Anya Bast - Witch Blood

Stefan smiled back. This time he looked like he really meant it. “He won’t be coming after me. Demons hunt their hunters. Did you not know? It is in their nature to do so. They stalk and toy with them. Sometimes they even develop an emotional attachment to them. It’s no fun for the hunter, of course. No one wants a demon fixated on them.”

Thomas looked at Micah and made the question plain in his expression.

“Some of my research seems to point to that, yes,” answered Micah. “A demon’s reaction to aggression is different than ours. They don’t have fight or flight. They don’t run; they turn around and stalk. This one is probably crazy from exile to boot.”

“Great.”

A sly expression stole over Stefan’s face. “First, they shoot you full of venom, rendering you paralyzed and mute, yet aware. After that, they take your magick, drinking it from the center of your body. Then, they peel your skin off and slice you open to consume the juicy parts — the liver, kidneys, and heart. Last, they crack your bones for the marrow.”

Yes, he’d seen the remains twice, up close and personal.

So had Isabelle.

Thomas glanced at her. She’d gone sheet white and stood stock straight with her arms crossed over her chest. “Are you all right?” he asked her.

She nodded once, her body tense. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot,” Stefan said in a sugary-sweet tone. “Our lovely Isabelle has already seen a demon’s handiwork for herself. It was your sister, yes?”

“This demon will die,” she shot back.

“Such bravado! You’re so sexy when you’re being stupid. Nice sentiment, ma cherie , but I look forward to the news of your demise.”

“As I look forward to the news of your sentence being rendered, Stefan. Until then it heartens me to know just how much you’re suffering here in Gribben.” Her lips parted in a wide, sincere smile, though her face was still pale as parchment. “In fact, that knowledge makes me happier than killing you.”

“Great,” Micah put in. “Well, that’s established, then. Thomas, I can take it from here. I’ll set Stefan up with a computer and obtain the texts. Why don’t you get Isabelle out of here? She talks tough but looks like she’s about to hurl on her pretty red boots.”

“Good idea,” Thomas answered.

Micah, as the Coven archivist and researcher, had the most business trying to get information from Stefan anyway. Micah would pass what he learned on to him.

Isabelle protested, but Thomas took her by the upper arm and led her toward the door. Her face was now a pale shade of green, but the woman didn’t seem to know when to stop.

“It’s been a pleasure, Stefan,” muttered Thomas as the guard opened the door for them. “As always.”

The door shut with a metallic thump behind them.

Isabelle stumbled. He caught her and guided her to a nearby wall where she splayed an open hand to brace herself.

“I’m fine,” she snarled, pressing her forehead to the wall.

“You’re not fine.”

She winced and cradled the hand she’d injured when she’d punched Stefan. “It’s just…I don’t like remembering. Doing is fine. Hunting is great. Remembering is…not good.”

“That’s natural. You’re grieving, Isabelle.”

She closed her eyes and dragged in a breath.

Thomas knew that she’d found her sister since he’d been called in to the murders of both victims. The bodies had been…partially consumed.

When he’d first reached Angela Novak’s kill site, it had been difficult to understand what he’d been looking at. Gradually, as his mind had fought to comprehend, the images had become clear — mangled, torn muscle, gobbets of matter no one wanted to examine closely. Blood absolutely everywhere. No longer human-looking, just so much meat and bone.

Isabelle had been there before him. She’d been the one to notify the Coven of the murder before she’d disappeared, presumably to hunt the demon.

Even worse than the scene was the knowledge both Angela Novak and Melina Andersen had been conscious until they’d succumbed to their injuries. Demons trapped their victims in a kind of venom-induced stasis. The paralyzed witch could feel, but couldn’t speak, scream, or move.

While the victim lingered, the demon worked slowly, drawing out the killing. First the creature took the magick, psychically cracking the witch open like a coconut to drink the milk within. After that came the flaying of the skin and the extraction of the juiciest organs.

Knowing how that person had been treated as nothing more than a bit of livestock, a plaything, was worse than anything else.

Worse than the cleanup. Worse than the sight or the smell.

Isabelle gave a short, bitter-sounding laugh. “Grieving seems like such a light, simple word to use for what I’m feeling.”

Thomas shuddered, imagining finding his sister Serena the way Isabelle had found Angela. He placed his hand on her back to console her, but then removed it. Giving comfort didn’t come easily to him. “Take a deep breath and let it out slowly.”

Turning to lean against the wall, she drew in a shaky lungful of the stale Gribben air and slowly exhaled. “I just want to… need to do this,” Isabelle continued. Steel backed her words.

“I know.” He took her injured hand and examined it. It was nothing that wouldn’t heal. He wasn’t so sure that could be said about her other wounds.

He glanced up at her and found her staring at him in deep concentration. Absurd, inappropriate sexual awareness sparked, tightening his muscles. Her cheeks had regained their healthy color and lips were full and lush. He imagined several things he’d like to do to those lips in a span of a second.

Fuck.

He dropped her hand and turned away. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“I thought you’d never say that.”

Thomas guided her away from the wall and down the corridor. He could understand how she felt and, even though he’d asked her along for the ride, he wasn’t totally sure she should be on this mission.

From what he’d gathered from her records, Angela had essentially been her only family. Perhaps Isabelle would endanger herself in her quest to avenge her sister. He had the sense that maybe she didn’t think she had much to lose these days. An attitude like that would make her reckless, a tendency she’d already shown anyway.

They didn’t need reckless.

He didn’t want to see her get hurt, either. Isabelle getting hurt, her fire snuffed out, would be a tragedy. He didn’t know her well, but there was something about her that drew him to her. Maybe it was simply her personality, which he found in turns compelling, messy, attractive, and exasperating. Maybe it was the wildness and impulsiveness he sensed in her.

They made their way through the security checkpoints to the elevator that would bring them to the main floor of the prison. He punched the button to call the car, but Isabelle headed for the door leading to the stairwell instead.

She glanced at him, hand on the door knob. “I don’t like elevators. I’ll meet you up there.”

He frowned at her. “It’s fifteen flights up.”

“What? Can’t do fifteen flights, old-timer?” With a grin, she disappeared beyond the doorway.

“Old?” he murmured to himself. “I’m not old.” The elevator door opened, but he just stared at the interior of the car, frowning. Leaving the elevator, he sprinted after her, taking the stairs two at a time until he’d caught up to her.

Her laugh echoed down the stairwell. “I knew you’d chase me after that comment.” She quickened her pace. “I bet I can beat you to the top.”

He increased his speed to match hers. “Since I’m an old man and I’m exerting myself, I need some incentive for this. What will you give me if I win?”