Witch Blood - By Anya Bast Page 0,95

beautiful maples shiver and creak. In the distance lights changed at an intersection and one lonely automobile traversed.

She did have on her running shoes.

“I know where your mother is.” The demon’s voice was low and sure. He knew what she’d just contemplated in the split-second she’d glanced down the street. Of course he knew. “I could be to her within the window of time I possess.”

Sighing, Isabelle mounted the bike behind Boyle. Declining to encircle his waist to hold on, she gripped the seat instead.

“We’re going to my warehouse.”

Nausea rose in her throat. She wasn’t wearing a helmet. Maybe they’d get lucky and have an accident before they arrived.

Actually, that was a good idea.

Isabelle knew that now she had the perfect opportunity to kill Boyle. If she could get the syringe out of her bra, she could inject the liquid copper into him while he drove.

Perfect.

Of course, if it worked they were going down. Isabelle, in her Keds, running shorts, and T-shirt would be pretty much screwed in that case. But Boyle would be dead. That was the important thing.

“Put your arms around my waist,” he commanded.

“Excuse me?” That would make it difficult to snag the syringe.

“Your arms. Put them around my waist and hold on. Do not remove them. I haven’t come this far to lose you now.”

Isabelle took a moment to collect her emotions and then slowly placed her arms around his waist. The muscles of a bodybuilder rippled under her hands. His torso felt like rock under the black leather he wore and Isabelle fought a gag reflex.

The bike lurched forward, along with her stomach. Isabelle closed her eyes and offered a prayer to the Lady. At the last moment, she looked up at the darkened windows of the apartment, where Thomas still slept.

Thomas.

TWENTY-FOUR

“ISABELLE?”

Thomas woke and turned over, groping for the warm body he missed. After finding only air and blankets, he cracked his eyelids. She wasn’t in the room.

The hair on the back of his neck rose as his intuition kicked in. Something wasn’t right.

He pushed the blankets aside, found his pants in the dark, and slid them on. Making his way carefully through the dimly lit apartment, he found the living room empty. He could feel that the entire place was empty except for him.

Outside on the street a motorcycle vroomed to life.

He knew the sound of that cycle.

Thomas rushed to the window in time to see Boyle pull away from the curb…Isabelle on the back. Just before Boyle accelerated, she looked up at the window wearing an expression of total desolation.

And then they were gone.

Clear, cold certainty quickly killed the jolt of shock that ran through his body. He knew Isabelle hadn’t left with Boyle because she wanted to…and he knew exactly where the demon was taking her.

Thomas didn’t waste time for anything but his car keys and cell phone. Barefoot and shirtless, he raced from Isabelle’s apartment, dialing Jack and the Coven as he went.

THE WIND WHIPPED THROUGH ISABELLE’S HAIR AND blew up her shorts, making her shiver. Of course the shiver probably had less to do with the wind than it did the demon she rode with.

The bike ate up the streets between her apartment and the warehouse a lot faster than she would’ve liked. She watched the pavement fly by under her feet and wondered what it would feel like if the copper affected Boyle like she hoped. How did it feel to die in a motorcycle accident? Would she end up with gravel three inches under her skin? Would her head split open? She supposed if her head split open she wouldn’t much mind the gravel under her skin.

Lady.

It was the only way and stalling any longer would be criminal. Now was the time. Her last chance. By doing this she’d save her mother, her sister would be avenged, and the worlds—both of them—would be rid of the likes of Erasmus Boyle.

All she had to do was move her hand, grab the syringe from her pocket, and shoot it into him. Then, if the copper injected straight into his body did as she hoped, she would die in a horrible, fiery motorcycle accident. Piece of cake.

She could do this.

She could.

Boyle flipped every stoplight they approached to green. Either that or he had some great luck at hitting the lights just right. Green light. Green light.

Green light.

They were getting near the warehouse and Isabelle knew she had to do it. It was time, past time. Her heart pounding so fast she