Jodi Redford: The Seven Year Witch

“Seven days.”

She might have known. If nothing else, Seven was consistent with the freaky symbolism. “So that’s it? You brought me all the way here to tell me I have a week? Wouldn’t another of your infamous letters have been easier?” And less painful. But she knew with every fiber of her being that Seven wouldn’t have had it any other way. No, much better to lure her to this hellhole, where memories were like daggers piercing her guilty conscience.

“I’m afraid it isn’t that easy. Since our contract isn’t fully sealed, a letter wouldn’t have sufficed.”

She blinked, trying to digest the implications of the startling revelation. “Isn’t sealed? You mean…”

A scratchy chuckle rumbled from Seven. “Don’t get too excited, sweet Clarissa. The contract laid down the groundwork, so there’s no going back. Your soul is still mine to take.” Another glimmer of that covetous lust flared in Seven’s dark pupils, making her shiver. “I trust that you’re a woman of your word. Come to me willingly, and there will be no complications.”

She frowned. “Complications?”

“For those you hold dear. Your coven sisters. Your father. Others whom you may not be willing to allow admittance to your heart.”

Her pulse leapt at the unmistakable threat. “I’ve already given you my agreement. I’m not breaking the contract.”

“Good. Then you only owe me one more thing to complete the seal.”

“What?”

The smile that stretched Seven’s thin lips made her skin crawl. “A kiss.”

Logan grunted as he struggled not to drop the heavy amp for Kegan Justice’s Stratocaster. “Son of a bitch. Would you get some fuckin’ wheels bolted on this thing already?”

“Why? That’s what the dolly is for.”

Logan’s eyebrows slashed low. “What dolly?”

A chuckle came from Mica Chaffour, Kegan’s band mate and fellow familiar. “The one sitting inside the service entrance over there.”

Logan’s gaze swerved to the back wall of Tatum’s and the Employees Only sign hanging over a propped-open door. He shifted his attention back to Kegan and noticed the grin stretching his mouth. “Shithead. I’m tellin’ Constance you tried to bust my nut.”

Kegan’s smartass grin instantly vanished. “Hey now. No need to get your jockeys in a twist.” Looking suitably worried, he dashed in the direction of the doorway, presumably to snatch the dolly and avoid a potential scolding from his witch. For a bear shifter, he could hustle his ass pretty damn fast when he wanted to.

“That was mean and sneaky, man.” Mica’s lips twitched. “I’m gonna have to remember it for future reference. Might help score me a month of kitchen duty from Keg. And his Coltrane collection.”

Logan crooked his arm, using the sleeve of his T-shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow. “I don’t know how you guys manage to get along so well, much less live together.” Mica and Kegan were one of the few familiars who shared a witch. The typical competitiveness that existed amongst familiars usually prohibited doubling up, for everyone’s sanity.

“Yeah, it’s a miracle. Especially since Keg is such a damn slob.”

“Spreading vicious lies about me again, dickhead?” The rattling of metal announced Kegan’s approach with the dolly. “Think you can maybe hold off for a few and actually give me a hand setting things up?”

“If I must.” Mica glanced at Logan. “You gonna stick around for a set? We’ll buy you a round if so.”

“Well, shit, who am I to pass up free beer?” Besides, not like he had anywhere else to be. Shoving that dismal thought to the rear of his mind, he left the two bear shifters to finish situating their gear. He stepped into the service entrance of Tatum’s and bypassed the kitchen, following the corridor to the main section of the restaurant. He coughed, nearly hacking up a lung as the acrid smoke from what undoubtedly amounted to ten thousand packs of cigarettes ambushed him. His heightened lupine senses always made walking into a bar a dicey prospect. Thankfully Champions had a state-of-the-art smoke-filtering system—something this joint was in dire need of. If not for the promise of those free beers, he would have walked his ass right back through the exit.

Steeling himself, he strode toward the jam-packed bar. After elbowing a path through the throng and requesting a beer from the bartender, he moseyed out of the way and scoped the room for an available seat. The majority of tables close to the stage were already taken, but he spotted a vacant booth that still afforded a decent view.

Hoping to sweet talk his way into the primo spot, he swiveled toward the hostess stand, only to slam to a standstill when he spied Clarissa sitting at a table near the back of the dining room. She wasn’t alone. Even while his brain scrambled to process that disturbing revelation, he watched the stranger’s hands bracket Clarissa’s face, right before the guy leaned in and kissed her.

Numb disbelief froze him. What. The. Fuck.

Jealous fury detonated inside him, instantly eradicating every thought but the one screaming in his mind—the fucking asshole had his tongue rammed in Clarissa’s mouth. His woman.

Fists balling in preparation of punching the dickwad’s nose off kilter, Logan growled low in his throat and stalked in Clarissa’s direction. A seat suddenly swerved in front of him, almost jabbing him in the hip. He snarled at the clueless guy straddling the chair before shoving the seat out of the way. Ignoring the guy’s sputtering retort, Logan jerked his focus back to Clarissa. And did a double take.

She was alone.

He took a quick scan of the dining room, not seeing the dickwad anywhere. It was almost as if the dude had vanished into thin air. Another possibility knocked against his consciousness and he grunted. Or maybe I imagined the whole thing . The idea wasn’t completely out in left field. Fuck knows this obsession with Clarissa had messed with his head on more than one occasion. Tunneling a shaky hand through his hair, he continued forward. When he was less than two table lengths away from Clarissa, she looked up and locked stares with him. Every ounce of color leeched from her face. Her gaze darted sideways, toward the back hallway, and he lengthened his stride, fully intending to tackle her if her butt so much as inched off her chair.

Apparently reading his intention, Clarissa muttered beneath her breath. He didn’t need to be a lip reader—or rely on his acute hearing—to make out the words “ Fuck me .”

Her irritability, along with her choice of words, stirred the wicked beast within him. Drawing to a halt at her table, he awarded her his best wolfish smile. “Just name the time and place, shug.”

“You know damn well that isn’t what I meant.”

“No? Because I’m thinking that’s precisely what I’d like to do.”

Her cheeks bloomed with a vivid splash of red. “I’m not in the mood for this tonight.”

Clarissa’s testiness only managed to rekindle his anger. “Well, now, I’m real sorry you feel that way, shug. ’Cause the last thing I’d wanna do is piss on whatever urgent plans preempted our dinner tonight.”

“There’s no need to be a prick.” She stood, her eyes narrowing as he strategically blocked her path. “Or make a scene. Please move.”

“What are you gonna do if I don’t? Whammy me? Might be kinda hard explainin’ that one to everyone here, darlin’.”

“Logan, please.” Her voice broke on the last word, stunning him. She glanced down, but not before he caught the faint glimmer of moisture in her eyes. The sight hit him like a sucker punch in the gut, making him feel like the prick she’d accused him of being.