Anya Bast - Witch Fury

The man glanced at her for the barest of moments. His long hair blew around his face from the force of the magickal battle behind him. His eyes were hard and dark. In his brutal expression lay control and power. Knowledge — deep and wide. Sarafina noticed all that about him in a second and it took her breath away.

What new nightmare was this man?

The newcomer turned and deflected an aggressive attack from Stefan. The room exploded into chaos. Two men barreled through the door after the intruder. Instead of using magick to defend himself, he punched one in the face, grabbed him by his shirt front, and threw him into the second. Then he whirled to once again face Stefan.

The scent of white-hot fire and dark, rich earth filled her nose as furniture slid across the floor and slammed into the walls. The floor itself rippled. It was like a battle of supernatural titans.

Sarafina clutched Grosset to her chest and crawled behind an overturned table, holding her trembling dog close and wishing like hell this was all some really strange dream fueled by her grief. Any second now she’d wake up and shake her head over it, tell herself she’d never eat cold enchiladas before bed again.

But this was no dream.

Shouting, cursing. Explosions. Fire crackling. Growing hotter and nearer until thick bursts of earth extinguished the flare-ups.

Silence.

Footsteps pounded through the rest of the house. Shouting in the distance. In the room where Sarafina and Grosset hid behind the overturned table there was no sound. Nothing.

Maybe the intruders — whoever they were — had forgotten about her. Maybe the hulking man in the doorway had gone away. Maybe this was her chance to get out of here.

Moving slowly, she peeked around the edge of the table and saw only a smoldering fire in a trash can over in the corner of the room. Smoke wafted through the air. She inched out a little more, straining to hear any other sounds from inside the house. She didn’t know who the party crashers were and wanted to avoid them. With her luck they were worse than Stefan and his ilk.

Movement. The swirl of a long black duster.

The man was still there. Peeking out, she watched him circle the room, languid, lethal. His muscular body seemed tense with the desire to kill something, didn’t really matter what. The man turned toward her and she ducked back behind the table and closed her eyes, praying he’d pass her by.

“Warlock.”

A hand grasped her collar and lifted her straight up. Sarafina screamed and Grosset exploded in a flurry of Pomeranian rage. He snapped and growled at the man who’d trapped her in his big, sweaty, meaty hands — hands big enough to snap her neck in two seconds flat, she noted with unease.

“Tell your dog to chill.” The words came out gravelly, like they were forced from an infrequently used set of vocal cords. His grim expression grew even darker, his eyebrows coming together in the middle and the lines around his mouth deepening.

If she’d met this man on the street, she’d turn and walk the other way out of sheer instinct for self-preservation.

And she was currently caught in his powerful hands.

She stood trembling with fear, pulling as far away from him as his grip on her shirt would allow. “G-Grosset, baby, it’s okay. S-shhh. S’okay, baby.” Grosset could scent her fear and hear the tremor in her voice. He wasn’t a stupid dog and knew when his mistress was lying. The crazy dust mop only yapped louder. Pomeranians had no sense of size. He thought he was a Rott weiler.

The man growled and yanked her forward. “You’re coming with me, warlock. You were all cozy in here with Faucheux. That means you’re special, and you’ve got tales to tell.” Warlock? What the hell? What was a warlock? Wasn’t a warlock a male witch? Couldn’t he fucking see she had boobs? Her mind spun. She’d just gotten used to the idea of witches. Now there were warlocks? “Listen, I’m not—” He shook her once. That was enough. Her brain rattled in her skull and she snapped her mouth closed. “Quiet,” he snarled.

The man yanked her out of the room and Grosset followed, sinking his teeth into the man’s pant leg. God, she was afraid the hulk would kick him, kill him, but all he did was drag him along with him as though the small dog wasn’t even there.

Sarafina gasped at the state of the house. It was like a battlefield. Men and women lay motionless on the floor, draped over chairs and tables. Some groaned and moaned, nursing injuries. Others went to each of the fallen, inspecting wounds and trussing some up like prisoners.

The whole place smelled like magick. Now that she knew what magick smelled like, she could pick out the individual elements. Together, it all burned her nose with a harsh, bitter bite.

The man pulling her through the house stopped for no one, talked to no one, helped no one. Her panic grew with every step she took. There was no way she was leaving with this man.

Once they hit the outdoor air and sunshine blessedly bathed her face, burning away the stink from the magickal battle within, she bolted. Pulling away from him with a sudden jerk, she scooped up Grosset and cleared the front steps in a single leap, hitting the grass running.

She’d been on the track team in high school and apparently she hadn’t forgotten anything. A cornfield surrounded the house and she made for it, intending to hide among the autumn stalks.

The man bellowed behind her — a roar of displeasure that chilled her blood. She forced her feet to move faster. A bolt of power moved the earth at her heels and she yelped, plunging into the cornfield. Holding Grosset firmly to her, the dry stalks slapped her face and arms as she plowed through them.

Sarafina darted to the right and then slowed, moving carefully now to avoid breaking the late season stalks and leaving a clear trail for him to follow. Weaving in and out and back and forth as quickly as she dared, she got lost in the field.

But she knew he was right behind her; she could feel his presence.

Something behind her boomed and the rich scent of overturned earth filled the air. The very ground behind her furrowed in a ridge, following the path she’d taken through the field like a heat-seeking missile.

Sarafina didn’t have time to think, to breathe, to do anything. The ground shook beneath her, parted, and she went straight down into it, screaming. Grosset jumped from her arms and landed near her, barking like a furry wild thing.

She lay on her belly, spitting out dirt when his big hands closed around her waist. He swung her up and set her on her feet. She was covered in earth and exploded bits of corn-stalk. It smeared her face and clothes, caught in her hair, and was ground into her palms. Grosset was barking his little Pomeranian head off.

The man’s heart-stopping glower swung from her to the dog and he took a step toward her pet.

Sarafina jumped into his path, blocking his way to Grosset, and put a hand to the man’s chest. It was like touching a boulder — just as hard and just as cold. “Get away from him!” He simply reached out, grasped her by the shoulders, and moved her to the side. Then he scooped the dog into his hands. Grosset — to Sarafina’s surprise — didn’t bite him. Of course, Grosset didn’t have the best taste in men. He’d proved that by allowing Stefan Faucheux to coddle him.

The man didn’t say anything, he only took her by the upper arm and gave her a look that said: you can’t get away from me .

Yeah, okay, she understood.

He pulled her through the stalks toward the house.

“Theo,” a man called when they emerged from the field and into the house’s front yard. A blond man with short spikey hair and a crooked nose jogged toward them. “We’re taking all the warlocks we round up to Gribben.” Theo — the hulk — shook her a little. Anger made her jaw lock and her body stiffen. “This one was having a close tête à-tête with Stefan. She needs to be interrogated.” Oh, great, interrogation. Fun.