Witch Blood - By Anya Bast Page 0,97

from behind her. Low. Rasping. Forced. In pain.

Boyle.

He put his hands on her shoulders. Apparently, she’d been wrong about Boyle’s ability to move. Unfortunate.

Isabelle held Thomas’s gaze for a moment. She knew she looked resigned.

Boyle poofed her.

SHE COULD STILL HEAR THOMAS’S AGONIZED BELLOW ringing in her ears when she suddenly found herself in the warehouse, her stomach roiling and her head pounding. Isabelle took two steps forward, staggered and went down on her hands and knees. Bile coated the back of her mouth and flooded her mouth with bitterness.

Her hands pressing into the cold concrete, she closed her eyes for a moment and concentrated on not passing out. Boyle’s way of transporting people really sucked. She’d prefer a car to that any day.

Behind her came heavy, shuffling footsteps and a low groan. Keeping her head bent, she opened her eyes and stuck her hand up her sleeve, her fingers closing around the hilt of her copper knife.

“You won’t live long enough to kill me, Boyle. You’re done.” Her voice echoed steady and harsh in the quiet of the warehouse. “It’s in the sound of your voice and the cadence of your step. Death.”

No sound. Not even a whisper of breath filled her ears. Isabelle hoped for one wild moment…then four shuffling steps toward her. Huge hands thrust under her armpits and lifted.

She’d expected to be yanked, thrown, hit, something violent. The demon’s touch was gentle instead, almost caring.

“I’m going home,” he whispered as he lifted her into his arms. “Don’t you understand? I’m going home.”

“Not if I can help it.” Isabelle stabbed him in the throat.

Boyle dropped her. She fell to the concrete and this time Thomas wasn’t there to cushion her fall. Isabelle hit her elbows, tailbone, and jarred her teeth. Boyle screamed and backed away from her, pulling the blade from his throat and tossing it across the warehouse.

Maybe his immune system had been weakened by the straight shot of copper into his body. Maybe he’d run out of “allergy shots.” In any case, the wound she’d made with the blade smoked and popped, the gash growing larger. Acidic blood dripped and sizzled onto the floor.

Isabelle crab-walked back away from him, toward the door. She knew she couldn’t leave until the demon was dead, but she went for the exit involuntarily anyway. Boyle held his hands to his throat, screaming, and tossing his head. She wanted nothing more than to get away from him, like a child needs to escape the monster in her closet that isn’t imaginary after all.

She backed through the sticky part of the air that Adam had found. Her stomach lurched as the tendrils of half-baked magick pulled at her clothing, skin, and hair. Made up of the power from the murdered witches, the partially open doorway stung her nostrils like undiluted evil, like she’d snorted dark, bitter ale through her nose.

Isabelle gasped and shot backward, out of its range. It was much stronger than the last time she’d gone through it. Boyle’s spell was nearly finished. She was the last key. Apparently, he’d taken another witch before her. They’d made it harder on Boyle with their list, but they hadn’t stopped him.

Even free from its grasp, she couldn’t shake the cling of the partially finished doorway from her skin and hair. Her breath came in short, brutal bursts as she waited—prayed—for Boyle to fall. For it be over.

Lady, please. She didn’t want to be the last piece of that gateway of utter yuck.

Boyle turned and stared at her, as if reading her thoughts. His eyes glowed red and his lips parted, revealing razor sharp teeth. Slowly, he removed his hands and straightened, showing her clearly that his knife wound had healed.

Then he smiled.

Isabelle pushed to her feet. Base fear rocketed through her, burning down her veins and shooting up her spine. She wished she could be stronger, braver, but watching that demon smile at her made her whole body quake.

“Why won’t you just die!” she screamed at him. Because, Lady, she didn’t want to.

He took a step toward her and stumbled, his smile fading a little. “You don’t understand my motivation. I’m leaving this place.” He said this place like someone might say maggot. “I’m going home to my people, to the places I remember and love.” He stumbled again, but then straightened and walked steadily for her, as if gaining strength from the very idea of returning home. “I refuse to die.”

Isabelle backed up farther and farther. She simply couldn’t stop herself.