Alexandra Ivy: Hunt the Darkness

The silver eyes seemed to glow in the gloom of the room, holding a power that was almost hypnotic.

“No, you’re impulsive, unpredictable, and a magnet for disaster,” he countered.

Magnet for disaster?

Why the . . . ass.

“Forgive me. I’m only thirty years old,” she mocked. “You can’t expect me to be a stodgy bore like someone who’s been around four or five centuries.”

Levet chuckled. “Oh, snap.”

Roke sent the gargoyle a warning glare. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“ Non. Unless . . .” Levet tilted back his head, sniffing the air. “Is that shepherd’s pie I smell?”

“And sweet and sour pork, and spaghetti, oh, and apple pie,” Sally added. “I left them on the counter in the kitchen.”

“Ah. J’adore apple pie,” the gargoyle sighed, heading out of the room with a happy wiggle in his waddle.

Roke moved to stand beside her, the annoyance fading from his expression as he studied her with a piercing intensity.

She shifted uneasily, always more comfortable when they were sniping at each other.

They both understood the attraction that smoldered between them. And the danger that it could combust the second they lowered their guard.

The spark had ignited the minute he’d strolled into Styx’s dungeon.

And the mating had only intensified the hunger until it was almost unbearable.

Their squabbling was a necessary barrier.

“What?” she demanded as he continued to stare at her.

“I haven’t forgotten your impressive appetite.”

She blushed, remembering his shock when she’d eaten enough food to feed a football team during her incarceration. Her magic, both human and demon, burned through calories at an accelerated rate.

“I’m a growing girl.”

He shook his head, his brows drawing together as his gaze took a slow inventory of her slender body.

“No, you’re not,” he denied in gruff tones, his hands lifting to cup her face. “In fact, you’re shrinking.”

She shivered beneath his gentle touch, her hands reaching to grasp his wrists.

“Roke.”

“And you have shadows beneath your eyes.” He ignored her protest, his thumb brushing the purple bruises that marred her pale skin. “Why haven’t you taken better care of yourself?”

She shivered, the cool brush of his fingers sending tiny jolts of pleasure through her.

“I’ve been busy.”

“That’s why you should never have run from me.”

She scowled, but she made no effort to pull away from the soft stroke of thumbs.

“If you try to tell me you would have done a better job searching for my father, I’ll turn you into a toad,” she warned.

“I was going to point out that if I had been with you I would have made sure you ate proper meals and rested when you were tired.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“No, you need your mate,” he growled. “You allowed your pride to deny the natural instinct to be with me and your body suffered the consequences.”

Her breath caught.

Okay, she’d been unreasonably weary. And her enormous appetite had faded. And she hadn’t been able to shake the gnawing sense of emptiness.

But that could be stress, couldn’t it?

The Goddess knew she had enough of that in her life.

“Witches don’t mate,” she muttered.

“Perhaps not, but demons do.” His thumb skimmed down her cheek to tease the corner of her mouth. “And you, my love, are most definitely demon.”

Their eyes clashed. The air sizzled with that ever-ready hunger.

His thumb slipped between her lips . . . and just that quickly, she was desperate for his kiss.

She needed the hungry press of his mouth, the dangerous scrape of his fangs, the intoxicating heat that scorched through her body.

Shocked by the raw, potent yearning, Sally turned away.

“I don’t have time for this,” she hissed, fiercely trying to concentrate on the music box.

“Denying the truth won’t change it. Believe me, I’ve tried,” he muttered, grabbing her arm as she waved her hand over the box and whispered a quick spell. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist.” She sent him an impatient glare.

“Panties?” A dark brow arched. “You think I wear panties?”

She gave a choked sound, the visualization of Roke commando beneath the tight black jeans burning through her brain.

No, no, no. She wasn’t going there.

“I . . .” She licked her dry lips. “I put a protective ward around the box.”

There was a tense second when Sally was sure Roke was going to throw her on the bed and put them both out of their misery. Then, with an obvious effort, he leashed his hunger and turned toward the nightstand.

“It’s safe to touch?”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yes.”

With obvious wariness, Roke reached to pluck the box from the nightstand to study the carvings. Sally watched him in silence.

“Fey,” he at last pronounced.

Fey? How . . . odd.

“You recognize the artist?”

“This isn’t art.” His slender finger traced a curving line that resembled a crescent moon. “These are runes.”

“You’re sure?”

His gaze remained on the box. “My talent is reading glyphs. That’s why Styx insisted I come to Chicago in the first place.”

She watched his finger move to a swirl that ended with three vertical dots, once again experiencing that tug of almost-recognition.

“What do they say?”

“I’m not sure.”

She frowned. “You just said that your talent is reading them.”

“These are . . . unusual. Perhaps ancient.” He gave a shake of his head. “I need to do some research.”

A bad feeling started to bloom in the pit of her stomach.

“And where do you have to do this research?”

“My lair in Nevada.”

“Are you screwing with me?”

His smile was slow and decadently beautiful, the hint of fang making her shiver.

“Not yet.”

No one would give the house built on the bluffs that overlooked the Mississippi River a second glance.

It was the same as any other farmhouse in the Midwest. A simple, two-story structure, with a wraparound porch and sharply angled roof. At one time it’d been painted white, although it was peeling in several places and there was mold creeping up the foundation.

Nearly hidden behind the large oak and dogwood trees, it looked abandoned from the distant road and the overgrown path deterred any stray trespassers.

Even the locals had learned to avoid the area, disturbed by the odd silence and strange sense of being watched by unseen eyes.

The location of the house was no accident. Beneath the bluffs along the river was a spiderweb of caves that had been the source of local legends for years.

Some claimed they had been Jesse James’s hideout. Or connected to the Underground Railroad. Others said they’d been used by smugglers.

And the always favorite rumor that they were a body dump for the Chicago mob.

The truth was far more dangerous.

The caves had been home to demons since long before the humans had ever arrived.

Standing in one of the deepest caves the small man was lost among the shadows.

Not that he would have stood out even in brightest sunlight.

He was one of those people who were easily overlooked.

Short, with sporadic tufts of gray hair on an almost bald head, he had pale skin that was nearly translucent and a pudgy belly that was hidden beneath a loose brown robe. His eyes were a watery blue, although they were usually covered by a thick pair of reading glasses.

He was insipid. Forgettable.

And if it weren’t for his ability to retain vast amounts of knowledge he would never have been invited to become one of the rare Oracles that sat on the Commission.