Dylan's Witch: 10 (Supernatural Bonds) (22 page)

Helene Lindley.

“Got you,” Trace said. “What are the chances they aren’t in this together? Anyone call Dylan and Seraphine?”

“Not yet. Figured to let you do the honors.” Conner shrugged. “Also figured he might want to come in, and right now, that hinders communication since we can’t exactly talk openly about the existence of demons, elves, faeries, dragons and, my personal favorite, werewolves.”

Trace sighed. “Jesus I hate this.”

“It’s almost over, right?” Miguel said. “Dylan’s close to knowing the truth. He’s got to be. Having met Seraphine, my money is on her.”

Trace gave it all of a second of thought. “Yeah, it’s almost over. He’s more than halfway to knowing and accepting the shi—the stuff we know exists.”

The twinge of guilt made him kiss the purple heartmate stone in the ring he now wore as a wedding band, offering a silent apology to Aislinn. “Where are Brady and Storm?”

“Brady took a call-out on a dead junkie camping near a park,” Conner said. “Guy was discovered lying facedown on a blood-soaked blanket when a kid’s soccer ball left the field of play. Storm is out with Tristan and Pierce. They’ve trying to get a visual on either Lindley or Cunningham.”

Trace couldn’t suppress the grimace. “Do I want to know?”

Conner shook his head. “Probably not. Something to do with fey magic. Bottom line, we can’t issue an all-points because we’ve got nothing solid on either Lindley or Cunningham, and if they spook, we’ve got to assume they have means to get out of the country. Besides that…”

“We can’t put other cops at risk,” Miguel said. “At least until we know the threat has been reduced to the usual kind we face when we deal with killers.”

Trace rubbed the back of his neck. “Let’s hope something breaks soon.”

The phone on Conner’s desk rang as if in answer. He reached over and lifted the receiver. “Stern.” He hit the speaker button. “Trace is here. What have you got?”

“A dead junkie, as reported,” Brady said. “Probably never saw it coming. Stabbed through the back. The knife sliced
through
his ribs like they were butter instead of bone, and into his heart with just enough force to leave a cut at the front of his shirt but not get buried in the dirt. Area brushed clean on either side of him suggests the killer was standing over him, straddling him while he was either zoned out or passed out. My gut says this is the warm-up event.”

Trace’s heart lurched. He wanted to race back to Inner Magick and haul Aislinn home, or better yet, deposit her at Severn’s estate with Sophie because he could be sure no harm of a demonic nature would come to her while surrounded by dragons.

“Thanks, Brady,” Conner said. “Your gut’s probably right. For all we know, tonight’s victim is already on tap.”

“The fun never ends with this job.” Brady hung up.

Miguel scrubbed his hands over his face. “We have no idea exactly when the other prostitutes were taken. I’ve gone back to Talocan but Lupita Perez is gone. Or hiding. The lords—”

“TMI,” Trace said, holding up his hand. Christ, he might be married to a half-elf but he did not want to be sucked into Miguel’s dreamscapes or his travels with a demon—former demon lover. There was only so much a guy should have to get his head around.

Miguel accepted the interruption with a grimace of his own. “I hear you. The point I was leading up to was that we can’t be sure Brady’s DB is Cunningham’s kill, assuming she’s the one in possession of the blade.”

Trace’s shoulders sagged. “I want to get back to understandable crimes done by the usual subset of losers. I’ll call Dylan.”

He used his cell phone. “Am I interrupting anything?”

“What do you think?”

At least something was going right.
“How’s the cut?”

Dylan glanced down at it with a sense of foreboding that even Seraphine’s body against his couldn’t shake. “There’s another DB?”

“A junkie. Brady’s on scene.”

“The cut hasn’t bled.”

Soft lips touched his shoulder. “It wouldn’t,” Seraphine murmured. “Not behind the wards protecting my house.”

His pulse quickened. He wanted to pull denial over him like a kid’s blanket, making him invisible to nighttime monsters.

“Hold on a second.” It was a good thing his pants hadn’t made it much past the front door.

He left the bed, not sure whether he was glad or not when Seraphine remained, allowing him to face this one on his own. When he reached his trousers he tugged them on, sparing himself the possibility of an indecent exposure charge.

The cat appeared, sitting at the end of the hallway and watching him with unblinking eyes. It gave him the heebies and it wasn’t even black.

He stepped outside. The cut opened immediately.

It wasn’t the rush and pour of immediate death but the seep and ooze that marked time. And it came with a vibrating hum, the press of internal organs and muscle against skin too tight to hold them in human shape.

A sheen of sweat instantly coated his arms and chest and back. He clamped Seraphine’s token against the wound to drive back the whispers and screams.

“The blade’s been used,” he managed, his voice coming from a long way off, and he didn’t bother calling himself a coward at his hasty retreat inside, the door closing with a loud slam.

Normalcy returned. He might have laughed except he was afraid he’d sound like a madman.

“Cunningham is a solid,” Trace said. “She showed up at Inner Magick a little while before the kids found the dead junkie. Ianthe was with Aislinn. She’s positive Harper’s assistant has killed with Lucifer’s Blade.”

“Fuck. What happened?” No way would Trace sound this calm if Aislinn had been injured.

“Cunningham saw Ianthe and left. Ianthe tried to follow but couldn’t go far, not without the risk of Cunningham slipping back into the store. It’s looking good for Lindley too. A while back she defended Cunningham, birth name Jergensen, on a murder rap. Best guess, she cleaned her up, gave her a new name and background, then installed her as Nicole Harper’s aide, though we might never have confirmation of that. Tell Seraphine. If she can help us find them, or confirm the lawyer practices black magic too, it’d be a big help.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“Don’t come in.”

He wondered what his partner knew, what he guessed, but the brief foray outside was enough for Dylan to say, “I won’t.” Though he hated it! Hated it!

He jammed the phone into his pants pocket. He might have railed against fate or bad luck or the supernatural bullshit, but he turned and saw a nightgown-clad Seraphine approaching, concern on her face, her breasts pressed to sheer material, nipples hardening at having his eyes on them, and all protest left him.

It was replaced by fear. By hope. By the return of fear and with it the realization that despite his earlier protests, he had to know if there was some chance of a future with her.

Chapter Fourteen

He needed to confront the witch—Jacqueline—and find out once and for all whether he was his father’s son when it came to women, or his own man. He couldn’t bear the thought of hurting Seraphine as he’d done Heather. He didn’t want to marry and have children, only to have that life crash and burn around him, taking his professional one with it, given how closely the two were entwined.

Seraphine reached him, arms going around his waist. Offering comfort, solidarity.

He closed his eyes. Accepted the embrace and found the courage to tell her the rest of the story.

“My mom died my junior year in college, right after Heather found me with Jacqueline. She didn’t show up for work and finally they got worried enough to send someone to the house. The coroner said she’d overdosed on prescription meds mixed with alcohol.”

Her arms tightened. She knew what he feared but didn’t volunteer it. He did. “There was no suicide note. Nothing to prove whether it was accidental or intentional.”

“Oh Dylan,” she whispered, lips touched to his skin, tears in her voice.

Fierce emotion gripped him, at having the mess his parents made of their relationship bring pain to her. Fuck it.
Their lives. Their choices.

“It doesn’t matter now,” he said.

Except the guilt lingered, tangled up with his cheating on Heather, his fear that somehow him mother died believing her son was the same kind of man her husband was, because she’d met Heather, she’d seen how in love they were, and then he’d refused to answer any questions about her.

Seraphine let it go without pushing, for which he was grateful. He relayed Trace’s information and the request.

“The fastest way to an answer is to do a summoning.”

He wasn’t ready to know more, or to witness it. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t ready to confront the past.

She sensed his thoughts. Or guessed at them, given the tremor he couldn’t suppress. “I might be awhile,” she said, fingers playing with the hair on the back of his neck. “I’ll give you the charm I wear. It’s stronger. You can test it by stepping outside. I think it’ll shield you from the whispers and screams.”

“But not from some witch’s sex spell.”

“It will while it’s touched to your skin. You’ll have to break the contact to learn the truth.”

The pound of her heart was a steady, calming rhythm that miraculously slowed the race of his. He couldn’t fucking believe—

Yeah, he could.

“You’ll stay here while I’m gone?”

“Yes. I’ll stay here.”

“You won’t leave the house.”

“I have zero intention of leaving the house. Go, I’m completely safe here.”

He covered her lips with his, delved into the heaven of her mouth and within minutes had her against the back of the door, the nightgown no longer hiding the narrow landing strip on her mound, his trousers no longer a barrier to penetration.

He slid home, moaned at the exquisite feel of her wet heat and the clamp of her channel on his cock as her legs locked their bodies together. He’d never get tired of this.

Jesus. He needed it.

He took her slowly. Reveled in her open pleasure, in each moan, each scrape of her fingernails against his skin.

He swallowed her cry of orgasm. Came in a rush of ecstasy and found it nearly impossible to first leave her body and then leave her home.

But she was right. The necklace she wore was a second chain around his neck, the charm on it completely silenced the whispers and screams as well as dampened the hum he now knew meant the blade had been empowered with a kill.

* * * * *

The college he’d first attended was a couple of cities away but it might as well have been across the country. He hadn’t returned since transferring out junior year.

He parked across the street from the occult bookshop. It looked inviting, cozy, safe, a place for coeds to explore their newfound independence.

The witch was inside. He could see her behind the counter.

She still wore her hair up, pulled back from her face so as not to detract from her eyes and lips. He wasn’t close enough to get a good look at them, and even without Seraphine in his life, he didn’t want to remember how it’d felt to have them on him.

Jacqueline had aged. Magic, if she had any real ability there, might have slowed it, but it hadn’t stopped it.

Attractive? Yeah. Enough so he’d notice her if he walked into a bar. But raging lust? Not now.

She came around the counter just as a girl stepped into sight. His heart gave an involuntary lurch at seeing the brunette. It took a moment to realize he wasn’t looking at Heather.

A blink cleared his head. Observation skills kicked in.

Definitely a coed. Probably a freshman, the same as Heather had been.

The girl stopped in front of the witch, head ducking, the shy mannerism a kick in his gut because it reminded him of those early dates with Heather. The witch reached out, pushed strands of brown hair backward as she said something that had the coed lifting her face, lips parting in anticipation of the kiss that came.

His dick twitched. But fuck, he was a red-blooded guy looking at woman-on-woman action, a seduction that had him jerking forward with realization rather than to get a better view.

Had the witch wanted Heather back then? Obviously she went for a type. Had seducing him been a setup?

Not that it minimized his guilt. Except—

His heart sped up. Hope slid in, thin and sharp like a narrow blade.

What if Seraphine was right? What if the underlying belief he might be like his old man had provided an opening for magical compulsion?

He didn’t like to think he’d be susceptible to it. But…he’d been
so sure
back then that he understood the way the world worked.

He scrambled to think of someone who’d been a mutual friend, someone who’d know whether or not Heather eventually hooked up with the witch. A name popped. Crystal Coxx, a girl who’d thought she wanted to be a witch too. She was from Miami and anxious to put distance between herself and her family until going back after graduation to work for the import-export business they owned.

The kissing on the other side of the glass window heated up. The witch’s hands stroked, soothed, seduced the coed as Dylan used various resources to track down Crystal.

“You’re a voice from the past,” she said when he finally managed it, her cool tones saying she’d prefer he’d stayed that way.

“I’m a cop now.”

“So I gather. You’ve shown up on the news a few times over the last couple of months. In fact, didn’t you shoot someone today?”

“I did.”

She let the silence drag, probably hoping he’d fill it.

He didn’t.

“Let me guess, you’re looking for someone who can give you the scoop when it comes to black magic.”

He grimaced. Felt a twinge of sympathy for the captain at what the headlines must be screaming.

“You still involved in that stuff?” He prayed she wasn’t so he wouldn’t have to chew up time working her to the real point of the call.

“No.”

Hallelujah. “What about Heather?”

The silence that followed was icy cold. “I’m surprised you can even say her name. You really screwed her over. You know that?”