Anya Bast - Witch Blood

His blue eyes narrowed. “I’m interested in human behavior, even the behavior of the half-human, the aeamon . I followed you tonight to ask why you hold yourself in reserve.”

Her mind fumbled. “You followed us tonight to… You followed us .” Fuck.

The demon smiled and Isabelle shivered. A demon’s smile wasn’t a warm and fuzzy thing. Pointed teeth peeked from his peeled-back lips. “Did you think you were tracking me? No, aeamon . Your witches were lucky the other night, but you should know by now that you’re outmatched. You can try to stop me, but you won’t. Now answer my question.”

“So you didn’t come here tonight to put me in your stew pot? You just came to ask me this.”

“I’m not ready to add your magick to the blend I need yet.”

“So you’re just playing with your food, then?” The question, spoken in a lighthearted tone, made her wince. It was good to keep him talking, though. She just needed a break in his concentration so she could pull the gun, aim it and fire. Isabelle wasn’t sure exactly how to get that break, however. She doubted Boyle would fall for the classic Hey! Look over there! ploy. She had her syringe, too, tucked safely in a tiny holster inside her bra.

He grinned. “You are entertaining. It will be a pity to kill you.”

“Uh-huh. Okay, why not tell you? I hold myself back from him because I know that soon you’ll come for me. Giving into my emotions where he is concerned would only be cruel to both of us. He and I suffer from a horrendous case of bad timing. There. Happy now? Just tell your future meal one thing. Thomas isn’t on your menu, right?”

“He doesn’t possess what I need. Only you and a few others have that.”

“Lucky us. Listen, you promise not to kill Thomas and I’ll come with you willingly when you need me.” Of course that doesn’t mean I won’t try and kill you before you kill me .

“You love him that much?”

“I care about him that much.”

“I agree. I have no specific quarrel with the head witch. I have no reason to kill him if he doesn’t get in my way where you are concerned. However, you would come with me willingly anyway because your alternate is your mother.”

Shock rippled through her. “My mother?”

“Genetically, your magick is very strong. You and your mother have the same kind of magick, same level, same consistency. Both are exactly what I need for that particular component of this spell. Your sister had a similar level and consistency and was perfect for the earlier portion of the spell.”

Rage rocketed through her. Her body shook from it. “You cannot have my whole family, you bastard!” she yelled.

She might have plenty of issues with her mother, but no way in hell would she allow her to become a victim to this monster the way her sister had. In the end, Catalina was her mother , dysfunctionality, selfishness, warts, and all. No matter what Isabelle may have said before about her, in this one moment that became crystal clear to her.

Isabelle couldn’t wait for a distraction. She couldn’t wait for anything.

Pulling the gun from the back of her waistband in one smooth move, she aimed and shot at Boyle. The sound ripped through her eardrums and echoed down the alley. With preter-natural speed and reflexes, the demon twisted to the side and the bullet nicked him in the thigh, making him howl in pain and rage.

So close. She’d been so close. And, damn it, she had been close. Point-blank range, in fact, and he’d still dodged the bullet.

Boyle was on her in a flash. His weight pressed her into the pavement, compressing her lungs until she gasped. His big hand closed around her wrist and squeezed, trying to make her relinquish the weapon. She gripped it until she lost feeling in her hand, her arm.

Fighting as hard as she could under the demon’s massive body, she kicked and clawed with her free hand like a feral cat. Boyle grunted and took the brutal treatment, pinning her to the ground with his tree-trunk-like legs.

A drop of Boyle’s acidic blood from where her bullet had nicked him dropped onto her leg, burned a hole through her jeans and touched her skin. White hot pain seared through her.

Isabelle screamed.

Boyle recoiled in surprise and she managed to push up and aim the gun at him. She squeezed off a shot, but the demon pushed her hand at the last second and it went wide, ricocheting off a nearby wall.

“You have new weapons,” Boyle hissed.

One hand pinned her wrist and the other came down over her throat as he straddled her. Her windpipe closed and her eyes bugged. The primal terror of having her breath cut off shut down her brain for a moment and made her thrash as hard as she could…to no avail.

Her hand went to his wrist, her fingernails digging in. The syringe was so close, but she couldn’t reach down and pull it free, couldn’t take her hand from Boyle’s wrists in a desperate and futile attempt to grasp it.

But why wasn’t he killing her?

Distantly, in the back of her mind, rationality flickered. He couldn’t kill her. Not now. Not yet. Not this way.

From the mouth of the alley came the sound of pounding footsteps and yelling. It was about time. Granted, it was the dead of morning, but two shots fired and a woman’s scream should have roused someone.

“I’m coming for you soon,” he growled low. “This information I give you is a gift. Take advantage of the time you have left and make yourself ready to die.”

A figure rose up behind Boyle and struck the demon over the back. Boyle grunted and backed away from her, rising and whirling around to roar at his attacker, still shadowed from Isabelle’s view. Men yelled and shots rang through the air.

Boyle’s charge on the witches was short-lived. Rolling to her side, she watched the demon scramble backward under the assault of copper-filled bullets. Likely, Boyle understood that the guns the attacking witches wielded were not ordinary. Boyle spared one last look at her, his expression intent, and then, instead of poofing through a doorway, he took off down the alley.

Isabelle lay on the ground taking in gulpfuls of bad air and watched Adam, Theo, Micah, and Jack run past her in pursuit of Boyle.

Thomas came down at her side. “Isabelle, are you all right?” All the blood had drained from his face and he looked exceptionally pissed off. Not at her, she presumed.

She coughed and snaked her hand into his lap. “I thought you said you weren’t going to give me space?” she gasped, her voice raspy. It was a joke, but he didn’t take it that way. A look of profound guilt passed over his face. She felt the pinch of it through her empathy.

She squeezed his hand and let a smile flicker over her lips. “Go, I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

Isabelle struggled into a sitting position and pointed down the alley after the others. “Go! Go help them, Thomas. If you want to protect me, don’t let that son of a bitch get away.”

He leaned in, kissed her and murmured, “I love you.” Then he was gone.

I love you?

She sat for what seemed like a long time, stunned by his words, her hand covering her aching throat. He didn’t mean those words. He couldn’t. They’d probably just slipped out in the heat of the moment, maybe because he’d feared Boyle would kill her. She rubbed her fingers over her skin in an effort to ease the ache. Isabelle believed Thomas cared about her, could feel that he did. She knew he wanted to protect her…but love? Come on.

Although there had been a rush of pure, warm emotion emanating from him when he’d said it.

Isabelle had to admit that a part of her really liked the idea. A lot .