Witch Blood (29 page)

“All right, all right! Calm down already.” He set her to her feet.

She nearly collapsed and he offered an arm to steady her, which she grabbed on to with both hands. Her teeth chattered as she spoke. “They kept him. They kept Thomas.”

Micah took her by the shoulders and forced her gaze to his. She shuddered and tried to get her eyes to focus. After a moment his face came in clearly. “Who are
they
, Isabelle? What do you mean?”

She drew a breath and closed her eyes, arranging her jumbled, panicky thoughts. “We were pulled through the doorway, ended up in Boyle's world, on Eudae. In the morning, the demons found Boyle and killed him, then located us somehow even though we were hidden.” She shook her head. “Maybe Boyle told them where we were as a final fuck you. I don't know.”

Micah tightened his grip and shook her a little. “Stay focused. The demons found you?”

She nodded. “An
Ytrayi
demon sent me home, but said they intended to keep Thomas there.”

“
Ytrayi
demon?”

Ignoring Micah, she whirled—and nearly fell down—toward the place where the doorway had stood. “Out of my way,” she said as she pushed a couple people aside.

“Isabelle?” Adam asked, right on her heels.

She walked through the area, got down on her hands and knees and felt the floor. No trace of the doorway remained. Thomas was not coming through.

Maybe he was never coming through.

Adam touched her shoulder. “He can take care of himself.” His voice was the gentlest she'd ever heard from him.

She stood, turned into him, and let him wrap his arms around her. “Damn it, Adam. I don't want to lose him.”

“None of us wants to lose that bastard.”

“We have to open another doorway. We have to go back through and get him.”

He set her at arm's length apart. “We can't do that, Isabelle, and you know it.”

A small sob escaped her throat. She knew it. Only an
Atrika
demon could open a doorway, either that or a powerful, highly knowledgeable witch with the soul of a serial killer. Or maybe the Duskoff could do it. They'd be willing to murder to wedge the doorway open a crack.

She shook her head. No, they could do nothing to get Thomas back.

Thomas's cousin, Mira, appeared on her right with tears brimming in her eyes. Mira placed her hand on Isabelle's shoulder and Isabelle finally lost it. She turned into Mira's arms and allowed the other woman to comfort her.

During the course of the next two hours, many of the witches began to trickle out—heading home or back to the Coven. Finally, only the core remained—Adam, Jack, Micah, Mira, and Theo.

“You need to get back to the Coven, Isabelle. Get some sleep and food,” said Micah. He sat a short distance from her on the cold concrete floor.

She shook her head and pulled the blanket they'd put around her shoulders a little tighter.

Micah sighed. “You can't stay here all night.”

“Why not?” She continued to stare at the empty space that had been the doorway as if her will alone could bring him back.

“Because you need rest and food,” Mira interjected. “Without these things, you'll get sick.”

Isabelle glanced at the pregnant air witch. She was beginning to get a lovely baby belly. “
You
need to get back, Mira. Not me. I'll be fine.” She turned her head and speared Jack with a hard stare. “Get her out of here. Get her home and fed. This dank building is the last place she needs to be. While you're at it, take the rest of these witches with you.”

“We don't want to leave you alone,” Jack answered.

“Do it anyway.
Please
.”

Silence.

Isabelle resumed willing Thomas back into this dimension with only the power of her mind.

Finally Micah spoke. “Tell me about that shirt you're wearing.” His tone was downright covetous and she'd seen the way he'd been staring at it all evening.

“On the other side I used my shirt to wrap Thomas's wound. Since they found me topless, one of the
Ytrayi
demons dressed me in this. It's yours at first opportunity, Micah. I promise you I never want to see it again.” Sorrow sliced through her stomach like a surgical blade.

Micah opened his mouth, but Mira shot him a chilling look from across the room, and he closed it again. Isabelle would've bet every cent she possessed that he'd been about to ask more about the
Ytrayi
demons. She'd tell him all she could…later.

More silence. More staring.

Adam cleared his throat. “Listen. I'll stay with her. The rest of you can head back.”

“I don't need anyone to stay with me,” she responded woodenly.

“Please, shut up. You're not as tough as you pretend to be,” answered Adam. “Now go on the rest of you. We'll let you know if there's any change.”

Isabelle barely noticed when the others left. She heard their low conversation, but understood none of it. It reminded her of the time she and Angela lived with Martha Newcomb, one of her mother's rich friends, for the summer. Martha's aunt had died that season and her funeral had been like that—low, hushed voices, slow-moving people, long faces.

Adam sat down next to her with a heavy sigh. He drew a random line with his finger on the concrete floor. “We all love him.”

She turned to look at him. “I just found him, you know? The horrible thing is that I thought I was going to have to let him go anyway, but I thought
I
was the one who was going to die.”

“He's not dead, Isabelle.”

She chewed her lower lip. “No. You're right. He's not dead.” Isabelle stared hard at the empty air in front of her. “And he's coming back soon. If he doesn't return on his own, I'll find a way to break him out.”

“You really do love him, don't you?”

“Yes.” She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “He told them he'd stay willingly if they let me come home.”

Adam sighed. “That's Thomas for you.”

In the morning, Isabelle woke up wrapped in the blanket on the cold warehouse floor, with a crick in her neck. Adam lay sprawled nearby.

Thomas hadn't returned.

O
N THE STOVE, THE TEAPOT WHISTLED.
I
SABELLE
pulled it off and poured steaming water into her coffee cup, then turned and leaned against the kitchen counter to sip it. Letting the mild flavor of the lemon balm tea fill her senses, she glanced around at the wreck that was her kitchen.

These days she wasn't home much. Every waking moment was spent at the Coven, with Micah, trying to get back into hell. Together they had read every word of the texts forward and backward, tracking down and cross-referencing the information they found with anything else they could locate about Eudae and demon magick. Desperately, they looked for any way to open a doorway that didn't involve the cold-blooded murder of a series of witches.

By digging far and wide into non-magickal ancient texts, they'd discovered a wealth of information they'd never known existed. But it took a lot of time to separate the wheat from the chaff. She'd started her search the day after she'd returned and had worked every day and every night since, averaging about four hours of sleep per night.

Isabelle glanced around her kitchen again, curling her lip at the sink full of dishes, the hand towel discarded on the counter, and the trash can that definitely needed to be emptied. Nothing mattered but her research. She came home late every night, made dinner, maybe some tea, then got a meager amount of rest.

Her mother had come back from California when she'd heard about Thomas. She was actually being supportive and unselfish, which was…strange, but also welcome. Her mother had hired a cleaning service to come in starting tomorrow and Isabelle hadn't declined. It was a good idea under the circumstances, and Isabelle was pleased that her mother was making an effort with her.

Isabelle would be up in a few hours and back at the Coven to work at the first sliver of dawn on the horizon. Jack and Ingrid kept insisting she just sleep at the Coven, but she couldn't do that…not yet.

There were a few leads, a few ways they might be able to get back to Eudae without using blood magick. The problem was that only one way was viable for those of a non-demon persuasion, and it was beyond complicated. They were still researching some of the steps of the spell. Once it was determined they could do it at all, then would come the complex ordeal of gathering what they needed to cook it up. Even if it did work, it would take a long time to complete.

She leaned against the counter as a wave of grief swamped her. The heaviness of it always sat in her chest. Throwing herself into her work didn't help. Nothing helped. The only thing that would lift the constant weight in her heart and eradicate the lump from her throat was Thomas's return.

And she would work toward that goal until the day she died.

The phone rang. Isabelle set her cup down and stretched to pick up the cordless handset from the breakfast bar. “Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

She punched the Off button and stared at it thoughtfully. She needed to have caller ID installed so she could catch the prankster who kept trying to get a rise out of her. There had been calls like that once every night at this same time for the last week and she grew weary of them.

In her darkest moments, she imagined it was Thomas trying to contact her. Then she pulled herself back from the shaky edge of grief-induced insanity and reminded herself that interdimensional communication wasn't possible.

The phone rang again, right in her hand, startling her. She punched the On button. “Listen, punk—”

“Isabelle.”

She knew that voice, that accent. Shock ripped through her like an electric charge. “I thought you were dead.”

Long pause. “No. I did look into the eyes of death, however.” Breathy, low voice. “Much the same way I did back in that limo with you.”

“You can only mean you looked into Boyle's eyes. He got you out of Gribben, didn't he?”

“
Oui
and he meant to kill me. I believe he was a bit besotted with you. Meant to kill me on your behalf, Isabelle.”

“Why the hell didn't he?” she snarled into the phone. That Stefan should be calling her while Thomas languished in the demon dimension killed a part of her.

Another long pause that Isabelle didn't like one bit. “Alternate plans were made.”

All thought momentarily fled her mind. That sounded ominous. She swallowed hard, a bit of her bravado gone. “Well, then it's a damn good thing Boyle is dead.”

“Yes, a pity.” He drawled it.

She found a long, loose hank of hair at her nape and pulled at it while she paced the kitchen. “Other than to share with me the glorious news of your continued existence in this world, did you have another reason for calling me this evening?”

“I wanted to say I forgive you.”

She stopped short and actually sputtered for three seconds. “F-forgive me? You forgive me? You—”

“Last year I lost the only father I ever had. I understand you lost your sister and so I have absolved you of your sin. I will not seek retribution.”

“Well.”
What the hell?
“Uh. That's incredibly big of you, Stefan.” Her voice dripped sarcasm.

“This is the first and only free pass you will get from me.”

“Wow. I can hardly contain my gratitude.” She drew a breath, mastering her anger. “You know we'll keep hunting you.”

She could hear the smile in his voice when he answered. “You can try, but I have become wary of beautiful redheads of late. You will not find it easy.”

“Nothing worth achieving ever is.”

Click
.

Isabelle held the cordless phone in her hand and stared at it, cold dread inching its way up her spine. Stefan remained in this world while Thomas had been expelled from it. Was there no justice?

After a moment she replaced the handset and turned back to the counter. Damn it. Her tea was cold. She picked up the mug and set it near the sink, then leaned against the counter and closed her eyes. Lady, she wanted Thomas back. With every fiber in her body, with every breath she drew.

Impulsively, she grabbed her keys and left her apartment, letting the door slam shut behind her.

No way was she getting any sleep tonight anyway, and there was a stack of half-translated texts at the Coven just waiting for her.

 

C
LAIRE ENTERED THE CELL, LETTING THE DOOR STAY
open as long as she could without drawing suspicion because she knew the light made the earth witch, Thomas, content. On the bad days, on the days his body was wracked with fever, he said it made him think of a woman named Isabelle. He talked of her constantly when he was delirious.

Now, the delirium had passed. There weren't any more bad days, either. Not real ones, anyway.

The door closed with a metallic thump and darkness closed around her tight as a fist. Water trickled in the far corner of the small, dank cell. The
drip, drip, drip
must drive the prisoners crazy.

The man, the first
aeamon
Claire had seen since the death of her mother, knelt on the floor, his arms strung out on either side of him by heavy chains, chains that were resistant to this one's magick. His powerful body had been brought to heel as much as the
Ytrayi
could bring a witch such as this to heel.

They'd shorn his hair because the
Ytrayi
knew it held power. His once long, beautiful hair now stuck up in uneven tufts. But they'd left the tattoo alone. She had thought they might cut it from his back, but they hadn't bothered. The only reason for that was they underestimated him and his magick.

Just as they had always underestimated her.

It was ego. The
daaemon
thought themselves to be superior in every way to the
aeamon
. What the
daaemon
didn't understand was that the spell that been cast to allow the birth of witches so long ago had been born of Eudae and had linked the
aeamon
eternally to this land. Witches were more in tune with the
daaemon
's own planet than they were.

Thomas looked up and moved his arms, his muscles flexing. A beard shadowed his face, but Claire knew he was handsome under the hair. Strong chin, black eyes that held heat and anger barely banked, full lips that seemed made for traveling over a woman's skin. She responded to him like a woman did to a man. She couldn't help it. He was the first eligible male she'd ever encountered. Eligible, but a prisoner.

Selfishly, she wanted to keep him, to seduce him. She wanted something here,
someone
who was totally hers. But this man didn't see her, not the way she would have him
see
her. His whole heart and mind was centered on
Isabelle
.

And Claire was going to do all she could to see he got back to her.

She'd been sent to tend Thomas and act as translator because she was the only person besides Rue who spoke his language. Soon the
daaemon
would realize what a mistake that had been.

“Claire,” he greeted, his voice strong and sure. Good. When she'd first been sent to him, he'd been sick and broken.

She nodded, walking near him and setting her burdens to the floor—a bucket of hot, soapy water and a rag. Secreted on her person she also had a razor, a package of food, and medicine rolled up in a bit of cloth, even antiseptic wash for his mouth.

Claire had been instructed to care for Thomas, to keep him alive—barely alive—so that the questioning and beatings they put him through during the day didn't kill him. She'd been doing her job.

Well.

Much better than the
Ytrayi
had ever intended.

His magick was fierce and strong, fiercer and stronger here on Eudae than on Earth because his homeland fed him. The
daaemon
wanted Thomas weak enough that he couldn't use his power.
She
wanted him strong enough to break out of here. And tonight she had everything in place.

The
Ytrayi
thought they had her under their thumb. It was time she showed them how mistaken they were.

Smiling to herself, she dipped the rag into the water and placed it to his skin. Carefully, she wiped clean the grime and dried blood from his body. Every night she did this, wiped away the evidence of the beatings he received and tended his wounds. She took her time, took her pleasure in the hard satin stretch of his body and the way his skin quivered under her touch. Undoubtedly, he fantasized it was his lover who caressed him. Claire didn't care so long as
she
was the one with her hands on him.

Isabelle could have him tomorrow. Until then, he was hers.

Tonight, she did not speak. Normally, in soft, hushed murmurs, she tutored him in ways to use his magick against his captors. Claire had learned a lot in the twenty-five years she'd been trapped on this rock. She'd learned far more than Rue realized.

When she picked up the razor and set it to his face, he jerked away from her. “You've never shaved me before,” he rasped.

She smiled and her face hurt from it. Claire couldn't remember the last time her mouth had moved that way. “For Isabelle,” she admonished him. “You don't want to go to her looking like…what is that creature? I can hardly remember…a yeti?”

He swallowed hard. “Is it time?” He sounded like a starving man being offered a three-course meal.

Her smile lingered in response to the barely leashed eagerness in his voice. She slid the razor over his face, ridding it of the three week's worth of hair. “Your magick is curled deeply in you now, trained by me and ready to strike. I believe you're ready. Have you been acting weak and broken in front of Rue and the others?”

He nodded.

“Have you been casting the glamours I've been feeding you to make you appear dirty and injured?”

“Yes.”

She smiled. Smiling felt nice once her muscles grew accustomed to it. “Good.”

After she'd fed him the flatbread and meat she'd tucked into her pockets, let him wash his mouth, and administered the final dose of high-powered medicine she'd had to steal daily from the doctors, Claire stood and backed away from him. “Demonstrate,” she commanded.

Magick prickled along the nape of her neck. Her own earth magick responded to his tap with a low purr in the center of her chest. She closed her eyes and sighed into it. Around her the entire cell pulsed, breathed like a living thing for a moment. The walls expanded outward and then inward. The ceiling cracked. Dust and rock rained down and the floor beneath her feet rumbled.

Claire opened her eyes, shivering a little at the display of power. “Yes, you're ready to take on the
daaemon
.”