Fury spat at him from the man’s eyes. His face was red, mottled. His hands continued to tear at Torin’s grip, hoping to ease it. Torin easily turned and slammed the man into a wide tree trunk, rattling the man’s head so hard his eyes jittered. “Talk to me, bastard, or die right here.”
Wildly, the man nodded. Frantic eyes rolled back in his head, feet kicked against the tree.
Torin eased off on the pressure slightly to allow the faintest whisper of air to enter the man’s starving lungs. “Talk.”
“Orders,” he said, still sounding strangled even as he hissed in one small breath of air after another. “Over the phone.”
“From who?”
“Don’t know,” he insisted, slapping now at Torin’s hand, locked firmly around his throat. “Didn’t ask! Stop!”
That last word came out on a wheeze as Torin’s hard fist squeezed more tightly again. All around him, the fire roared and humans scurried, trying to save something of the burning motel. The siren continued to wail, closer now, and he knew that in moments there would be even more humans cluttering up the scene. He had no time to waste with this scum.
“You take blind orders to kill a woman? No questions asked?” The black fury inside him was growing, spreading.
“Not . . . woman . . .” the man managed. “Witch.” Hatred fueled that word and glittered in the man’s dying eyes. There was no remorse. No regret. Only a determination that burned as fiercely in his soul as the flames that ate up the motel behind them.
“I cannot let you live,” Torin told him flatly. “No woman is safe—witch or human—while men such as you walk free.”
Worry darted across the man’s eyes but a moment later was replaced by resignation and a kind of fanatic pride. As Torin’s grip eased, he spoke again in a hoarse voice. “Killing me stops nothing. She’ll never be safe. Witches should die. They’ll find her. They’ll kill—”
Torin snapped the neck beneath his hand and let the man fall. If no one moved the body, it would be consumed by the spreading flames of the fire he had caused. There was justice in that.
Either way, the threat was gone for the moment and Torin shifted his gaze to the trees where his woman waited. He’d wasted enough time on this task.
He called on the flames and flashed to Shea’s side.
Kellyn felt the stars beginning to align.
She even gave the desk clerk at the Renaissance Mayflower Hotel a coy smile as he tapped his fingers across the keyboard.
“I’m sorry, miss,” he said finally, and to give him his due, he did seem disappointed, “but our Presidential Suite has been reserved in advance.”
A quick whip of impatience sliced through her, but Kellyn smiled through it. Leaning across the marble counter, she took the young man’s hand and squeezed gently. The sparks flying from her touch went unnoticed by anyone else. “Check again. I think you’ll find the room is in my name.”
He stared at her, his eyes blank, his mouth slack. Her spell countered his objections and as she waited for his response, she whispered, “Do for me what I will.”
The young man blinked, took a shaky breath and nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice as robotic as his movements. “You’re right, of course. The room is reserved for you. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Kellyn smiled again, relishing the sweep of power she felt. How did humans manage to stumble through their lives without the electrifying pump of something magical inside them? What boring, tiny creatures they were. And yet, she told herself, oh, so helpful when properly motivated.
“See? I knew you’d find the mistake,” she assured him graciously. “Now, I’d like champagne and strawberries delivered to my suite in an hour. Please be sure the champagne is very cold. I’d hate to be disappointed.”
Again her power crackled against the young man’s skin and he nodded quickly. “I’ll see to it personally.”
“Aren’t you kind?” When he produced a sign-in sheet for her signature, she simply waved her free hand at it and it disappeared. He went through the motions of filing the nonexistent paper away and then handed her the key cards. “You’ve been very helpful”—she paused to read the name tag pinned to his suit jacket—“Michael.”
“Thank you, miss. My pleasure.”
“I’m sure it was,” she said, releasing him at last. As she did, his free hand swept to the spell-charmed wrist she’d held and idly scratched at