Touched by Fire (Demons of New Chicago #1) - Kel Carpenter Page 0,15

my eyes, cold sweat coated my skin. My muscles felt sore, and my head still pounded.

The crash, as I’d called it, had run my body through the wringer.

I let out a shaky breath, my abdomen clenching as I hauled myself up in a sitting position. The door to my bedroom was wide open. Between here and there, my clothes littered the floor, like I’d had a one-night stand after too many drinks. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

If the clothes weren’t proof enough, the grunt that came from my living room reminded me just how much I’d fucked up my last mission.

I glanced over at the battery-powered clock on my nightstand. It was past four in the afternoon.

I got to my feet and dragged my exhausted ass out of my room and toward the bathroom. Another grunt drew my attention as the witch I’d captured pulled at her bindings. For someone that had cowered right before I knocked her unconscious, she was being awfully brave.

I turned on my heel and lifted both eyebrows. Whatever I was going to say dried up on my tongue as I took one look at her. Light brown hair stuck up in odd angles, strands of it were plastered against her sweaty face. Her lips were chapped, and her cheeks splotched and ruddy. The brown eyes that stared back at me were bloodshot and angry.

She was sick.

The grunts weren’t simply for my attention, but to clear her throat. Or at least attempting to.

I’d left her in her wet, sopping cloak for I don’t know how long, and I was too cheap to pay for heat. While most supernatural creatures wouldn’t fall ill to the elements, or anything else, witches and warlocks were the weakest on that front. Their bodies were mortal.

I let out a sigh. This was really the last thing I needed to deal with right now.

Not when I needed answers.

My eyes strayed to the second bedroom.

“I’m going to shower, and once I feel human again—I’ll try to figure out a solution for your . . .” My words trailed. Her eyes narrowed. “Predicament.”

Turning on my heel, I shut myself in the bathroom. Not wanting to look at my reflection, I flipped the shower on and stripped the rest of the way. I clambered in as soon as steam started to rise above the curtain. It wasn’t until I was washing the conditioner out of my hair that I noticed the bruises around my wrists.

The memory of his hands wrapped around me, his skin pressing against my own. It made me shiver.

Hatred, I told myself. Disgust.

He was a demon. Not a man. Not truly.

I finished washing myself and flipped the water off. Shoving the curtain aside, I stepped out onto the plastic bathmat. With a faded pink towel, I dried my skin and wrung my long blonde hair out in the tub.

When I opened the bathroom door, cold air kissed my skin. I strode across my tiny living room and closed the door behind me when I entered my bedroom, letting the towel drop.

First thing, I rehung my trench coat and emptied it of weapons. Then I dressed in black jeans and another long-sleeved shirt. Using a utility belt, I strapped a gun on each hip.

I opened my bedroom door and regarded the witch coolly.

“Now, you and I are going to have a little chat. If you’re good, I’ll give you food and medicine—and maybe even let you use the bathroom. If you’re not,” I paused to lift one of my guns for her to see. “I have zero problem shooting you.”

She continued to glare as I approached her. Kneeling in front of the chair, I lifted the gun and pointed it in her direction, before yanking the gag from her mouth.

She coughed twice, and I could see it in her expression that she was debating which was the worse evil. Being alive and questioned, or having me kill her.

“What do you want?” she asked.

I smiled, but it wasn’t kind. “The same thing I always want from your kind. Answers.”

She shifted in her chair, clearly uncomfortable, but compliant—at least for the moment.

“To?”

“Why did the Antares Coven want to summon a demon?” I asked, without missing a beat.

She laughed once, humorlessly. “Why does any coven try a summoning?” she asked rhetorically. “Power,” she spat the word.

I narrowed my eyes. “You sound like you don’t agree.”

Her expression hardened before closing down entirely. Her eyelids fluttered, lowering so I couldn’t read her expression as easily. “I’m not