Ким Харрисон - Every Witch Way But Dead

I took a quick breath. "You'll break the bonds and leave?" I said. "Nothing extra?"

"Rachel Mariana Morgan," he admonished. "Do you think so little of me?"

I glanced at Ceri, and she nodded for me to go. Trusting her, not Al, I stepped forward. She broke the circle as I did, setting it in place immediately behind me.

He uncorked the bottle, pouring out a glimmering drop of amethyst into a tiny cut crystal cup the size of my thumb. Putting a gloved finger to his thin lips, he extending it. Grimacing, I took it. My heart pounded. I had no choice.

Coming close with an eagerness I didn't trust, he showed me the open book. It was in Latin, and he pointed at a handwritten set of instructions. "See this word?" he said.

I took a breath. "Umb—"

"Not yet!" Al shouted, making me start, heart pounding. "Not until the wine coats your tongue, stupid. My god, you think you'd never twisted a curse before!"

"I'm not a ley line witch!" I exclaimed, my voice harsher than it probably should be.

Al's eyebrows rose. "You could be." His eyes went to the glass in my grip. "Drink it."

I glanced at Ceri. At her encouragement, I let the tiny amount pass my lips. It was sweet, making my tongue tingle. I could feel it seeping into me, relaxing my muscles. Al tapped the book, and I looked down. "Umbra," I said, holding the drop on my tongue.

The wild sweetness went sour. "Auck," I said, leaning forward to spit it out.

"Swallow…" Al warned softly, and I started when he clamped a hand under my chin and tilted my head back so I couldn't open my mouth.

Eyes tearing, I swallowed. My pounding heart echoed in my ears. Al leaned closer, his eyes going black as he loosened his grip on me and my head drooped. My muscles went loose and watery, and when he let go of me, I fell to the floor.

He didn't even try to catch me, and I landed in a pained crumple. My head hit the floor and I took a quick breath. Closing my eyes, I gathered myself, wedging my palms under me and sitting up. "Thanks a hell of a lot for the warning," I said angrily, looking up and not finding him.

Confused, I stood to find Ceri sitting at the table with her head in her hands and her bare feet tucked under her. The fluorescent light was off, and a single white candle sent a soft glow into the gloom of a cloudy dawn. I stared at the window. The sun was up? I must have passed out. "Where is he?" I breathed, blanching when I saw it was almost eight.

She pulled her head up, shocking me with how weary she seemed. "You don't remember?"

My stomach rumbled, and there was an uneasy lightness to it. "No. He's gone?"

She turned to face me squarely. "He took back his aura. You took back yours. You broke the bond with him. You cried and called him a son of a bitch and told him to leave. He did—after he struck you so hard you lost consciousness."

I felt my jaw, then the back of my head. It felt about the same: really, really bad. I was damp and cold, and I got up, clasping my arms around me. "Okay." I felt my ribs, deciding nothing was broken. "Anything else I ought to know?"

"You drank an entire carafe of coffee in about twenty minutes."

That might explain the shakes. It had to be that. Outsmarting demons was becoming old hat. I sat beside Ceri, exhaling in a long breath. Ivy would be home soon. "You like lasagna?"

A smile blossomed over her. "Oh, yes, please."

My sneakers were silent on the flat carpet of Trent's back hallways. Both Quen and Jonathan were with me, leaving me trying to decide if they were escort or prison guard. We had already woven through the Sunday-silent public areas of his offices and conference rooms that Trent hid his illegal activities behind. Publicly, Trent controlled a good portion of the transportation that ran through Cincinnati, coming in from all directions and leaving the same: railways, roadways, and even a small municipal airport.

Privately, Trent ran a good deal more, using those same transportation systems to get his illegal genetic products out and expanding his Brimstone distribution. That Saladan was cutting into his business in his hometown probably cheesed the man off to no end. It was a finger in the air if anything was. And tonight ought to be an education as Trent either broke that finger off and jammed it into one of Saladan's convenient orifices or took a hit. I didn't like Trent, but I'd keep him alive if it was the latter.

Though I don't know why, I thought as I followed Quen. It was barren down here, lacking even the institutional holiday decorations that graced the front. The man was slime. He had hunted me down like an animal the time he caught me stealing evidence from his secondary office, and my face warmed when I realized we were in the hallway that led to that very room.

A half step ahead of me, Quen was tense, dressed in his vaguely uniformlike black body stocking. He had a snug black and green jacket on over it today, making him look like Scotty might beam him up at any moment. My hair brushed my neck, and I purposely shifted my head to feel the tips tickle my shoulders. I had gotten it cut that afternoon to match the chunk Al had taken out, and the cream rinse the stylist had used wasn't doing much to tame it.

My garment bag with the outfit Kisten had picked out for me was over my shoulder, back from the cleaners. I had even remembered the jewelry and boots. I wasn't going to put them on until I knew I was taking this run. I suspected Trent might have other ideas—and my jeans and sweatshirt with the Howlers' logo looked out of place beside Jonathan's tailored elegance.

The distasteful man hung an irritating three steps behind us. He had met us at the steps of Trent's main building and remained a silent, accusing, professionally cold presence since. The man was six-ten if he was a foot, his features pointy and sharp. An aristocratic, hawklike nose gave him an air of smelling something offensive. His eyes were a cold blue, and his carefully styled black hair was graying. I hated him, and I was trying really hard to overlook that he had tormented me when I was a mink trapped in Trent's office for three unreal days.

Warming at the memory, I took off my coat as we walked, struggling, as neither man offered to take my garment bag. There was a definite moistness to the air the farther back we went. Faint to the point of being almost subliminal was the sound of running water, piped in from who knew where. My steps slowed when I recognized the doorway to Trent's secondary office. Behind me, Jonathan stopped. Quen continued without pause, and I hurried to catch up.

Jonathan clearly wasn't pleased. "Where are you taking her?" he asked belligerently.

Quen's steps grew stiff. "To Trenton." He never turned around or changed his pace.

"Quen…" Jonathan's voice was thick in warning. I glanced mockingly back, pleased to see his long wrinkled face showing worry rather than his perpetual stuck-up sneer. Brow furrowed, Jonathan hastened forward as we halted before the arched wooden door at the end of the hall. The overly tall man pushed in front, placing a hand atop the heavy metal latch as Quen reached for it. "You aren't taking her in there," Jonathan warned.

I shifted my garment bag in a sound of sliding nylon, my eyes going from one to the other as the political currents passed between them. Whatever was behind the door was good.

The smaller, more dangerous man narrowed his eyes, and the pox scars went white in his suddenly red face. "She is going to keep him alive tonight," he said. "I'm not going to make her change and wait for him in a secondary office like a paid whore."

Jonathan's blue eyes went even more determined. My pulse quickened, and I stepped out from between them. "Move," Quen intoned, his surprisingly deep voice resonating through me.