Bait N' Witch (Brimstone Inc. #3) - Abigail Owen Page 0,1

open. Rowan didn’t question, but instead rushed inside. Following the sound of a struggle, including several more screams, she hurried down a long hallway off the foyer to what appeared to be the family room.

The scene she came upon had her hesitating in the doorway. Three identical girls, around the age of twelve or thirteen, flung spells at each other in rapid succession and with angry intent behind every blow. In their midst stood a tall man, so handsome his looks registered even as she was figuring out what to do. His lips pinched with frustration as he tried to put a stop to things.

As far as Rowan could tell, the girls were using their magic to disfigure each other. Even as she watched from the shadow of the doorway, one wailed as her hair sprouted, lengthening until it touched the ground in a waterfall of follicles.

“Hey,” the girl squealed.

“Now Chloe—” the man tried in a placating voice.

But Chloe wasn’t listening. “I’ll show you,” she shouted. With a whisper of words and a fling of her hands, one of the other girls suddenly turned bald.

Another piercing scream of fury rent the air.

“Lachlyn, don’t you dare—”

Again, the man’s words went unheeded and next thing, Chloe’s long hair turned mint green.

The third girl laughed, and both her sisters turned on her together, faces red with anger.

“Enough!” Rowan snapped the word, voice full of authority as she stepped into the room. With a wave of her hand, all three girls abruptly sat on the pale leather couch, mouths snapped shut and hands in their laps, held mute and immobile by Rowan’s spell. She would not release them until they understood the consequences of their actions.

The man whirled on her, hands raised, glowing blue orbs of energy already formed and sparking in his palms, ready to blast her. However, Rowan had expected his action and stayed still, doing nothing to provoke him further. After all, if a total stranger showed up in her home casting spells, she’d fry them and ask questions later.

If anything, she found his restraint impressive.

“Who are you?” he demanded in a low voice.

The smooth rumble of it reminded her of the first time she’d heard a timpani drum in an orchestra as a child, the sound rolling through her chest and lodging in her mind. Shock stirred along with a rush of…need. She hadn’t felt need for a man in…she couldn’t remember how long.

What the hell and fairy bells?

The fates truly did have it in for her. What jokester thought attraction for this particular man would be remotely funny? Because Rowan damn sure wasn’t laughing.

Now that the chaos had ceased, she studied him more closely, trying to reduce the need strumming her nerves by logically categorizing the sum of his parts.

A widowed father to almost-thirteen-year-old triplets, he was also the lead witch hunter for the Covens Syndicate. She’d expected someone in his mid-forties at the youngest, picturing distinguished gray at his temples and the onset of wrinkles. Maybe even a gut. Not that every middle-aged man looked that way, but every middle-aged warlock she’d ever happened across did.

Her mental image was a far cry from the warlock standing before her. She tallied up the essentials: mid-thirties, lean, intense, jet-black hair without a trace of gray in sight, and dark eyes currently sparking with anger and magic. Like a panther lying in wait for unsuspecting prey to wander under the tree where he lurked.

A warning she took seriously, answering in a quiet, calm voice. “Mr. Masters—”

“How do you know my name?”

“I’m your new nanny.”

“Like hell you are.”

Screw patience. She rolled her eyes. “Call Delilah if you don’t believe me.”

She had no idea how Delilah had managed to make Greyson Masters think it was his idea to have Brimstone hire his latest in a long line of nannies. She didn’t ask the woman questions like that.

Still holding the crackling energy weapons in his hands, Greyson ran an assessing gaze from the tip of her untamed hair to her sneaker-clad toes and a jacket too thin for the late fall chill. Rowan did her best not to shift under his scrutiny, an unaccustomed feeling of vulnerability crawling up her spine like spiders. She wondered what he saw. Would her long red curls be the dead giveaway she feared? Would he recognize her as the witch he currently hunted? She’d considered changing the color, but that would require constant concentration to hold, or permanent hair dye that would quickly show her roots as fast