this stranger promised her.
“I want to go to my sister. Right
now
. ”
Dominic swallowed. “I can’t take you right now.” Then he turned, staring at the body sprawled at their feet.
“What do you want me to do with this one?” Brad asked quietly.