Anya Bast - Witch Blood

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.

ON THE STOVE, THE TEAPOT WHISTLED. ISABELLEpulled 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.

CLAIRE ENTERED THE CELL, LETTING THE DOOR STAYopen 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.