Magicstorm (Heart of a Vampire, Book 4) (6 page)

“
Si
. Are you sure everything is all
right?”

“Yes, mama.”

As she hung up the phone, Brandon’s eyes
shone with triumph. “Your address,” he stated.

Still, she resisted. “I should have my car,
in case another call comes in tonight.”

He started the Harley with a smooth rumble.
“All the more reason for you not to have a vehicle. You’ll call me
and I’ll take you.”

Finally, she slid on. He lurched into traffic
and she scrambled to grab on.

“You like to order other people around, don’t
you?” she asked, irritated.

“Not really. But I’m not going to be left out
of this. You can’t solve this case without my help.”

His words made her tense, but she bit her lip
at the argument wanting to come. Instead, she gave him her address,
silently amused when he cursed and turned the motorcycle around to
head down the opposite side of the street.

Brandon slid the purring cycle easily through
the light traffic as he headed for Celeste’s home. He should be
focusing on the newest clues, the ones reminding him of times best
forgotten. Her arms clutching his waist, her hands pressing against
his stomach, were making him think things he truly shouldn’t even
consider.

Even the fact that the newest clues they’d
come across were reminding him of the past wasn’t dulling his
growing lust.

The woman was an enigma. Not only a woman in
a man’s job, which struck him as wrong--he could easily admit he
was old-school--but her strength in the face of adversity,
prejudice from others, and the way she’d acknowledged the world of
the Arcaine was telling. And mesmerizing. Her desperate worry for
her family touched him.

He knew the feeling all too well.

He pulled up in front of a five-story
apartment building. After getting off his bike, he grabbed a dark
case from the saddlebags, stored her helmet, then followed her up
the stairs to a door on the fifth floor.

She shot him an aggravated glare, but he just
smiled.

Finally, she walked inside, before turning to
look at him expectantly. It hit him. She was refusing him
invitation into her home.

So he strode in.

“Let me guess, another myth,” she grumbled,
closing the door behind him.

“I told you, most are.”

“Great.”

A soft meow came from the hall as a bundle of
orange and white striped fur raced into the room.

“Hercules,” Celeste cooed, sweeping down to
pick up the kitten.

It butted her chin, licking once, then stuck
its nose against her neck, purring loudly.

“Interesting name for a bit of fluff,” he
replied, glancing around the living room.

“He’ll get bigger,” she replied.

The room held a couch, a couple tables, and a
wall lined with bookshelves. Other than the books piled everywhere,
the place was devoid of any personal touches.

He’d imagined a woman’s home full of
knick-knacks and annoying kitsch, maybe pictures of her family and
friends. But the stark white walls were devoid of decoration. It
suited her somehow. Warriors didn’t surround themselves with such
things.

She put the kitten down and faced him. “So,
good night, then.”

The furball rammed its head against his calf,
looking up at him with pitiful blue eyes, begging to be picked up.
With a sigh, he did, cradling the kitten in the crook of his elbow
and scratching its tiny head.

Celeste stared at him, her eyes softening a
bit, so unlike their usual hardness.

Getting to the task at hand, he said, “We
need to ward your place.”

“Ward?”

He set the kitten on the couch and opened the
black case, pulling out a burlap bag. “Salt, and a few other
herbs.”

Heading for the door, he poured a thick line
of salt along the bottom.

“What’s that supposed to do?” she asked,
watching him.

The kitten sidled over to the salt, sniffed,
then backed away with a sneeze.

“It’ll help keep certain Arcaine out, slow
others down.”

Her eyes widened as he strode around the
room, pouring the salt mixture along the windows as well.

“You think they’ll come here?”

“I doubt it.” Which he did, mostly. Whoever
was behind this wouldn’t be bothered by some mortal cop.

“Then why sprinkle salt all over my
house?”

He caught her gaze, raising a brow. “Ever
heard the saying ‘be prepared’?”

“Don’t tell me you were a boy scout,” she
mumbled.

Brandon struggled to contain a chuckle at the
thought. “Not quite. That was long after my time.”

She blinked, then shook her head. “I’m not
even going to ask.”

“Next room?”

She led him through her small apartment, the
kitchen, hall, small bathroom and to her bedroom. He ignored the
large bed dominating the room. Her honeyed scent flooded his senses
and inspired thoughts he had no business entertaining.

Nibbling her bottom lip in a way that sent
blood rushing to his groin, she glanced at the window near her bed,
which was opened a few inches. “Do I need to keep everything
closed?”

“Unless you want the salt mixture blowing
away and not doing you any good.”

“
Mierda.”
She slammed the window shut.
“Not going to sleep well.”

Back in the living room, as he was tucking
the salt into the case, she asked, “So how are you planning on
figuring out who, and what, the killer is?”

He said, “I’m not the detective.”

She nearly growled at him.

He hid a grin.

Sitting on the couch, the kitten in her lap,
she stroked its fur as her eyes unfocused. He settled in the chair
across from her, watching her think.

“First thing, I need to check on my
sister.”

“Of course,” he replied.

“Then we’ll revisit the crime scenes, see if
you can find any more of those invisible markings. Find a witch or
whoever to read them.”

Her eyes drifted closed and her hand on the
kitten slowed. The woman was falling asleep, and yet she was still
planning and plotting about the case.

“I’ll find someone,” he murmured softly. He
realized he felt... comfortable around her. As if something about
her was familiar.

With the soft feelings for this woman
drifting through him, making him confused and annoyed, he stood and
grabbed his case.

Her eyes opened and she stared at him.

There was no fear of what he was, nothing but
curiosity. And what he thought might be an inkling of mutual
attraction.

Which couldn’t be allowed. They’d solve this
case together, and then he’d leave. He had no time for anything
this woman--this mortal--could offer. He didn’t want it.

“I’ll be by around seven, if that’s not too
early for you.” It would only give them a few hours sleep, but he
wanted to be finished with this whole thing and get back home to
his brother.

Get away from this woman who stirred things
inside him he didn’t want woken.

Celeste watched Brandon leave abruptly. His
words were curt, as if something had pissed him off.

He shut the door with a bang and she pushed
to her feet, locking it behind him. As she leaned against the wood,
she realized she could smell him. The spicy male scent permeated
her entire apartment.

She’d rarely had a guy up here. It was
strange, and woke her up completely as she remembered holding onto
him on his bike, the feel of his body pressed to hers.

She pushed the thoughts from her mind.

Heading for the kitchen, she threw a sandwich
together, then sat at the table, looking over the copies of the
case files and started going through them one more time.

Hercules meowed until she pulled him onto her
lap. Settling, he curled up and purred sleepily.

Celeste’s mind wandered, drifting back to
Brandon. There was something about him she couldn’t put her finger
on, but she also couldn’t get out of her mind.

She needed to though.

Her life was being a cop. She didn’t have
time for some strange man--and a vampire none-the-less--turning the
world even further upside down with complications like desire.

And yet, she could still feel his strength
against her body, beneath her hands.

What the hell was wrong with her?

Chapter
six

As Brandon drove his Harley to O’Grady’s pub
and the room he’d rented above it, the image of Celeste’s deep
chocolate eyes sparking with desire, her red kissable lips, and her
lush body, wouldn’t go away. His body tightened painfully against
his will.

He growled at himself for the unusual loss of
control and tried to think of anything but her.

By the time he pulled into the parking lot,
he was so aggravated his muscles coiled with unreleased tension. It
took careful control to pull the key from the bike without snapping
it off.

A chuckle from the dark end of the lot
brought his head up. He sniffed, smelling vampire. And shifter.
Wolf.

The combined scent was strange. As far as he
knew, the packs down here in the city didn’t like vamps any better
than the ones in Moss Creek.

Yet, in his town up in the mountains, they’d
been working together recently. Perhaps they were doing the same
down here.

As he dismounted his bike, a deep growl came
from the shadows. Claws clicked on the pavement. From the night,
husky-blue eyes glowed, drawing closer.

Patting the sword strung along the side of
his bike, Brandon grinned. A fight was just the thing he needed.
Looked like someone was about to oblige him.

A black wolf stepped forward, into the light.
It snarled, lips peeling back to showcase dagger-like teeth. Behind
it, a young woman approached.

Her reddened eyes and glistening fangs said
vampire, but her scent said more.

She was some sort of half-breed. What kind,
he couldn’t pinpoint.

He stood steady, hands loose at his sides.
“Did you want something?” he asked pleasantly.

The woman smiled, twirling a long red strand
of hair around her fingers. “Only you.”

“Well, lady. I’m afraid I’m busy.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, you will be. You
killed Denny.”

Brandon cocked his head, tapping his chin.
“Did I? And which imbecile was he?”

She growled, dropping her hand to the hilt of
the thin sword swinging from her belt. “My brother and our master’s
right hand.”

Brandon watched her eyes closely, while
keeping the wolf in his vision. “Sorry. I don’t take names when I
kill vamps stupid enough to go after humans.”

Her eyes flashed as she leapt at him. He was
ready, spinning out of the way before she landed.

The wolf yipped and rushed for him.

From the shadows, more wolves bayed, coming
closer to join in the fight.

He hadn’t wanted to kill anyone tonight, but
it looked like they were after his blood. It could only end in one
of two ways, and he wasn’t going to be the one taken down.

He ripped his claymore from the sheath,
slicing through the air with ease.
Tyrfingr
pierced the
first wolf as its fangs sank into his calf.

He hissed, pain driving up his leg. The beast
yelped and scrambled away.

The vampire screeched and rushed at him.
Claws raked down his face as she snapped her teeth.

Before he could push her back and bring up
his sword, she screamed. His head throbbed, his muscles tightened
and froze.

Two other wolves appeared, creeping closer,
watching his unmoving sword. Fiery pain sank into his legs as one
bit his thigh, one his calf.

The vampire continued to screech like the
unholy hells were arriving.

His mind dulled, ears grew wetly warm as they
began to bleed.

Banshee.

He clamped his fangs on his tongue. Blood
flowed into his mouth. The pain, the taste, helped him call to some
deep place inside. Strength welled.

He managed to move his arm an inch.

The banshee half-breed blinked, then screamed
louder.

Car windows cracked, shattered in a rain of
glass falling onto the pavement that he couldn’t hear.

Before she could push him further down into
the depths of her death spell, he roared, a cry of his Viking
ancestors. Fire blazed through his blood and the world drowned in a
red haze.

Still, he could barely move.

The back door to the bar banged open and Ben
O’Grady strode out, his face drenched with sweat.

In his blue eyes, small flames of silver
burned. He held his staff, the carved, crystal phoenix on top
glowing with the same flames.

“Begone she-devil!” he called.

A blast of power swept over the parking
lot.

The banshee stopped screaming, turning to
look at O’Grady.

The old man trembled, but took another step,
holding his staff in front of him like a powerful, magical shield.
Which, knowing the elven, it probably was.

Brandon’s muscles loosened. He swung his
claymore at the wolves chewing on his legs.

The blade bit into fur and skin, muscle and
blood. The first wolf dropped to the ground, twitching.

He roared once more, drawing on the flames
within, and sliced his blade into the other wolf’s neck. It didn’t
make a sound as it dropped.

The third wolf was nowhere to be seen.

Brandon faced the banshee.

The woman looked back at Brandon, disbelief
that he’d broken her spell etched around her wide eyes.

Staggering forward, he ignored the pain in
his body and mind and raised his sword, pointing the tip at
her.

“Next,” he said.

With a screech, she turned and fled.

His strength was waning, the pain taking
over. His legs shook.

Glancing down, he cursed at the sight of his
shredded pants. His skin would heal, but he’d loved these
jeans.