Witch Blood
A water witch, Isabelle Novak has
always led a chaotic, nomadic existence. But her life spins out of
control when her sister—her only friend and emotional anchor—is
killed by a demon. Driven by grief and a desire for revenge, she
turns her back on the Coven and the rede they hold sacred: Harm thee
none...…
When Isabelle first encounters Thomas Monahan, she’s
running on pure rage and sorrow, channeling her pain into power —
and trying to freeze the life out of a warlock she holds responsible
for her sister’s death. Together, they form an uneasy alliance to
hunt and destroy a demon of tremendous power. As head of the Coven,
earth witch Thomas must thwart Isabelle’s dark impulses, but his
very presence stirs deeper desires she never knew she had…
Excerpt
How to Catch a Warlock 101. Isabelle could
teach that class.
Club music thrummed through Isabelle’s body. Eyes
closed, she swayed her hips, dancing more to the ebb and flow of the
subtle emotions around her than to the beat. Intoxicated by the sea
of euphoria and lust, she allowed the seductive, primal weave to
free her for a few blessed moments.
The trap she’d set for the warlock also trapped her.
A man’s hands grasped her waist. A lean, muscular
body pressed against hers from behind. She knew that touch, those
hands and the subtle, woody scent of his expensive cologne. It was
the warlock she hunted. The one who thought she was a woman just
like any other. Her eyes came open, moment of serenity vanquished by
his presence.
Anyone able to see her face would’ve glimpsed
revulsion pass over her features before her lips curved in a coy
smile. She snuggled back into Stefan Faucheux’s arms. He rocked her
back and forth, changing the sway of her body to the beat of the
music instead of the soft waves of emotion. Stefan had no empathy.
Somewhere nearby a camera flashed, then another.
Paparazzi. The media fawned over Stefan, an ultra-rich playboy.
Any woman he dated was a source of particular
interest. Isabelle had managed to stay on Stefan’s arm longer than
most. She was the mysterious red-haired, green-eyed woman on whom no
reporter could find much information. Isabelle had paid a lot of
money to ensure that was so. She’d worked hard to make certain she
interested Faucheux for a while too. A lot of planning had brought
her to this night.
Of course, the photographers didn’t know she was a
witch and Stefan a warlock. Those were secrets best kept from the
non-magickal population. That was the only thing the Coven and the
warlock-controlled Duskoff Cabal could agree on. The non-magickals
greatly outnumbered the magickals and, historically, showed a lot of
bloodthirstiness for those perceived to be different.
Stefan moved his body with hers in a teasing
semblance of sex that made her stomach roil. Soon, this would all be
over. That was the only positive about having to suffer his
closeness.
Isabelle pasted a smile on her lips and closed her
eyes again. She thought of deep, rushing streams furrowing their way
through the earth, the recesses of the ocean, where the water lay
still and silent, the gentle eddies and ripples at the edge of a
lake. Her power rose in response to the mental stimulus, just a
little. It bled off a bit her stress, blunted the sharp edge.
Stefan’s arms tightened around her and he nuzzled
her throat. More cameras flashed. They’d be on the front page of
every tabloid in the country by tomorrow. She’d probably be touted
as pregnant and making plans for a wedding. The Lady only knew what
stupidity they’d come up with.
And then the other story would break. The darker
one. The far more violent one.
Soon, she assured herself. Tonight. Because she was
not a woman like any other and today was no ordinary day. It was
time Stefan Faucheux paid for his sins.
Emotion welled in her throat for a moment. She’d
barely had time to grieve. These days she was running on rage,
sorrow and little else.
Use it. Don’t let it use you.
Immediately, the sudden swell of vulnerability faded
into cold resolve. It was a lesson she’d learned long ago and
learned well.
She’d had lots of practice stuffing away her pain, transforming it
into a far more effective force. Her emotion had become a well-honed
weapon.
He leaned into her, spoke into her ear loud enough
for her to hear over the pounding music. “Time to leave, ma
cheri.”
It was, indeed, time.
Anticipation coursed through her, leaving a tingle
of sweetness that warmed her more surely than Stefan’s skill with
fire could ever do. Stefan was a fire witch, one of the more
powerful she’d encountered. Though he couldn’t claim the title
witch anymore, not technically. He’d betrayed the Coven, broken
the rede too many times to count. Now he was a lowdown, dirty
warlock.
Her own ability resided in the realm of water. That
meant she and Stefan were direct opposites magickically. It had
complicated her plans somewhat. Normally fire and water had a
natural repulsion, whereas fire and air had a built-in attraction.
Isabelle had had to work double time to snare her quarry because of
that, especially since she couldn’t hide her abilities from a
warlock like Stefan. He had a nose like a bloodhound for different
types of magick.
He took her hand and led her through the crowd
toward the door. The photographers detached themselves from the
partying throng and followed. She could see them scuttling like
crabs out of the corner of her eye. Stefan’s bodyguards flanked
them, not allowing anyone to get too close. Earth charms helped.
He’d had several created that compelled people to keep their
distance.
They made their way out of the club and the heavy
doors closed behind them, not quite blocking the bass of the music
within that seemingly made the entire club throb on its foundation.
Early morning chill raised goose bumps on her bare arms and legs.
She took a moment to inhale the fresh, not quite
clean, air of the city, ignoring the surprised whispers and gasps of
those in line to enter the club.
“Come, darling,” Stefan said, placing a proprietary
hand at the small of her back and guiding her toward the limo. “La
limousine attend.”
She flashed him a ditzy smile. “I love it when you
speak French, Stefan. It’s so sexy.”
Stefan didn’t know it, but she understood every
foreign word he spoke to impress her. She’d been a child of the
world, growing up the temporary resident of many countries, and
spoke both French and Italian fluently.
He stopped her in front of the limo, tucked her hair
behind her ear and leaned in to whisper, “I will speak it to you
until the sun comes up, if you allow me, ma cheri.”
She moved her head and placed a lingering kiss to
his neck. “Then send your bodyguards away.” Isabelle dragged his
earlobe between her teeth and he responded with a shiver. Cameras
flashed in abandon.
He spoke a few words to the warlock muscle near him
while the driver opened the door for her and ushered her within.
Regulating her breath, as she always had to do when entering a small
area, she climbed into the cool interior of the limo and sank down
onto one of the leather seats. Isabelle had a moment of unease at
the dark closing around like a velvet fist. Close spaces weren’t her
thing.
Stefan sat down next to her. As soon as the door was
closed, he was on her. But not coarsely, or clumsily. That was not
Stefan. He was a perfect gentleman until he decided not to be.
He slid his hand to her waist, tilted her chin
toward his face and pressed his lips to hers. Suave, undemanding,
seductive. His fresh breath invaded her mouth as his tongue sought
entry.
She suppressed a shudder and placed her hands on his
broad shoulders, the fabric of his suit cool against her palms. She
hesitated, unwilling to allow him a deeper kiss. He pressed the
issue and she yielded, using every ounce of her willpower to not
push him away.
Outwardly to the non-magickal world, Stefan was a
benevolent social icon, known for his goodwill and his generosity.
In reality, as head of the Duskoff Cabal, the violent little club
warlocks kept, he pillaged and plundered his way through witches as
though in his personal stockyard, slaughtering here and there when
he felt like it.
Like any sociopath worth his salt, Stefan was a
charming, handsome monster. The world should thank her for what she
was about to do, even though she’d had to turn her back on the Coven
Rede to accomplish it.
He leaned in toward her, burying his nose in the
curve of her neck and sliding a hand past the hem of her short,
black Versace. “We’re finally alone,” he whispered, “as you
requested.” The car pulled forward, rocking her against his body.
She tilted his face to hers and kissed him, pressing
herself into the curve of his body. She cupped his groin through his
black pants and felt his hardness. “So we are.”
“Then why so shy? Tonight you will not escape me,
Isabelle,” he breathed against her skin with his smooth French
accent.
Part of her plan had been to tease him sexually. It
had been a little like taunting a starving tiger with a slab of
meat, but she’d been successful. It had hooked him, made him want
her more…and allowed her limited intimate contact with him. A
definite plus.
She raised an eyebrow. “I think it’s you
who won’t escape me, Stefan.” If only he knew. She unbuttoned his
pants. “Take them off.”
He grasped the hem of her skirt. “You first,” he
purred.
“Noooo, you,” she shot back coyly.
He shook his head. “Take off your dress for me,
Isabelle.” His voice held a thread of steel and his eyes had a
brutally cold glint in them.
Her sly, sexy smile faltered. Damn it! This was not
going the way she’d envisioned it. In her head, she’d been fully
clothed when she brought him down. Having no choice unless she
wanted to raise suspicion, she allowed him to draw her dress over
her head, leaving her in only a lacy red bra and panty set and her
shoes.
“Mmm,” he murmured in appreciation right before he
pressed his lips to the swell of her breast. Oh, yeech. Yeech,
yeech, yeech!
She yanked him forward by the waistband of his pants
and kissed him roughly, biting his lower lip hard. He jerked a
little and she tasted blood. “Off now,” she commanded.
“I adore a woman who likes it a little rough.”
Then he’d love her.
He slipped his shoes and pants off. She glanced down
and lifted a brow as if in sexual speculation. He gave her cocky
smile, the smile of a man who’s sure he’s about to get laid. How
wrong could he be? He was about to find out. She reached out and
took him her hand.
