Witch Interrupted (2 page)

“Fine,” she croaked, hissing when he threaded his other hand into her short hair, probing for wounds. And found one. “Ouch.”

He pulled his hand back, fingers red with her blood. “You’re hurt.”

Oh, hell. He couldn’t be touching her, and now he had her blood on him.
He had her blood.

“It’s n-nothing.” The knot on her skull throbbed like a bass drum.
Boom, boom, boom,
as rapid as her pulse. Her vision swam. She wasn’t sure if it was because she was woozy, because her glasses were crooked, or because he was so close to her, his hands at her neck, his strength five times hers. “Let me go.”

“Not so fast.” He caught her arms when she resisted. Unsurprisingly, he had no trouble holding her still, and that panicked…aroused…her more.

So did his nearly inaudible growl when she batted at him.

“I’m okay.”

Effortlessly, he trapped her wrists. His fingers were manacles. “Take it easy. You’re bleeding.”

Reacting on instinct—instinct and training—Katie swept a leg under his feet, knocking him on his ass. She leaped to her own feet, where she quickly confirmed that her blurry vision had been due to wooziness.

Marcus caught her when her knees gave out. Wolf reflexes trumped witch reflexes any day. He scooped her against his chest. Blood speckled his white shirt.

Even with the dizzies, she could see his smile. “I did warn you.”

“Don’t be smug.” She adjusted her skewed glasses. He smelled like aftershave, starch and…rooibos tea. It shouldn’t be so exciting. The urge to taste him dried her mouth. “I’m in pain.”

“I can imagine. That was a nasty hit.”

What the hell was she going to do? Ignoring her personal reaction, she had bigger problems. Her blood was all over him, and her everyday mask couldn’t conceal that. Not from a wolf. What if he sensed the aspect of her blood that witches had to conceal from wolves, no matter what?

Wolves and witches were the same species. The same, except witches never shifted, not once, else they’d lose their magic forever in exchange for four legs and a tail.

A terrible bargain, if you asked her. She had to free herself, restrain Marcus, warn Dad. Tonya. They’d have to wipe him.

Hell, did they have the strength for a full wipe? That ceremony took a coven, and it was just the three of them. No coven would have a witch like Katie.

Who could blame them?

“Where is your restroom?” He rose, lifting her with zero difficulty. Goddess, he was strong. “We need to get you cleaned up and see how bad the damage is.”

“Not we. Me. Alone.” She risked a glance at his eyes, surprised to find his baby browns wolfish. Literally. They’d turned pale, which meant one of two things. Either he was struggling with his inner beast, or he was an alpha trying to assert his dominance over her.

She didn’t feel like cooperating. Much. That meant it was the first thing.

“Put me down,” she ordered. Why the hell was a man his age having trouble with his wolf? Shifters mastered that in their late teens, one way or another. Shifter age could be tricky to guess, but Marcus had to be about thirty.

He raised an eyebrow. “And have you fall again? I can’t do that.”

“Try,” she suggested. His outward demeanor was placid, but she could feel the wolf rippling near the surface. This one didn’t like being told what to do.

“Don’t think so.” His arms tightened. “You could have a concussion.”

“I don’t have a concussion.” She had an emergency. Dad was upstairs, ignoring the store cam. Tonya was off at some Gaia festival in Tennessee.

“How do you know…” he began, but then he sniffed. Sniffed again. Before she could protest, he brushed his nose across her cheek. “What’s that smell?”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Her skin prickled with embarrassment. She grabbed his ear, twisted and yanked his face away from hers. “Are you trying to kiss me?”

Or sort her DNA?

Both were a bad idea.

He raised his eyebrows, and Katie licked her lips.
Kiss me, wolf. Ignore the blood and kiss me.

“Until you mentioned it, it hadn’t crossed my mind.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, and his fingers bit into her flesh. “Had it crossed your mind?”

He might know if she lied. She lied anyway. “That would be unprofessional.”

“If you say so.” He smiled again, despite her pincher-grip on his ear. It was on his mind now, all right. “Did you know you have dirt all over your face?”

“I do?” She let go of his ear and touched her jaw. Gritty residue coated her.

“It smells odd.” He lowered his head again. Her cheek tingled. When he spoke, his lips brushed her skin. “What perfume are you wearing?”

“None.” Katie pushed his chest. Sexual awareness flooded her. He probably knew that smell too. They all did. “I think you need to leave.”

He needed to leave.

That was it! She was covered in be-gone dust, and so was he. One jolt of magic, and he’d be out of here like a cat fleeing a bath.

Before she could muster her power, he growled, low and deep.

She froze.

“I know that smell,” he said in a dangerous voice.

Suddenly Katie found herself on her feet, pressed against the wall, Marcus in her face.

“Cumin. Black tea. Lemongrass. Clove. Chalk. That’s be-gone dust.” His hands clamped on her shoulders. His eyes blazed. “You’re a witch.”

The woman, Katie, turned even paler. Tiny freckles stood out on her nose like cinnamon. Her eyebrows rose briefly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Marcus didn’t have to smell it to know she was lying. “If I feel like I suddenly want to leave, I’m taking you with me.” He realized with some surprise he’d enjoy that. Taking her with him. Tossing her over his shoulder and toting her out of here like a Neanderthal.

She shook her head, denial all over her. “You can’t do that.”

“You know I can.” Without spells or backup, she didn’t have a chance.

“What I know is…” She blew a flake of herb off her full lips, her dark, nearly black eyes furious. Shouldn’t she be frightened? For all she knew, he could be as brutal as many other wolves, willing to terrorize anyone who got in the way. “If you don’t let me go right now, you’re going to regret it.”

In the year he’d been in hiding, this was his first unplanned encounter with another of their kind, witch or wolf. This had to be trap.

Except…why would she be covered in be-gone mix instead of hops or valerian to knock him unconscious until she and her cohorts could deal with him?

He smelled her again. She failed to conceal a shiver. Definitely be-gone. Threaded through it, desire, which he tried to ignore. It wasn’t easy. “Why were you trying to make me leave instead of immobilizing me?”

“If I could make you leave, I would.” Spell components dusted her short, shiny black hair. “I have the right to refuse service to patrons for objectionable behavior. That includes threatening me in my place of employment, Marcus.”

She remembered his name, as well as his tattoo. He was willing to bet she remembered all sorts of things about him. The question was, what had she done with that knowledge?

“You know what I am. Admit it.”

“Someone who’s about to get arrested.”

“By your coven?” He eased off her shoulders, conscious of his strength and her fragility, but remained alert. She’d knocked him on his ass once, something she shouldn’t have been able to do. She was agile, and stronger than she looked.

“Coven? What the hell are you talking about? Arrested by the cops.” Her small breasts rose and fell quickly under the gauzy tunic she wore over skin-tight denims. She wasn’t unaffected by him, which was affecting him too.

He sniffed her a final time, something he appreciated about being a wolf. The lemongrass meant the be-gone was Millington coven’s blend. If she had access to coven products, she had to be part of the system.

“You wouldn’t drag the human cops into this.”

Her expression didn’t change. “Are you on drugs?”

“No.” How had he been here multiple times and not realized the shop was witch-run? Though it did explain why she sounded like Betty.

She
was
Betty.

“Christ. You drew that shitty dragon on me,” he accused. The tattoo he’d hated had been the one he’d finally managed to keep. While the breakthrough in his research had pleased him, the so-called dragon didn’t.

“My sister drew it.” With one finger, she pushed lightly at his bare chest, trying to back him up. “Told you we were right to fire her.”

Should he allow the contact? Skin to skin would give her more power if she charged the be-gone dust. Would she risk finding out if he really would drag her with him?

He almost wished she’d try.

She was pretty, but it wasn’t only that. She exuded confidence. She wouldn’t go easily. His wolf had honed the part of him that liked a challenge to a sharp, toothy point.

“Betty was the disguise.” He lowered his head to see what she’d do. She stiffened. He smiled. “The pink hair and piercings were chicanery. This is you.”

“You’re crazy.” She said it matter-of-factly, but he could hear the tension in her voice. Her palm joined her fingers on his chest as she pushed. “And maybe high.”

He peered closer, inspecting her bone structure, her coloring, and realized why else she seemed familiar beyond her genetics. “Is the man who tattooed me on my other visits your father?”

Her jaw clenched. He’d guessed correctly. “I’m going to ask you one more time to let me go. In my nice voice.”

If he did as requested, she could pull the gun he smelled behind the counter or cast a spell he couldn’t counteract. Any witch-run business worth its salt stocked a number of safety measures. At the same time, he didn’t want to scare her. Much. He just needed to find out what she and her father knew about him—and whom they might tell.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Katie.” He’d revealed too much, but there was no backing down now. He’d been shocked into it, his wolf reacting to the danger she posed. “I’m not pack, and I’ve no plans to be.”

Katie sighed and her slender body deflated. Her touch softened. He could sense her acquiescence as clearly as if she’d admitted it.

Satisfaction surged inside him.

“I guess that’s one point in your favor.”

Now that she’d quit denying the obvious, they could make headway. A witch here was probably an extension agent of Birmingham, the largest group in the Southern region. “Are you coven?”

“Of course,” she answered quickly.

His senses weren’t honed enough to smell lies, but it seemed like another one. Could she be independent, like he was? His short list of registered independent witches didn’t include a tattooist in Alabama.

“What about your father?” Zhang Li had been elderly and more talented artistry-wise.

Her gaze flicked to a corner of the ceiling, paused there and returned to him. It seemed calculated. “What about him?”

“Does he know what I am?” Surely if they’d figured out who he was, not just what he was, they wouldn’t have continued to tattoo him without a fuss.

“He’s watching us right now.” Her fingertips tapped his chest. “We have video cameras everywhere.”

A year ago, when he’d begun this process, the first witch he’d approached hadn’t been amenable to helping him. In fact, she’d indirectly sicced the keeper council on him. As if those bastards needed any help nipping his heels. After that, he’d lost access to the witches he’d hoped to consult and had had to relocate to dangerous territory. Worst of all, he’d had to reformat his study to exclude witch participation.

It had thwarted his models like baking soda on a grease fire.

But stumbling across Katie woke new hope in him. Was she likely to report a cognizant wolf, one who knew about witches, when she was outside the system herself? She was attracted to him; he could smell it. If he could interest her in his research, he could turn this blunder into a windfall.

And finally his sister’s death could have served a purpose. Finally he would have justice.

As he watched Katie for signs of…anything, blood from her head wound dribbled onto her neck. Guilt pinged at him.

“If I let you go so we can spray heal-all on your cut,” he said, “are you going to try to get rid of me?”

She answered with a question of her own. “How do you know about covens and magic?”

“Does that matter?” Most witches would want to defuse any wolf who knew about them. But his research could revolutionize their society in a way that would mean more power and security for them all.

It would also mean his life could go back to normal.
He
could go back to normal. Normal and safe. He could quit worrying that tomorrow would be the day he died like Elisa had.

“Of course,” Katie said again, in a different timbre than the lie. “There are limited explanations for how a wolf could know about magic. Outside of Millington, I haven’t heard of any coven pets, but—”

“I’m no one’s pet.” He barely restrained a snarl. Though hers was a sentiment he might have echoed at one point, now it was offensive.

“Then who are you?”

His luck, at last, had changed. She didn’t know who he was.

“Marcus Delgado,” he told her, the name he’d picked when he’d gone underground. “Who are you?”

She flashed her teeth in a grin worthy of any wolf. “Katie.”

“This is getting us nowhere, and you’re bleeding.” How should he play this? His first witch had been perfect and, he’d thought, progressive. But she’d reported him. He had to convince Katie not to do the same. “Can we declare a truce?”

“I’ll make you a deal.” Underneath the scent of her blood, he detected the delicious flux of aversion and attraction that had made no sense until he’d realized what she was. Aversion because he was a wolf. Attraction because—the same reason he found her attractive, he supposed. Because. “If you leave and never come back, that will be the end of this. We’ll wipe the slate. I’m sure neither of us want trouble.”

“I don’t care for your use of the word
wipe
.”

Her jaw clenched. “We’ll pretend this never happened. I won’t tell, and you won’t tell. Nobody will ever know. Is that better?”

He should take her up on the offer. Disappear before she could report the renegade wolf to the region elders, who would inform the keepers he’d been spotted in Alabama. It wouldn’t be a stretch to connect Marcus Delgado with the man they sought. But he found himself reluctant to go.

This was the closest he’d come to another of his kind in months, someone who could help him. His thirst for knowledge, as it had in the past, was overriding caution.

Danger signs flashed. He shrugged them off. Would she help him? As someone so far outside the system she didn’t show on the list of registered independents, she was an unknown quantity. She didn’t act like a sympathizer, but the strides he could make if he had a cooperative witch on his side would be incredible.

Even if she wasn’t open to certain tests, her magic could enrich his work tenfold. His desire to work with her had nothing to do with his desire for her.

“I’d prefer to discuss a few professional matters with you before I leave,” he said. “First, heal-all. There’s no reason for you to be in pain. Then we can talk.”

“Fine. Quit mauling me and I’ll go—”

“I’m coming with you. You could fall again.” Or chase him off. Or get a gun. He kept one hand on her neck, ready to toss her over his shoulder. “Lead the way.”

After casting him a mistrustful glance over the top of her glasses, she stalked through the hanging beads that separated the front room from the more private back one, where clients received tattoos. It was as clean as a witch’s stillroom or his laboratory. Paintings by local artists and photos of intricate ink adorned the walls, with a television mounted in one corner. During his second tattoo, he and her father had watched an old black-and-white movie, one he remembered first seeing in a theater for thirty cents.

The restroom was small. He shut the door behind them, blocked it and released her.

“Let me see.” He motioned at her head. “I have first aid training.”

“Like that matters. I’m going to spell it away.” She grabbed a wad of paper towels and wet them. When she pressed them to the scalp wound, her lips pinched.

“Don’t get be-gone into the cut,” he observed, as she dabbed herself gingerly. “It’s in your hair, and the interaction of the cloves and lemongrass with water will—”

She inhaled audibly. “Holy mothering hell, that smarts.”

“—make it sting,” he finished. She didn’t hide pain as well as her other emotions. “You’ll have to flush it before the heal-all will work.”

“I’m not a baby in my first pass-through,” she snapped. “I know these things.” She shoved the paper towels back under the faucet. It rinsed the blood, turning the water pink.

He couldn’t help himself. Nearly a hundred years of conditioning, five dealing with ferals and keepers, couldn’t be discarded in three hundred and eighty-three days. “You shouldn’t be using a simple mask in an occupation that involves blood and the public. You never know who might walk in. Blood is a neon sign to wolves.”

“
My
blood isn’t involved in tattoos.” She set her glasses on the counter, bent over the sink and applied the saturated towels to her head. Pinkish water dribbled down her cheeks. “As for who might walk in, other wolves don’t get ink, Marcus. You’re the only one we’ve had in here longer than a minute or two.” Water dampened her collar as she awkwardly cleansed the wound. “Are you into pain or something, getting tattoos for kicks?”

He’d been celibate since his initial phase of experimentation. The transformation had roughened his sexual preferences, but it hadn’t reversed them. “Not exactly. How about you?”

He’d meant it to be a throwaway quip but was reminded, with his next inhale, of her attraction to him, lurking beneath the hostility.

Escalating beyond the hostility.

Was she into pain? Or into him?

He found himself twice as curious as he had been moments ago. Curiosity didn’t stop at killing cats.

She turned to look at him. Her pupils were dilated, her expression haunted. “That is also none of your business.”

A clichéd line about making it his business crossed his mind. He didn’t say it. His senses gave him an unfair advantage, and she probably knew what he was reading off her. “I was kidding. I don’t care what you’re into.”

When she humphed and twisted her shoulders, it knocked be-gone from her hair. She hissed again. “That fucking hurts. Lemongrass. Whose bright idea was that?”

He was surprised she didn’t know. “Vernon Harrower.”

She squinted at him. “Vern? You know that old goat?”

Most witches did. Vernon Harrower was a region elder rumored, in certain circles, to be involved with the keepers. Marcus knew the rumor to be true. “Does that surprise you?”

“You’re not…are you Harry Travis? The wolf from Millington?”

“No.” Harry Smith Travis, a “coven alpha” in Millington, was a fascinating case study of how witches could run ethical tests on cognizant wolves when the wolves were volunteers. Not prisoners who’d rather bite off the witch’s hand. Harry had been the one to explain to Marcus how wolves carried tattoos and clothing through shifts. Harry and his wife, an alpha witch, had also elaborated on certain aspects of witch and wolf relations.

The line between witch and wolf, Marcus had come to believe, was less strict than witches assured themselves. While most witches weren’t as fanatical as the purists, most regarded their hairy kindred as dangerous—as shifters who’d failed to find the strength of will to become witches.