“Here.” Jolene set a steaming mug in front of Devon and then slid onto a stool, patting her perfectly styled updo. No matter whether she was relaxing at home or attending a meeting, Jolene always dressed in a smart blouse, chic skirt, and high heels, emitting an inborn grace and elegance. In her chest beat the heart of a fiercely protective lioness. A rather shrewd, vengeful lioness who proudly let her crazy flag fly and could start a riot at a monastery.
Devon cupped the hot mug with her hands. Steam wafted from the herbal tea and whispered over her face. “Have you heard from your sentinels yet?”
“Only to say that no one has showed at the cabin looking for you. But they will sooner or later.”
After dealing with the incantor, Devon had found her purse in the cabin’s den and used her cell phone to call a teleporter-friend from her lair, Ciaran. He’d not only teleported her to Jolene’s house, he’d then teleported Jolene’s sentinels and five members of her Force to the cabin. They were now all lying in wait for the broker’s men. They’d also searched the cabin and learned that the incantor had gone by the name of Elliot Maverick.
“My sentinels will make the bastards talk; we’ll find out who brokered the deal, and then we’ll discover who was behind the kidnapping.” Jolene’s eyes briefly bled to black, indicating that her inner demon was straining to surface and take control. The Prime might sound calm and composed, but she was no doubt far from it. Devon would bet that the woman was plotting all kinds of delightful ways to punish the fucker responsible.
The Prime didn’t possess a lot of scruples. But then, most imps didn’t, which was why their lair didn’t have the best reputation, and their “laws” were pretty simple. They went along the lines of “Thou shalt not kill without covering up the evidence” and “Thou shalt not steal, lie, or cheat unless thyself is confident thou will not get caught.”
Sipping her tea, Devon let her gaze drift around the room. Jolene kept it immaculately clean. There no sauce splatters on the wall tiles or backsplash. No dishes piled in the sink. No crumbs on the tiled floor or cup rings on the cherry wood counter.
Despite being so orderly, the room didn’t lack personality. Not with the keepsakes and framed photos that lined the shelves and the hand-drawn pictures that had been attached to the fridge by magnets. A great treasurer of memories, Jolene had mementos and framed photos in almost every room.
Taking the stool beside Devon, Jolene’s daughter, Martina, gave her hand a gentle squeeze. The astonishingly beautiful imp was just as batshit as her mother and seemed to find joy in setting things on fire. To each their own.
“Thank God Millicent put those protective wards on you,” Martina whispered. “Mom wasn’t so happy about it back then—the process is a painful one for all involved in the spell, and you were just a child. But I could understand why Millicent never wanted you to ever again be in a position where magick could trap you.”
Devon almost flinched as memories slapped her.
Her little fists pounding against the rear passenger window.
Sweat dripping down her temples.
Her mouth dry and sticky.
Her voice hoarse from shouting for help.
An infant’s cries and struggles.
Martina winced. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up. Sticking my foot in my mouth is sort of my thing, as you know. I just mean that—”
“Do you have any vodka, Martina?” asked Beck, Jolene’s anchor. “I think Devon needs something stronger than tea.”
The blonde tilted her head slightly. “I’m pretty sure we have some in the outside bar. Let me go check.” And then she was gone.
Devon gave Beck a too-quick smile. “Thanks.”
“My aunt means well,” said Khloë, idly tracing the scars on the wooden surface of the island. “She just doesn’t always think before she speaks.”
Raini raised a brow at the petite, olive-skinned imp. “Kind of like you?”
Khloë pursed her lips. “Kind of like me,” she agreed, unashamed. Yeah, well, Khloë didn’t really do shame. Or awkward. Or discreet. Or impulse-control. Or have any hesitation to say exactly what she was thinking.
A fist pounded on the front door.
“That’s probably Harper.” Raini pushed to her feet. “I’ll get it.” Her flip-flops slapped the hardwood floor as she strode out of the room, hips swaying. In her faded Harley-Davidson tank, scuffed blue jeans, and plain white flip-flops, the blonde wasn’t