heat?
“Unfortunately, you’re right,” he conceded in thick tones, opening his eyes to meet her wary gaze. “But I still have a few questions.”
“Very well.”
“How did the spirit escape?”
“Siljar claimed that when the Dark Lord was destroyed it left a void in Gaius’s medallion that the spirit used to enter this world.”
He took a minute to consider her words, at the same time sending out his power to make sure that Melinda remained in her deep sleep. The last thing they needed was the girl waking up in a panic.
“As good an explanation as any, I suppose.”
“They sent me to discover if it was the right explanation.” Nefri shrugged. “Is that all?”
He snorted. All? Dios. He had a thousand questions. Unfortunately they would have to wait. Instead, he forced himself to concentrate on the most pressing problems.
“I would be a lot happier if I knew precisely what this creature is capable of,” he growled.
“You know as much as I do.”
“Which is what?” He gave a frustrated shake of his head. He’d fought more enemies than he could count over the years, but while many had been immortal, they’d at least been creatures he could make bleed. This . . . thing was something he didn’t know how to fight. It made him twitchy. “It’s obvious the spirit is capable of stirring emotions.”
Nefri slowly shook her head. “Actually, it seems more likely that Gaius is the cause of the overwhelming emotions,” she said. “Or at least his bite is.”
True.
Which only made the crazy situation . . . crazier.
“So this creature infects vampires?”
She lifted her hands in a gesture of genuine bafflement. “It’s impossible to say until we manage to find them.”
“Dammit.” He pulled out his phone. “You warn the gargoyle he’ll need to stay while I call Styx.”
“And you claim that I’m bossy?”
He frowned. “Do you have a better suggestion?”
“No,” she denied, her expression one of cool challenge. “I just wished to point out that people in glass houses shouldn’t—”
With a quick motion that caught her off guard, he wrapped an arm around her waist and yanked her against his body. “Shouldn’t do this?” He leaned down to press his lips to the tender curve of her neck. “Or this?” He nibbled down to the edge of her sweater, savoring the intoxicating scent of jasmine. “Or maybe this?” His tongue traced a throbbing vein back up her throat.
“Enough,” she protested, her voice unsteady as her cheeks flushed with arousal.
“Not nearly,” he muttered, but with a stab of regret, he released her.
The spirit had to be found before it could ignite the humans into mass genocide.
But once it had been destroyed, along with Gaius, then . . .
Then he was going to lock this woman in his private rooms and throw away the key.
Styx’s lair in Chicago
Sally was as miserable as a witch could be.
Roke had done his part. With the natural command of a clan chief he’d managed to convince the guards that Styx wanted to see her in his study. Then, avoiding the plethora of demons, servants, and video cameras, he’d halted only long enough to slip on a leather motorcycle jacket he’d left just outside the dungeon doors, before leading her to a forgotten pantry near the kitchens.
It wasn’t until then that she had discovered that her magic refused to work.
She told herself it had to be some sort of dampening spell despite the lack of hex markings. If Styx had it in the dungeons, why wouldn’t he have it in the rest of the house? It made perfect sense.
But, deep inside she feared the interference wasn’t going to go away even when they were beyond the lair.
She’d never tried to use witch magic when she was using her natural talents.
Crap, crap, crap.
Absently rubbing the sleeve of her sweatshirt where it covered her inner forearm, she once again struggled to conjure a spell of illusion. It should be easy. It was a spell she’d performed a thousand times.
But there was nothing. Nada. Jack-squat.
Her magic was MIA.
And it was driving her crazy.
Almost as crazy as her arm. Why the hell was it itchy?
“How much longer is this going to take?”
With a tiny jolt, she realized that Roke had shifted to stand directly before her, his expression one of tender concern.
“I don’t know,” she muttered, ignoring her stupid stab of guilt. This vampire had held her prisoner, she reminded herself for the hundredth time. Why shouldn’t she do everything in her power to escape? Her sudden inability to conjure a simple spell