Black Magic Woman (13 page)

Somehow, none of them seemed quite right.

Asher Grayson maintained a strict policy regarding women—he never let any of them close enough to interfere with his work, and he never became intimately involved with humans. The first part stemmed from the fact that as a Guardian, his work wasn’t an occupation so much as a part of his identity. He couldn’t possibly allow another person, and certainly not a woman, to become as important to him as his own sense of self. The very idea was alien to him.

The second part stemmed entirely from experience. Human women, in his estimation, were too fragile and entirely too young for him. Oh, he cared little for the concept of chronological age; live a couple of centuries and counting the number of one’s years started to look a bit ridiculous. No, when he claimed that human women were too young for him, he meant in their souls.

He’d spent his entire existence taking care of humans, keeping them out of trouble, or rescuing them from it when they stumbled in despite his best efforts. They possessed so little awareness of the world around them that he had begun to suspect eons ago that they wore their ignorance as a badge of honor, maintaining the blinders on their eyes because it was just easier to pretend that things like the Others didn’t exist. Keeping the supernatural relegated to the world of fairy tales and ghost stories seemed to help the humans sleep at night, but in Asher’s eyes it made them look … pathetic. Like babies, they felt no need to see the world beyond their immediate surroundings, and the idea of forming some sort of attachment to someone who struck him as little more mature than an infant …

Frankly, it wasn’t just unappealing; it was downright distasteful.

And yet, somehow, Daphanie Carter made him want to make an exception, to break his own rules. When he looked at her, spoke to her, drew in her scent, he almost forgot she was human. Or else he had stopped caring.

Asher didn’t know why the compulsion had the power to drive him forward, but he had to know. He used his grip on her wrist to tug her to the end of the worktable, shifting her around the worn and rounded corner until the scarred wood no longer served as a barrier between them. Now the only thing separating them was space, and he closed that with a single step.

He bent his head toward her and breathed deeply, taking in the subtle scents that clung to her skin—wood and metal, smoke and woman, sweet citrus and the heady, honeyed earthiness of myrrh. He heard a tiny catch in her breath, quick and barely audible. The sound rushed through him, tangible evidence that she shared at least a little of his madness.

The skin inside her wrist felt like living satin beneath his touch. He shifted his fingers and felt her pulse leap. Slowly, he skimmed his palm higher, barely touching, and her skin rose toward him, roughening with awareness. Gooseflesh, it was called, but all he felt was warm, resilient woman.

From beneath heavy lids, he watched her sway closer and exulted. He curved one hand around the point of her shoulder and onto her back, urging her even closer. The other, he lifted and cupped about the nape of her neck, feeling the heavy fall of her ponytail brush against his knuckles. She quivered beneath his touch, and hunger threatened to overwhelm him.

Her breath huffed out, a soft caress against his cheek. He rubbed it against hers, his stubble catching and rasping her smooth skin. His lips brushed the delicate curve of her ear and parted to whisper.

“I can do all sorts of things other than stare at you, Daphanie,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I could touch you. I could stroke you. I could caress you. Or, I could just do this.”

Then he turned his head, aligned her mouth beneath his, and let himself feast.

Seven

For generations, the Others maintained a policy of secrecy, going to great lengths to conceal their presence from the human race. Naturally, this resulted in a rather insular community in which marriages and pair bonds between Others and humans remained rare. While such unions are still considered unusual, it would hardly be accurate to claim they never occur.

—A Human Handbook to the Others,
Chapter Thirteen

Daphanie felt as if someone had just ignited her forge and laid her out over the heated coals. If the building’s sprinkler system were to go off and douse her at any second, she wouldn’t even blink, but she suspected she might give off steam.

Come to think of it, she was surprised she wasn’t doing that already. Or maybe she was. No way was she going to tear her lips from Asher’s long enough to open her eyes and check. Her mama hadn’t raised that particular brand of stupid.

The man kissed like a god. Eros, naturally. Or maybe like a devil, because the thoughts he put in her mind with his hard, hot mouth and his warm, strong hands weren’t about angels and church choirs; they made her think of dark, humid nights, tangled silk sheets, and the kind of pleasure that made a woman call out to God all the way down the long descent into the inferno.

He didn’t just kiss. The word implied a neat and civilized pressing of lips to lips, a temporary joining marked by pleasure and simple contentment. None of that bore even the slightest resemblance to what Daphanie experienced in that moment.

She felt consumed, devoured, trapped by the power of firm hands and intoxicating pleasure. His fingers gripped her only lightly at the nape, more of a caress than a restraint, and his palm against her back urged and encouraged instead of detaining or forcing. The power that held her in place had little to do with physical force and everything to do with desire.

Daphanie hadn’t expected the kiss, but if she were to be honest with herself, she would have to admit she’d wanted it almost from the first instant those silver-gold eyes had locked with hers. She almost suspected she’d been waiting for it most of her life.

Fate.

All her life, Daphanie had believed in the power of the universe to guide people toward their destinies. It had guided her into art, into travel, and now into the arms of this man. Who was she to argue with that kind of fortune, when this fortune felt so good?

She lifted herself onto her tiptoes, throwing herself into the kiss with all the exuberance of a cliff diver streaking toward clear, blue water. Like the ocean, he enveloped her. She felt almost as if she were drowning, but she couldn’t care. What was breathing compared to the once-in-a-lifetime power of this kiss?

The beat of her heart pounded in her ears, quickened by his touch, heavy, insistent …

… and coming from the other side of the studio door.

Head spinning, Daphanie tore herself away from Asher’s embrace and turned to face the door, staring in confusion at the smooth steel surface.

“Geez, Daph, don’t you ever answer doors anymore?” Corinne called from the hallway. “Let me the hell in!”

Beside her, Asher cursed, sharp and low, and she really couldn’t disagree with the sentiment. Although she had to admit that the kiss had been headed in only one direction, and without a bed—or even a clean floor—anywhere around, someone would have ended up cursing even more violently sooner or later.

A residual shiver raced across her skin and Daphanie almost laughed. Okay, sooner, then.

“Daph?”

His face cast in grim lines, Asher stepped past Daphanie and yanked open the studio door. On the other side, Corinne stood frozen, her hand raised and curled in a fist in preparation for another vigorous knock.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“You’ll have to ask Daphanie,” the Guardian snarled, turning away to stalk back to the far end of the studio. “Just think of me as another piece of furniture. I brought a book.”

Daphanie made a sound of frustration. For the first time since Saturday night, she’d gotten a rise out of Asher that didn’t involve him yelling at her for wanting to get away from him. In fact, this particular reaction had been all about closeness. Until Corinne had interrupted.

“Your timing sucks,” she grumbled under her breath, slumping against the end of her worktable and crossing her arms grumpily over her chest. She glared at Asher’s form, perched on a stool at the other end of the studio, a book in his hand and a scowl on his face. He appeared to be ignoring them. Nevertheless, she hoped she’d spoken softly enough not to be overheard.

A sly grin played around the edges of the reporter’s mouth. “I’m starting to understand that you might think so. Do you want me to come back later?”

Daphanie glared. “I think it’s a little late for that.”

Corinne laughed and leaned closer. Her voice dropped conspiratorially. “I’m more than happy to apologize. I won’t even argue if you decide you need retribution at some point. But you have to tell me one thing … How did he taste?”

Flames shot up the side of Daphanie’s neck and bloomed in her cheeks. “What?” she stuttered. “What the hell are you talking about? How the hell would I know? Why would you even ask a question like that?”

“Because I’m a reporter, honey. It’s my job to ask questions. And because either that man just kissed the starch out of your panties, or a hive full of killer bees buzzed through here and stung you directly on the lips. Now which one was it?”

Not even willpower could keep Daphanie’s knees from buckling as she remembered the power of that kiss.

“God, Rinne, I think he sucked my brain right out of my head,” she whispered, fighting the urge to lay said appendage down on the table and savor the coolness of the wood against her overheated skin.

“Oooh, I’m jealous. I haven’t had a kiss like that in … years.” Corinne sighed. “I’m so sorry I interrupted. Want to punch me?”

“Yes.”

The reporter laughed. “All right, anywhere but the face. Come on. I know I deserve it.”

“Give me a minute to get my strength back.”

Corinne’s eyes widened. “Wow. That good, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

She couldn’t, because Daphanie herself could barely grasp the significance of that single, stolen moment. It felt as if her world had tilted and settled into a new alignment. All she could really say was that something inside her had shifted.

But had Asher felt anything similar?

She had to fight not to stare at him across the room. Since she’d just instigated an argument over him doing exactly that to her, it seemed uncouth. Besides, her overloaded mind and senses needed some time to settle down, and staring at his fine body and handsome features wouldn’t do much to aid that effort. Better to focus on Corinne and touch base with reality again.

“Whattaya got?”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t tell me you interrupted for nothing,” Daphanie groaned. “Please say you had a reason for schlepping out here on this particular morning?”

“Oh, right.” Corinne laid a hand on her folder as if assuring herself it was still where she’d left it. “You have any place to sit in here?”

“Gimme a sec.”

Her friend waited patiently while Daphanie poked her head into several open crates until she found what she looked for. She returned a second later with two tall, metal stools that made up for in fire resistance what they lacked in style, beauty, and comfort. She arranged them at one end of the carpenter’s table, half facing each other around a blunted corner.

“Voilà,” she said, sliding onto one of the seats and focusing on her companion. “Now tell me what’s going on. I thought we agreed to postpone the interview for your paper until I got a little more settled in.”

Corinne took her own seat and slid her papers closer. She appeared to be guarding them like a holy relic, and Daphanie felt a faint stirring of curiosity.

“We did,” Corinne agreed, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m not worried about that. But our powwow over at Vircolac the other day made me curious. A reporter’s besetting sin is curiosity.”

Daphanie just lifted an eyebrow. She’d heard a lot about Corinne’s sins from her sister, and she didn’t think curiosity would even rank in the top ten. From what Danice had said, Rinne was a woman who liked men, tequila, and adventure. Not necessarily in that order.

“I’ve done a couple of articles on witches and psychics in my time,” the woman continued, her expression shifting to something intent and glittery as she warmed to her subject. “So I was surprised when this D’Abo guy didn’t really ring any bells for me. I know at least the names of most of the so-called magicians the bunko squad likes to target on a regular basis.”

“And D’Abo isn’t one of those names?”

“No, which made me even more curious, so I decided to do a little investigating.”

“I thought Graham and Rafe were looking into D’Abo.”

“They are,” Asher confirmed.

Hearing his voice come from over her shoulder made Daphanie jump. She’d been trying so hard to focus on Corinne that she hadn’t even noticed when he left his perch across the room and joined them at the table.

He took in her glare and shrugged. “If you’re speaking of D’Abo, I wish to hear what you have learned.”

“Asher’s right,” Corinne confirmed, “Graham and Rafe are looking into things, but they’re going to be looking at this from a perspective of whether or not you need to worry about him—what kind of powers does he have, how strong is he, how often in the past has he been known to swear revenge on people and has he ever followed up on it … Those kinds of things.”