He scoffed. “I don’t deny you’re a pain in the ass. But you know the master will stake me if I hurt you.”
That much was true. Still, that didn’t mean I’d allow him to lead me around like a wimp. “What do you need me to do?”
“Just take two steps toward the Hummer.”
I took one step forward. The flames intensified. I took another. The flames screamed. Screamed like a premenstrual woman in serious need of chocolate. That’s when I took four hurried steps back.
“Shit,” Hank muttered. “Just as I thought. You’re the goddamn trigger. Take off your shirt.”
“Um. No.”
“Your pants?”
“No!”
“Fuckin’ A, Celia. They’re ripped anyway.”
I jabbed my finger in his chest. “They’re ripped because I banged my knee when I saved your sorry undead ass!” Hank glared at my finger, then at me. I sighed, ripped a section of my pants off, and tossed it to him. “There. Is that good enough?”
Hank snatched the cloth from me and sniffed it, smiling when he caught a whiff of my blood. No, that wasn’t creepy or anything. He neared the blaze and flung the cloth like a Frisbee. A static charge of orange light crackled above the fire and the aroma of herbs built until it coated my tongue with a nasty film. Sections of flames raced inward toward the fabric like small fire entities. They leapt on top of one another in their attempt to reach the disintegrating cloth, but instead of growing stronger by uniting, they extinguished one by one.
All that remained of Misha’s ride was a warped, ash-covered frame. “Someone tried to kill you, Celia,” Hank muttered, his tone one step shy of a hiss. “This witch fire wouldn’t have gone out unless it was satisfied its target had been eliminated.”
I pushed my long wavy hair away from my face. I didn’t want to be right. And Hank had a point: the witch fire mojo seemed satisfied once it tasted my blood. Awesome. Just one more evil critter wanting to take a bite out of me.
The heat rose around me from Hank’s rising temper. It would have been sweet if he was angry that some big bad nasty had tried to murder me. But I knew better. Hank was furious that he’d almost been burnt to toast. As a master vampire, Misha would have survived the blaze and the impact. Hank . . . not so much. He would have been the vampire equivalent of a gasoline-soaked matchstick. “How did a witch get in here to cast such a spell? The entire compound is warded against an attack.”
“That’s what I’d like to know.” Misha walked toward me appearing to any human as calm and collected. The way his family spread out to give him ample space and the bitter scent of fury that alerted my tigress suggested that his pissed-off-o-meter had reached a record high.
Hank bowed. “We will find who did this, Master. And when we do, I’ll rip his kidneys out and feed them to him.”
Knowing Hank, this wasn’t a gross exaggeration. Misha crossed his arms and took in my knee. “You’re hurt.” Behind me a phone rang. Edith Anne quickly silenced it.
“I’m fine, Misha. It’s just a scratch.”
Another phone rang. Another Catholic schoolgirl turned off the ringer.
“May I heal you?”
I backed away. “No, Misha. It just needs some ice.” Maria raced toward the house. Another cell phone rang, then another, and another. Misha and I turned to the group just as someone’s “I’m Sexy and I Know It” ringtone filled the cold night. “Who’s calling?”
Misha’s vamps exchanged glances, appearing afraid to reveal the identity of the caller. Maria hurried back with a sandwich bag stuffed with ice. God knew a vamp could haul serious ass when motivated by her master. Her phone rang next. She hurled the packet of ice at my face. I caught it and almost launched it back at her until I saw her gaping at her phone. She swallowed hard and raised her chin. “It’s one of de mongrels from de pack.”
My body stiffened. Okay. Which one?
“Answer it,” Misha snapped.
The moment Maria touched the screen a thunderous growl erupted on the other end of the line. “Put. Celia. On. Now!”