Hunt the Darkness

Chapter Two

Roke felt Sally tremble, her fingers tangled in his hair as her body arched against him.

A groan was wrenched from his throat. Christ, the very air was scented with her desire.

But even as his hands skimmed beneath her sweatshirt to find the soft curve of her bare breasts, she pulled back with a startled gasp.

“Roke . . . stop.”

He hissed, burying his face in the soft cloud of her windswept hair.

“You’re my mate.”

“No.” She sucked in a shaky breath, her eyes dark with a need she couldn’t hide. “It’s an illusion.”

He lowered his hand from the temptation of her breast, but he kept his arms firmly around her.

She wasn’t going to disappear again.

Not even if he had to handcuff her to his side.

He swallowed a low growl.

Having Sally and handcuffs in the same thought wasn’t doing a damned thing to help him gain control of his raging libido.

“It doesn’t feel like an illusion, does it, my love?” he murmured.

“It’s not real.” She licked her lips. “It can’t be real.”

Logically Roke agreed.

Physically? Not so much.

His body was ready and eager to accept that she was created to be in his arms.

His gaze shifted to the tempting curve of her neck, his fangs aching with a savage instinct to mark her as his own.

A damned shame that Styx had warned taking Sally’s blood might very well turn the mating from a magical illusion to a bond that couldn’t be broken.

Battling against his primitive urges, Roke was distracted by the whiff of granite as the gargoyle waddled back into view, his wings shimmering in the moonlight.

“I see the two of you have kissed and made up.”

He sent the pest an annoyed glare. “Go away, gargoyle.”

“No.” Sally shoved out of his arms, her face flushed and her eyes still dazed with their mutual lust. “He can help search the cottage for clues.”

His brows snapped together. “You run from me, but you’ll ask a three-foot gargoyle for help?”

She met his fierce disbelief without flinching. “Unlike vampires, gargoyles are sensitive to magic. He might find something that I’ve missed.”

“Oui, I am very sensitive.” Levet turned toward Roke, sticking out his tongue. “It is the reason women find me irresistible.”

With a flick of his tail, Levet waddled toward the cottage. Roke clenched his hands.

So much for a little one on one time with Sally.

“Shit, that gargoyle needs a muzzle,” he muttered.

“He’s not the only one,” Sally informed him, turning to follow the tiny demon into the cottage.

Roke briefly hesitated.

If he had any sense he’d get on his motorcycle and never look back.

Sally was right.

Magic was a vampire’s true weakness.

There was nothing he could do when it came to breaking the spell that bound them together. Why not head back to his lair in Nevada and wait for Sally to contact him when she had the means to break the mating?

But the thought had barely time to form before it was forgotten as he headed into the cottage.

He’d spent three hellish weeks chasing after his witch.

Until the bond was broken, he wasn’t letting her out of his sight.

Entering through the back door, he passed through the small mudroom that opened into a large kitchen equipped for a witch, not a chef.

There was a massive, stone fireplace with a cast-iron cauldron hanging over a pile of wood. The open rafters were lined with bronze pans and bundles of dried herbs. And in the center of the floor, a circle had been carved into the flagstones that was large enough for two or three witches to sit in without touching.

He followed the scent of peaches into the main room of the cottage, discovering Levet flitting around the sparsely furnished space and Sally standing beside the empty fireplace, her spine rigid.

He grimaced, assuming she was trying to give him the cold shoulder. Then, slowly he realized it wasn’t annoyance she was feeling.

It was a dull, bitter pain he could feel through their bond.

With two long strides he was standing at her side, gently tucking her hair behind her ear so he could study her pale profile.

“There’s something here that bothers you?”

“You could say that.” Her lips twisted as her gaze lingered on the scorched mark on the wall. “This is the precise spot where my mother tried to kill me.”

The image of a young Sally lying lifeless on the floor seared through Roke’s mind and he struggled to contain his burst of fury. His temper had the unfortunate effect of destroying the structural integrity of any building he happened to be standing near.

Instead he concentrated on the pleasant knowledge that Sally’s mother had died a painful, probably even gruesome death at the hands of a fellow vampire.

Levet crossed the room to study Sally with a sympathetic expression on his ugly face.

“Why would your mother try to kill you?”

Sally shivered. “She didn’t know my father was a demon. Not until my sixteenth birthday when my powers started to kick in.” She gave a humorless laugh. “It was an unpleasant surprise, to say the least.”

“Ah. My mother tried to kill me as well.” Levet shrugged. “Families are always difficult.”

Sally managed a small smile that didn’t disguise the wounds that festered in her heart.

“She’s dead,” she said in grim tones. “She can’t hurt me anymore.”

Roke’s fingers brushed her cheek. “No one is going to hurt you.”

She awkwardly stepped away, her expression wary.

Despite their bond she still didn’t trust him.

Hell, the woman had been taught she couldn’t trust anyone.

“My mother’s room is this way,” she muttered, leading them out of the front parlor down a short hallway.

Pushing the door open, she stepped aside as the gargoyle entered the small bedroom and began investigating the dust-coated furnishings.

“Do you sense anything?” she demanded as Levet stuck his head in the closet.

“Non.”

Roke moved across the hall to the second closed door. “What’s in here?”

“Stop,” Sally rasped, a hint of embarrassment in her voice.

“Your room I assume?” Roke smiled with wicked amusement as he pushed the door open to take a peek at the pink bedspread on the narrow bed and lace curtains. “It’s very . . . frilly.”

She sent him an evil glare. “Not all of us sleep in moldy crypts.”

He wandered forward, studying the poster hung over the bed. “The Backstreet Boys?”

“I’ve always preferred my men cute and sexy.”

He glanced over his shoulder, the memory of her melting beneath his kisses shimmering in his eyes.

“Not anymore.”

She rolled her eyes, but even as she searched for the words to deflate his ego, Levet was scooting past her and heading directly to the bed.

“What do I sense?” he asked, opening the nightstand to pull out the plain wooden box she’d kept hidden from her mother.

“It’s just a music box,” she readily answered. “I found it here not long after we arrived at this cottage.”

The gargoyle glanced at her, his tail twitching. “You found it or it found you?”

Sally blinked. “I don’t understand. It was tossed in a pile of rubbish behind the shed. If I hadn’t been hiding from my mother, I would never have seen it.”

Roke’s momentary amusement was snuffed out. “Why were you hiding from your mother?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I was playing with her favorite crystal and set the curtains on fire.”

“And you were afraid you were going to be punished?”

“It wasn’t that. I was used to being punished.”

Roke’s jaw clenched. If the witch wasn’t already dead, he would take great pleasure in skinning her alive.

“Then why were you hiding?”

“I had to get rid of the crystal. I didn’t want her to know—”

“The level of your talent,” he finished for her.

“Exactly.” Sally unconsciously rubbed her arms as Roke’s anger dropped the temperature in the room. At least he hadn’t brought the ceiling down on their heads. “My mother liked to believe that she was the most powerful witch ever born.”

“How old were you?”

“Six.”

Six? Christ. She’d been a baby.

Levet cleared his throat. “Tell me exactly how you found the box.”

Sally furrowed her brow as she shifted through her memories.

“I intended to hide the crystal until the spell wore off so I went behind the shed and stumbled over the pile of rubbish.”

“Was the box dirty?” Levet prodded. “As if it had been there a long time?”

She shook her head. “No, but it could have been tossed out by the previous owners.”

“Did you feel drawn to it?”

Sally lifted her hand in confusion. “Any six-year-old girl would be enchanted by a music box.”

Levet wasn’t satisfied, his wings fluttering with a sudden emotion.

“Did you ever feel compelled to keep it with you?”

Sally hesitated and Roke stepped toward her, a very bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Sally?” he urged.

“I suppose I thought about the box over the years, but I never felt compelled to retrieve it,” she admitted. “Why are you asking me these questions?”

Levet pointed a claw toward the box. “There’s an illusion wrapped around it.”

“Impossible,” Sally breathed. “I would have sensed a spell.”

“It is demon magic, not human,” Levet explained.

“Oh.”

Roke instinctively moved closer to Sally. Why the hell did it always have to be magic?

He’d braved the battles of Durotriges to become a clan chief.

He’d killed an entire tribe of full-grown orcs with a kitchen knife.

He could crumble a building to rubble with the force of his anger.

But magic?

He shook his head in frustration.

“Can you break it?” he demanded.

“Do you mean to insult me?” the gargoyle huffed. “There is none greater in destroying magical illusions than moi.”

Roke made a sound of disgust even as he wrapped an arm around Sally’s shoulders and tugged her away from the bed.

“Stand back,” he warned.

Sally sent him a worried frown. “Why?”

“That gargoyle is a menace.”

“Hey,” Levet protested.

Roke pointed an impatient finger toward the box. “Just do your thing.”

With a sniff the gargoyle turned back to the box, his tail stirring the dust on the floor as he waved his hands dramatically in the air.

Roke clenched his teeth.

If it wasn’t for the fact that Levet was the only one around who could reveal the magic surrounding the box, Roke would have him tossed over the cliff.

Three weeks was longer than any rational man should have to endure with the aggravating pest.

There was another wave of his hands, then a faint pop as the illusion was destroyed.

“Voilà,” Levet murmured, turning around to offer a small bow.

Sally watched the gargoyle in silence, not quite certain what to think of the tiny creature.

He’d always been kind the few times their paths had crossed in Chicago. But he worked with the vampires.

Which meant she wasn’t prepared to fully trust him.

She sighed. What was she thinking?

She wasn’t prepared to trust anyone.

Period. End of story.

Still, when Levet moved aside to reveal the once-smooth box now covered with intricate markings, she couldn’t help but be impressed.

“How beautiful,” she murmured, moving forward to lean over the nightstand.

“Sally, wait,” Roke commanded.

Naturally she ignored him.

The man was way too fond of tossing out orders and expecting them to be obeyed.

Besides, the box belonged to her. It was her duty to discover the truth of its origins, no one else. Even if that meant putting herself in danger.

Whispering a soft spell, she studied the intricate carvings.

They were fascinating. Delicate swirls that were connected by various lines and dots that combined to make an exotic design that seemed to call to some part of her.

She frowned, disturbed by the sensation the markings were somehow familiar.

“They’re not magical,” she said.

“That doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous,” Roke snapped, clearly annoyed that she’d ignored his command.

She turned to send him a glare. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. I’m not stupid.”

The silver eyes seemed to glow in the gloom of the room, holding a power that was almost hypnotic.

“No, you’re impulsive, unpredictable, and a magnet for disaster,” he countered.

Magnet for disaster?

Why the . . . ass.

“Forgive me. I’m only thirty years old,” she mocked. “You can’t expect me to be a stodgy bore like someone who’s been around four or five centuries.”

Levet chuckled. “Oh, snap.”

Roke sent the gargoyle a warning glare. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“Non. Unless . . .” Levet tilted back his head, sniffing the air. “Is that shepherd’s pie I smell?”

“And sweet and sour pork, and spaghetti, oh, and apple pie,” Sally added. “I left them on the counter in the kitchen.”

“Ah. J’adore apple pie,” the gargoyle sighed, heading out of the room with a happy wiggle in his waddle.

Roke moved to stand beside her, the annoyance fading from his expression as he studied her with a piercing intensity.

She shifted uneasily, always more comfortable when they were sniping at each other.

They both understood the attraction that smoldered between them. And the danger that it could combust the second they lowered their guard.

The spark had ignited the minute he’d strolled into Styx’s dungeon.

And the mating had only intensified the hunger until it was almost unbearable.

Their squabbling was a necessary barrier.

“What?” she demanded as he continued to stare at her.

“I haven’t forgotten your impressive appetite.”

She blushed, remembering his shock when she’d eaten enough food to feed a football team during her incarceration. Her magic, both human and demon, burned through calories at an accelerated rate.

“I’m a growing girl.”

He shook his head, his brows drawing together as his gaze took a slow inventory of her slender body.

“No, you’re not,” he denied in gruff tones, his hands lifting to cup her face. “In fact, you’re shrinking.”

She shivered beneath his gentle touch, her hands reaching to grasp his wrists.

“Roke.”

“And you have shadows beneath your eyes.” He ignored her protest, his thumb brushing the purple bruises that marred her pale skin. “Why haven’t you taken better care of yourself?”

She shivered, the cool brush of his fingers sending tiny jolts of pleasure through her.

“I’ve been busy.”

“That’s why you should never have run from me.”

She scowled, but she made no effort to pull away from the soft stroke of thumbs.

“If you try to tell me you would have done a better job searching for my father, I’ll turn you into a toad,” she warned.

“I was going to point out that if I had been with you I would have made sure you ate proper meals and rested when you were tired.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“No, you need your mate,” he growled. “You allowed your pride to deny the natural instinct to be with me and your body suffered the consequences.”

Her breath caught.

Okay, she’d been unreasonably weary. And her enormous appetite had faded. And she hadn’t been able to shake the gnawing sense of emptiness.

But that could be stress, couldn’t it?

The Goddess knew she had enough of that in her life.

“Witches don’t mate,” she muttered.

“Perhaps not, but demons do.” His thumb skimmed down her cheek to tease the corner of her mouth. “And you, my love, are most definitely demon.”

Their eyes clashed. The air sizzled with that ever-ready hunger.

His thumb slipped between her lips . . . and just that quickly, she was desperate for his kiss.

She needed the hungry press of his mouth, the dangerous scrape of his fangs, the intoxicating heat that scorched through her body.

Shocked by the raw, potent yearning, Sally turned away.

“I don’t have time for this,” she hissed, fiercely trying to concentrate on the music box.

“Denying the truth won’t change it. Believe me, I’ve tried,” he muttered, grabbing her arm as she waved her hand over the box and whispered a quick spell. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist.” She sent him an impatient glare.

“Panties?” A dark brow arched. “You think I wear panties?”

She gave a choked sound, the visualization of Roke commando beneath the tight black jeans burning through her brain.

No, no, no. She wasn’t going there.

“I . . .” She licked her dry lips. “I put a protective ward around the box.”

There was a tense second when Sally was sure Roke was going to throw her on the bed and put them both out of their misery. Then, with an obvious effort, he leashed his hunger and turned toward the nightstand.

“It’s safe to touch?”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yes.”

With obvious wariness, Roke reached to pluck the box from the nightstand to study the carvings. Sally watched him in silence.

“Fey,” he at last pronounced.

Fey? How . . . odd.

“You recognize the artist?”

“This isn’t art.” His slender finger traced a curving line that resembled a crescent moon. “These are runes.”

“You’re sure?”

His gaze remained on the box. “My talent is reading glyphs. That’s why Styx insisted I come to Chicago in the first place.”

She watched his finger move to a swirl that ended with three vertical dots, once again experiencing that tug of almost-recognition.

“What do they say?”

“I’m not sure.”

She frowned. “You just said that your talent is reading them.”

“These are . . . unusual. Perhaps ancient.” He gave a shake of his head. “I need to do some research.”

A bad feeling started to bloom in the pit of her stomach.

“And where do you have to do this research?”

“My lair in Nevada.”

“Are you screwing with me?”

His smile was slow and decadently beautiful, the hint of fang making her shiver.

“Not yet.”