Witch Blood - By Anya Bast Page 0,88

gift.”

Shock shot through her and her mind sputtered to a halt before revving into thought overdrive. A gift? He was trying to kill Stefan as a gift? For her?

“Where’s Jack?” Thomas demanded from his position beside and a little in front of her. “Where are the others?”

“I came for Stefan. Not the aeamon who chased me.”

“Where are they?”

Boyle didn’t answer; he only raised a blast of demon magick and centered it at Thomas.

Isabelle screamed as power rocketed through the air. Thomas flew backward into the wall behind him and hit with a sick sounding thump. Dread pulled an icy knot in her stomach as he crumpled to the floor.

Boyle raised his power again and Isabelle whirled, screaming Adam’s name. Surely Boyle meant to hit him next. But it was too late. Demon magick arced through the air, saturating her nostrils with the scent of old other-Earth. Adam went down, sprawled in an unnatural position on the concrete floor, while Isabelle watched.

“I do this for you, Isabelle Novak.” The demon almost sounded hurt. As if he’d given her a gift that she’d thrown back in his face.

Her eyes wide and her chest heaving—how much stress could one take before one broke?—she glanced at Adam and then at Thomas. They both still appeared to be breathing, thank the Lord and Lady.

She turned her attention back to Boyle. “I did want to kill Stefan, Boyle. I wanted to kill him at first because I couldn’t find you. I want to kill you, don’t you understand? You killed my sister!” She screamed the last sentence.

The demon shook his head. “No, I don’t understand. I have lived in your home for all these years. I have lived among you, passed for one of you, but I still don’t understand you, aeamon.” He looked off into the distance and almost seemed…sad. “I want to go home.”

Isabelle remained unmoved. However, she did move.

Taking advantage of his distraction, she reached down, pulled the syringe free and rushed him. All she had to do was get the needle in him somewhere. Anywhere.

She’d taken him by surprise and managed to sink the needle through the fabric of his shirt and hit flesh, piercing his chest. Before she could press the plunger down and shoot the liquid in, Boyle roared, raised his arm and knocked her backward.

She went sprawling onto her ass. Her elbows hit hard. Pain exploded. She struggled to stare up at the demon, knowing that to take her gaze from him now meant lots of agony for her later.

The demon stared down at the syringe poking out of his chest, reached down and pulled it out. All of Isabelle’s hopes crashed as Boyle tossed it to the side, like a piece of refuse. Involuntarily, she lurched forward and reached out as if to catch it and then collapsed in a heap at Boyle’s feet.

Boyle stared down at her for a moment, his lips parted so she could see the tips of his double row of pointed teeth. His eyes blazed red. He raised his hand and magick pulsed through the air, coating the back of her throat with the dry, bitter flavor of it.

Staring up at Boyle, Isabelle could see her impending death. Inwardly, she groped for power and came up empty, all of it stripped away by Gribben. But these walls didn’t affect Boyle. His magick remained strong, vibrant. His desire to use it with killing force now stood clearly on his face.

Magick rippled and Isabelle felt something warm running over her upper lip—her nose had begun to bleed.

The demon moved his hand and she cringed, waiting for the blast that would end her life. Then he hesitated, lowered his hand. “I can’t kill you now. Later. Soon.”

He stepped over her, leaving her sprawled on the ground, and headed into Stefan’s cell.

Isabelle lay for a moment, overwhelmed with relief that she’d dodged Boyle’s temper…for the moment. Then she pushed up, hardly believing what she was about to do. How the hell had she’d gone from trying to kill the head of the Duskoff to trying to save his miserable life? She lunged after Boyle.

Isabelle careened through the space the demon had just occupied and slammed into the doorjamb of Stefan’s cell, breathing heavy. Raising her gaze, she stared into the empty room. Boyle was gone.

So was Stefan.

TWENTY-THREE

ISABELLE WHIRLED TOWARD THE TWO FALLEN MEN, but her thoughts whirled faster. Had Boyle pulled Stefan through a doorway to kill him at his leisure elsewhere? Or had Stefan taken the