Stacia Kane - Sacrificial Magic

But then, she probably could have held on to it longer if she and Terrible hadn’t broken it one night, so she guessed that was a pretty fair trade-off. Blood rushed to her face at the memory; her face, and other places, too. He wouldn’t be there for at least another hour or so.

Which she supposed was fine—or, not fine, it sucked. For the tenth or twentieth time she considered calling him, just to hear his voice. Just to see what he was doing, to know from the way he answered the phone that he was happy she’d called him, that he wished he was with her.

But he was probably busy, and she’d be interrupting him. He’d get annoyed, and she’d look clingy and pitiful. It would be like admitting she needed—no, not admitting, there was nothing to admit. It would be like saying that she needed to have him around, and if she did that he’d be turned off.

How the hell was it that she’d always been so comfortable with him before, but as soon as she’d realized she was in love with him, as soon as she told him that … she was nervous all the time?

So she didn’t press the button on her phone. Instead she pulled out her case file to look over while she waited, and hoped that when he got to her place he wouldn’t be in a worse mood over the fire at the pipe room. Had that really been only the night before? It felt like years had passed.

The girls had been playing with Herb Paris berries, and whatever that book was that they’d snatched from the base of the stang when they ran.

Could have been some sort of love spell, sure. Herb Paris berries were very versatile.

But Herb Paris berries were also used in casting the Evil Eye—among other things—and something told her the girls were a bit more the Evil-Eye-or-other-things type. Perhaps it was the fact that they took off so damn fast. Chess didn’t buy the old “innocent people have no reason to run” line—the only people she’d ever known who did were naïve, stupid, or just plain assholes—but given the shit attitude both girls had given her before she discovered their little firedish crime, she suspected “innocent” wasn’t a word that would describe either of them. It wasn’t a word that described anyone in Downside, really. Certainly not her.

Anyway. The girls and their spell were probably irrelevant. The ectoplasm … that was relevant. The fact that Aros’s notes degenerated further and further into utter nonsense with every page—alarmingly quickly, in fact—was relevant. Had the ghosts made him crazy? Someone doing some sort of illegal magic? Had the stress of the case snapped a spring in his brain? Or was he just fucking insane, and it had finally come out?

What would really help would be a conversation with Aros himself. Too bad nobody seemed to know where he was. He’d dumped off his notes with Elder Griffin, thrown his fit at the school, and took off.

If they hadn’t cleared his cabin on the Church grounds, she might be able to get some information from looking through it. She also needed to know if he had family anywhere, people he might have gone to. That should be in his employee file, but perhaps she could find some of his friends or whatever through the cabin.

The sound of an engine rumble outside—the rumble of a particular engine—drew her from her ruminations. Her heart gave a cheerful leap; most of her other body parts started tingling in anticipation. And there was that damned grin again.

That was so dangerous. So fucking dangerous. And every day that went by only made it worse, only made it harder to face the inevitable moment when he’d decide he’d had enough of her, when he’d get tired of her body and realize who she really was. That he didn’t trust her and never could.

Every day that went by was another day gone. Another day closer to the end.

She popped into the bathroom to give her hair a quick brush, give her face a bit more makeup. She had to tell him where her case was. She had to tell him she’d gone to Lex’s place. Had to tell him right away. Not just because he might find out himself, but because that was the right thing to do, and she wanted to do that.

She threw three more Cepts into her mouth, washed them down just as his key turned in the lock and the wards on the door slipped open around him.

His presence filled the room. He seemed to vibrate when she looked at him. Of course that could be her nerves, but she didn’t think so. It wasn’t the first time it had happened.

She stood up, waited at the juncture of kitchen and living room, trying not to grin like a lovesick lunatic. Trying to be casual. Trying to gauge his mood. “Hi.”

His eyes sparked hard behind their darkness as he crossed the kitchen floor, not speaking. Too much energy moved in the air around him, and when he stood right in front of her—close enough to make her tilt her head all the way back—and reached out to touch her cheek she knew what it was. He’d had quite a day, she guessed; violence clung to him like black oil.

Violence and a wild sort of intoxication from that violence, to be more exact. Whatever it was inside him that made him so good at his job, that made him the most feared man in Downside, had been riding him for hours from the looks of it, the feel of it. Now there was nothing else to hit, and that energy, that almost feral whatever-it-was … wanted to find some other satisfaction. Something or someone else to overpower, something or someone else to subdue, to defeat, to conquer.

She knew he’d never think of it that way. He probably wasn’t even aware of it, that dark bloodthirsty excitement lurking behind his eyes, surrounding him like a vicious cloud. His work—fighting in general—didn’t always do that to him, not that she’d seen, but when it did … Her heart jumped into her throat, then fell straight into her pelvis and stayed there, beating like a hummingbird’s wings.

“The fuck happened here? It hurting?”

“Oh, I just …” She bit her lip. “I got a new case today. And no, it doesn’t hurt, not really.”

“Aye? Ain’t so much?”

“Yeah, it looks worse than it—”

Definitely violence. Even if she hadn’t known from his energy she would have known from the way he kissed her, the way he fisted her hair tight at the nape of her neck, the firm possessiveness of his hand on her bottom as he yanked her up against him, bending her backward. Rough and eager, and that energy infected her, too, made her grab his shoulders, wrap her leg around his.

She bit his tongue just hard enough to hurt a little, her head already swimming. His gasp shot a thrill straight down her spine, shot her temperature up what had to be ten degrees or so, because she was sweating even before he slid his hand between her legs from behind and it was her turn to gasp. A gasp more like—almost embarrassingly so—a whimper. A week was too long, way too fucking long. A minute was too long, it was all too long when he was every fast panting breath she took, when the smell and taste and sight of him blotted out everything else in the world.

She already had one leg around him; she wanted to add the other one, to climb up him and let him take her wherever he wanted to go.

Which he did anyway. Instead of her climbing him, he grabbed her hips, hustled her the few steps into the living room until the backs of her thighs hit the arm of the couch. She drifted over it slowly, controlled by his hold on her.

She needed to tell him. She needed to tell him right away. Now, as he helped her slide up on the couch so he could cover her with his body. Now, before they actually had sex. If they had sex before she told him, it would look as though she’d been trying to hide it from him, as though she’d known he’d be mad and wanted to make sure she got laid first. Or as though she hoped that after, he’d be in such a good mood and so relaxed that he wouldn’t care. It would look like manipulation.