Witch Fury Page 3

  The punching bag hung in the center of the large room, weights and workout equipment scattered around the edges. Not having much of a social life, work was Theo’s primary focus. To do what he did—hunt down warlocks and bring them into Gribben, the prison on the Coven grounds—he needed to be in excellent shape. His workout room was where Theo spent most of his time, maybe rivaled by the kitchen.

  Theo was all about giving the Duskoff payback. He lived for it.

  After taping up his hands, he went straight for the bag and started in, hitting it with satisfying thuds that reverberated up his arms and through his shoulders. Punch, punch, roundhouse kick. Soon his whole world became the impact of his body against the bag, drowning out the clamor in his mind and bleaching the memories that haunted him to a shadow of their former selves. Working out was his meditation, bringing him to a place outside his head, clearing his mind and giving him peace just for a little while.

  When he’d been seventeen, he’d been kidnapped by the Duskoff. He was a run-of-the-mill earth witch, a dime a dozen, but he was strong—stronger than average. The Duskoff had viewed him as vulnerable because of his youth and because his family situation had been bad. His status as an at-risk earth witch had earned him a one-way ticket into the bowels of Duskoff International. When seduction hadn’t worked, they’d gone for physical torture.

  Perhaps if Theo had been weaker of mind, emotion, or spirit, it might have worked. He’d been young enough to be broken down and remolded into an image of their choosing. After all, he’d been looking for a home, a family, somewhere to belong. But Theo had known he didn’t belong to the Duskoff, known it down to his very fiber.

  He’d fought them every inch of the way, a thing that had only made them more intent on breaking him. Eventually, once his torturers had figured out they weren’t going to win, they’d used him as a toy. Then their treatment of him had come from pure sadistic ire—hatred of him and his resilience, his rejection of what the Duskoff stood for.

  By the time the Coven had come in on a raid just like the one they were about to conduct, Theo had had broken limbs and organ damage. He’d almost died.

  But he hadn’t, and when he’d recovered the Coven had garnered his undying loyalty. They’d also become the family he’d never had.

  Scars marked his torso as a result of the ordeal, trailed down his arms and legs. They’d been made by a whip and a very sharp knife. Theo could still clearly remember the man who’d made the cuts, his greasy face shining in the wan light of the building’s basement. Years later Theo had looked into that face again, right before he’d dragged his ass to Gribben. Being in Gribben, a place that magickally neutered all witches, was worse than death.

  Otherwise he’d have killed him.

  Ink covered a lot of Theo’s body now, playing counterpoint to the scars. The tats weren’t there to cover them, but to celebrate them. The black tribal marks twisted alongside his scars, swirled around and dovetailed them. Theo wore his scars like badges of honor.

  He always would.

  Theo hit the bag hard enough to send it sailing into the wall behind it.

  He was looking forward to tomorrow.

  THREE

  “WHO WAS THE MAN WHO CAME INTO MY ROOM last night? Big guy, glowing red eyes.” The words came out surprisingly calm considering the fact that Sarafina’s stomach wobbled like a mountain of Jell-O. Perhaps the last few days had numbed her to strange and bloodcurdling events.

  During the second night of her kidnapping, a man had entered her room while she’d been sleeping. She’d awoken to see him looming over her bed, studying her in the dark with eerie red-colored eyes.

  Yes, red eyes.

  It was too much. Too weird. Far too creepy. All of this was one step beyond what her rational mind could take.

  She’d snatched Grosset close to her and screamed. The man had simply smiled, melted into the shadows, and left the room. Actually, it had seemed as though he’d disappeared, but that was impossible.

  After that she’d wedged a chair under the doorknob and been wide awake until morning. Today she was exhausted, past her weird threshold and annoyed as hell.

  Stefan’s jaw locked for a moment and his expression looked pinched. “Calm down, Sarafina, I’m certain he was only curious about you. I will give Bai a stern talking to and it won’t happen again.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “You’ll give Bai of the red eyes a stern talking to? Do monsterlike men with red eyes accept it when you talk sternly to them, Stefan? Do they obey you?” Sarcasm drenched her words. “I want out of here now. I demand to be set free.”

  Stefan chuckled like she was cute, which ratcheted her blood pressure into the stratosphere. “Have you had some time to think?”

  “I don’t want to think. I just want to go.” She moved toward the door, Grosset at her heels.

  Fire puffed into existence two feet in front of her. She gasped at the intense heat and coughed when smoke filled the air. “I suggest you sit down, Sarafina.” All the chuckle was gone from Stefan’s voice now.

  Defeated, she sank into a wing-backed chair across from Stefan. Grosset jumped into her lap and bared his teeth at the man across the room. At least the little dog was finally figuring out the score.

  It had been just yesterday when her world had been tipped on its axis and shaken like a bone between Grosset’s teeth. They’d given her the rest of that first day alone to absorb the information. Yesterday evening Bradley had come to her and again she was shown the magick she held within her. Bradley had done it in a much gentler way, no yanking it from the center of her the way Stefan had.

  She’d learned how to pull threads of her power and perform tasks with them, like lighting candles and producing puffs of fire. She could do everything Stefan could do, but she knew all too well he outmatched her in the power and experience department.

  She stroked Grosset’s head. “I would need a lifetime to get used to the idea that magick and witches are real.”

  Stefan shifted in his seat. “I find that hard to believe considering your younger years. You must have had some clue.”

  “The only clue I had was the one that told me my mother was insane,” she snapped.

  “You never once entertained the notion that all those times your mother called you a witch she might be telling the truth?”

  Sarafina tipped her head to the side. “What the hell is wrong with you? Of course not.”

  Stefan’s faint smile faded. He leaned forward. “Most witches worth a damn can feel it somewhere deep inside.”

  She flinched. How could it be that the comment actually hurt? She didn’t care about being a witch “worth a damn,” did she? At this point she barely believed she hadn’t gone insane herself.

  Irritation swept through her. “Look, you told me what I need to know, showed me beyond a shadow of a doubt my true nature, now it’s time for me to go. I have a life, you know? I have a job I need to get back to, bills to pay, friends who—”

  “You’re not cut out for data entry, Sarafina.” He shook his head. “Fire witches don’t work in cubicles or fetch coffee for their bosses. Stay here with us so that we can show you your true potential, so you can harness your birthright and get all that is due you.”

  Due her? Apparently, she lacked the sense of entitlement that this man had decided she should have.

  Sarafina looked down at Grosset. “Look, I’m grateful that you”—her mouth snapped shut as she searched for the right wording—“unlocked this unexpected part of me, but I don’t owe you anything, and I don’t think the world owes me anything, either. You’re lucky I don’t call the cops on you-all.” She would, of course, but it was no help telling him that. Holding Grosset close to her chest, she stood. “I really am leaving now.”

  Stefan stood, his handsome, pleasant face overcome with storm clouds. “You’re not going anywhere. You do owe us, Sarafina. Don’t make us do this the hard way.”

  Yeah, she’d been afraid he’d say something li
ke that.

  Her anger flared. In response, that seed of hot magick buried in the center of her chest pulsed with newfound power. Sarafina knew Stefan was a fire witch, one far more skilled than she was at wielding the element as a weapon. Newly born, so to speak, she had no chance against him.

  But there was no way she was staying here, and no way she was going down without swinging. She set Grosset to the floor so he wouldn’t be hurt.

  Unbidden and largely untutored, raw fire magick bubbled up from her, streaming down the backs of her arms.

  Stefan stiffened, sensing the swell of her magick. The air suddenly smelled hot as the witch in front of her allowed his own power to rise. Apparently, it was high noon and they were headed for a showdown.

  Shouting came from beyond the room. Stefan turned his head and Sarafina took the distraction as an opportunity.

  She fumbled for a moment, wondering what the hell she should do next, when an uncontrolled burst of flames exploded from her. It felt like she’d fired a cannon and hadn’t aimed well. It went wide, toward the door of the room.

  The door burst inward, ripped from the hinges at the same time the uncontrolled blast of fire hit it. Sarafina screamed in surprise, stepped backward, tripped, and fell on her ass.

  For a hazy, confused moment she thought her magick had exploded the door. Then she focused past the smoke and saw the dark outline of a man—tall, muscular build, long dark hair, grim expression on his face.

  The man glanced at her for the barest of moments. His long hair blew around his face from the force of the magickal battle behind him. His eyes were hard and dark. In his brutal expression lay control and power. Knowledge—deep and wide. Sarafina noticed all that about him in a second and it took her breath away.

  What new nightmare was this man?

  The newcomer turned and deflected an aggressive attack from Stefan. The room exploded into chaos. Two men barreled through the door after the intruder. Instead of using magick to defend himself, he punched one in the face, grabbed him by his shirt front, and threw him into the second. Then he whirled to once again face Stefan.

  The scent of white-hot fire and dark, rich earth filled her nose as furniture slid across the floor and slammed into the walls. The floor itself rippled. It was like a battle of supernatural titans.

  Sarafina clutched Grosset to her chest and crawled behind an overturned table, holding her trembling dog close and wishing like hell this was all some really strange dream fueled by her grief. Any second now she’d wake up and shake her head over it, tell herself she’d never eat cold enchiladas before bed again.

  But this was no dream.

  Shouting, cursing. Explosions. Fire crackling. Growing hotter and nearer until thick bursts of earth extinguished the flare-ups.

  Silence.

  Footsteps pounded through the rest of the house. Shouting in the distance. In the room where Sarafina and Grosset hid behind the overturned table there was no sound. Nothing.

  Maybe the intruders—whoever they were—had forgotten about her. Maybe the hulking man in the doorway had gone away. Maybe this was her chance to get out of here.

  Moving slowly, she peeked around the edge of the table and saw only a smoldering fire in a trash can over in the corner of the room. Smoke wafted through the air. She inched out a little more, straining to hear any other sounds from inside the house. She didn’t know who the party crashers were and wanted to avoid them. With her luck they were worse than Stefan and his ilk.

  Movement. The swirl of a long black duster.

  The man was still there. Peeking out, she watched him circle the room, languid, lethal. His muscular body seemed tense with the desire to kill something, didn’t really matter what. The man turned toward her and she ducked back behind the table and closed her eyes, praying he’d pass her by.

  “Warlock.”

  A hand grasped her collar and lifted her straight up. Sarafina screamed and Grosset exploded in a flurry of Pomeranian rage. He snapped and growled at the man who’d trapped her in his big, sweaty, meaty hands—hands big enough to snap her neck in two seconds flat, she noted with unease.

  “Tell your dog to chill.” The words came out gravelly, like they were forced from an infrequently used set of vocal cords. His grim expression grew even darker, his eyebrows coming together in the middle and the lines around his mouth deepening.

  If she’d met this man on the street, she’d turn and walk the other way out of sheer instinct for self-preservation.

  And she was currently caught in his powerful hands.

  She stood trembling with fear, pulling as far away from him as his grip on her shirt would allow. “G-Grosset, baby, it’s okay. S-shhh. S’okay, baby.”

  Grosset could scent her fear and hear the tremor in her voice. He wasn’t a stupid dog and knew when his mistress was lying. The crazy dust mop only yapped louder. Pomeranians had no sense of size. He thought he was a Rott weiler.

  The man growled and yanked her forward. “You’re coming with me, warlock. You were all cozy in here with Faucheux. That means you’re special, and you’ve got tales to tell.”

  Warlock? What the hell? What was a warlock? Wasn’t a warlock a male witch? Couldn’t he fucking see she had boobs? Her mind spun. She’d just gotten used to the idea of witches. Now there were warlocks? “Listen, I’m not—”

  He shook her once. That was enough. Her brain rattled in her skull and she snapped her mouth closed. “Quiet,” he snarled.

  The man yanked her out of the room and Grosset followed, sinking his teeth into the man’s pant leg. God, she was afraid the hulk would kick him, kill him, but all he did was drag him along with him as though the small dog wasn’t even there.

  Sarafina gasped at the state of the house. It was like a battlefield. Men and women lay motionless on the floor, draped over chairs and tables. Some groaned and moaned, nursing injuries. Others went to each of the fallen, inspecting wounds and trussing some up like prisoners.

  The whole place smelled like magick. Now that she knew what magick smelled like, she could pick out the individual elements. Together, it all burned her nose with a harsh, bitter bite.

  The man pulling her through the house stopped for no one, talked to no one, helped no one. Her panic grew with every step she took. There was no way she was leaving with this man.

  Once they hit the outdoor air and sunshine blessedly bathed her face, burning away the stink from the magickal battle within, she bolted. Pulling away from him with a sudden jerk, she scooped up Grosset and cleared the front steps in a single leap, hitting the grass running.

  She’d been on the track team in high school and apparently she hadn’t forgotten anything. A cornfield surrounded the house and she made for it, intending to hide among the autumn stalks.

  The man bellowed behind her—a roar of displeasure that chilled her blood. She forced her feet to move faster. A bolt of power moved the earth at her heels and she yelped, plunging into the cornfield. Holding Grosset firmly to her, the dry stalks slapped her face and arms as she plowed through them.

  Sarafina darted to the right and then slowed, moving carefully now to avoid breaking the late season stalks and leaving a clear trail for him to follow. Weaving in and out and back and forth as quickly as she dared, she got lost in the field.

  But she knew he was right behind her; she could feel his presence.

  Something behind her boomed and the rich scent of overturned earth filled the air. The very ground behind her furrowed in a ridge, following the path she’d taken through the field like a heat-seeking missile.

  Sarafina didn’t have time to think, to breathe, to do anything. The ground shook beneath her, parted, and she went straight down into it, screaming. Grosset jumped from her arms and landed near her, barking like a furry wild thing.

  She lay on her belly, spitting out dirt when his big hands closed around her waist. He swung her up and set her on her feet. She was covered in earth and exploded bits of corn-stalk. It smeared her face and clothes, c
aught in her hair, and was ground into her palms. Grosset was barking his little Pomeranian head off.

  The man’s heart-stopping glower swung from her to the dog and he took a step toward her pet.

  Sarafina jumped into his path, blocking his way to Grosset, and put a hand to the man’s chest. It was like touching a boulder—just as hard and just as cold. “Get away from him!”

  He simply reached out, grasped her by the shoulders, and moved her to the side. Then he scooped the dog into his hands. Grosset—to Sarafina’s surprise—didn’t bite him. Of course, Grosset didn’t have the best taste in men. He’d proved that by allowing Stefan Faucheux to coddle him.

  The man didn’t say anything, he only took her by the upper arm and gave her a look that said: you can’t get away from me.

  Yeah, okay, she understood.

  He pulled her through the stalks toward the house.

  “Theo,” a man called when they emerged from the field and into the house’s front yard. A blond man with short spikey hair and a crooked nose jogged toward them. “We’re taking all the warlocks we round up to Gribben.”

  Theo—the hulk—shook her a little. Anger made her jaw lock and her body stiffen. “This one was having a close tête à-tête with Stefan. She needs to be interrogated.”

  Oh, great, interrogation. Fun.

  The blond man looked her up and down and frowned. “Are you okay?”

  “Marvy.”

  “We’re not the monsters here.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.” She spat the words.

  The blond man turned his gaze back to Theo, ignoring her pointedly, and jerked his head toward her. “She’s a charmer.”

  “Yeah. Any sign of the air witch?”

  Crooked nose man shook his head. “No luck. They’ve got her hidden away good. Not even Mira or Claire can hear a peep.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yeah. You can take this one back in the van. I’ll see you at the Coven.” He turned and strode back to the house, where a pretty woman with long, curly dark hair waited for him on the porch.