Dylan's Witch: 10 (Supernatural Bonds) (3 page)

Needing the contact as much as Patches did, Seraphine joined them, putting her arm around Chesna’s shoulders. Her throat tightened at hearing a fur-muffled sob. Her eyes burned.

Pain radiated through her chest like an echo. But she didn’t hasten its end, not when that end meant separation again.

The finches settled on perches created out of tree branches. They fluffed their feathers and closed their eyes in deference to the darkness outside.

Eventually Chesna lifted a tear-streaked face. Seraphine hugged her closer. With the taste of fear already in her mouth, she asked, “How did you get here?”

Lips firmed in a mutinous expression. “I snuck out and then I caught the bus.”

Oh, Chesna
. “That’s not safe. Not at night. Your mom is probably frantic.”

“She’s not home. Mom’s friend from work has been bugging her to go out and have some fun.” A scowl replaced the mutiny. “By
have fun
, what Denise really means is
meet men
. Anyway, Alice is supposed to be watching me but she always talks on the phone for hours. She won’t even miss me.”

“I’ll drive you home.” It was the right thing. The hard thing.

Tear-filled eyes sought hers. Chesna’s bottom lip trembled and her voice held all that Seraphine felt. “Can we make cookies first?
Please
.”

It was more than just a request to linger in the warmth of the kitchen. It was a pleading for knowledge, their private code for talking about witchcraft and magic.

Denial was Seraphine’s knee-jerk reaction, but only because she didn’t want to worsen the already bad relationship with Electra. Fear for Chesna argued that some risks were worth taking.

The icy chill returned. Trained or untrained, her niece was going to be a powerful witch. Being able to sense the spell-working inside the house tonight was just the latest and most alarming demonstration of it. Given the wards in place, protections strengthened by a demon lord, she shouldn’t have been able to.

“One small batch,” Seraphine said, reaching over and stroking the calico cat. “Then I’ll drive you home.”

Chesna’s smile was radiant. “I can sneak back in. Alice will never even know I was gone.”

Seraphine let the comment pass. They went to the kitchen, slipping into a familiar routine only to have it interrupted a short time later by fierce pounding on the door.

Chesna’s shoulders slumped. “Mom.”

“Yes.” It didn’t require magic to verify.

Seraphine turned away from the counter where the baking pans were now dotted with cookie batter. Chesna slammed into her, arms going around her, transmitting a desperation that crashed through Seraphine.

“Can’t you make Mom understand?”

“All I can do is try.” And try. And try. To no avail.

“Please, can’t we pretend we’re not here?”

“You know we can’t.” Even without her car sitting in the alleyway, it would be a mistake. Seraphine’s hug was every bit as fierce as Chesna’s. “Let’s go.”

They went. Steps slow, like the hopeless cadence of a death march.

Seraphine opened the door, taking the brunt of her sister’s fury when Electra demanded, “Did you put her up to this?”

The blow hurt. It always hurt. “No.”

Electra’s angry focus shifted to Chesna. “You know you’re not supposed to come here. Get in the car.
Now
.”

“Mom—”

“
Now
.”

A final hug. A final pleading glance at Seraphine, and Chesna shuffled away.

“You should have called me immediately,” Electra said. “The very instant she showed up here.”

“Electra—”

“No! She could have been kidnapped and we’d never know what happened to her or even if she was still alive. She could have been raped. She could have been killed. This is your fault. All of it. When you tell her witchcraft is all pretend, when you swear not to practice it, then we’ll talk about Chesna being allowed to visit you. Until then, you call me immediately if she comes to you. You put her in your car and bring her to me.”

Electra stormed away, leaving her anger and fear pounding against Seraphine like a jackhammer, widening the already existing chasm of loneliness. How could two sisters now be so different?

She could pinpoint when it had begun, that summer when she’d been sixteen and Electra had graduated from high school and taken off with friends, backpacking through Europe and staying in hostels. Coming home pregnant with Chesna, though she hadn’t revealed it until it became obvious.

They’d been close until then, sisters who’d always shared secrets. But rather than confide, Electra had hidden the truth of her pregnancy and had never revealed anything about the father of her child.

Electra denied that something beyond getting pregnant had happened in Europe. She refused even to talk about it, but by the time she came home, she’d turned her back on the magic she once believed in and no longer openly used her own gifts.

Seraphine stepped into the house and closed the door. The oven beeped, announcing it was hot enough for the cookies she’d now make alone.

She rested her forehead against the cool wood. The green heartmate stone in her bracelet caught the light like a spark of hope and promise. She covered it with her hand, raw from the encounter with Electra, not wanting to think about Dylan Archer and all the weeks that had passed without him finding an excuse to contact her.

Another man, one who believed in magic, and she wouldn’t have hesitated to call him. But given Dylan’s disbelief in the supernatural, and her own hectic schedule, she’d thought if he sought her out himself…

I can wait for him
, she’d told Arioc, but there was no guarantee it wouldn’t bring only pain.

What if she was clinging to the mere possibility of a future together?

She had no idea what Dylan was thinking, or if he even thought about her at all.

Need hummed through her as she remembered that first and only encounter. She’d opened her door to admit Aislinn’s Trace, a consultation done as a favor, and had her future crystallize in the moment her eyes met Dylan’s.

Searing attraction, an intensity of desire she’d never experienced. Arioc might eventually have been able to rival it, but that was the draw of magic and the deadly fascination of demons, where Dylan was a connection with the human, the compulsion to share the ordinary in life as well as the extraordinary.

Somehow she’d managed to answer Trace’s question about the symbols found at a murder site. But it had been a struggle against being distracted by the heat pouring off Dylan, the scent of his cologne, the sight of his erection and the hunger in his gaze when it settled on her lips, the hardened nipples pressed against the front of her blouse.

The barest, inadvertent touch of their hands had been all that was necessary to send an erotic charge traveling through her. She hadn’t been able to stifle the gasp, and he in turn had escaped on the pretext of needing some fresh air.

I can wait for him
. But should she continue to? Wouldn’t it be better to face her fears, that she and Dylan couldn’t overcome the hurdles that came with her being a witch and him being a cop?

She realized then how the estrangement with Electra had spread, bringing with it the desire to avoid confrontation and possible loss, to cherish hope rather than to act on it.

The emerald-green Elven stone was cool against her palm. Would it still burn in Dylan’s presence?

Her heartbeat tipped into a race at the prospect of finding out tonight, her pulse gaining speed with first the decision, and then the determination to act.

She’d visit Jasmine. No one was better at scrying.

The heartstone should be enough of a link for Jasmine to locate Dylan. And when she did…

Seraphine wet her lips and silently acknowledged it was a toss-up as to whether the gesture was one of nervousness or anticipation. If Dylan wasn’t working, then tonight she’d go to
him
rather than continue waiting for a call that might never come.

Chapter Two

In the homicide bullpen, Trace Dilessio slammed the murder book shut. “Our work here is done.”

Dylan snorted. “Not that it actually required much work. But I’m not complaining. No psychics coming out of the woodwork. No so-called magical artifacts. Nothing that gave off even a whiff of weird. Just an understandable crime done by the usual kind of loser criminal element, and miracle of all miracles, no public interest. No reporters. Nothing high profile about it. And that’s a huge fucking relief, if you ask me.”

Trace laughed. “I hear you, partner. Let’s get out of here.”

Dylan stood and snagged his jacket, the high of success doing a nosedive a step away from where his desk was pushed against the front of Trace’s. In the old days they’d head to a cop bar full of badge bunnies. They’d have a few drinks, talk shit with any other detectives who might wander in. Then one by one they’d select their entertainment for the remainder of the night from a wide selection of very available women and part ways.

Those days were gone. Permanently.

He didn’t need to see the smile on his partner’s face or notice the quick pace of their steps to know Trace was already halfway in bed with his wife, at least in his thoughts. Hell, he was probably banging Aislinn against the wall next to the front door.

Fuck
. And it pissed Dylan off that his cock didn’t even twitch until a picture of that redheaded witch Seraphine flashed into his head like a neon sign inviting entry—of a carnal kind.

Not happening. Not going there.

He’d made mistakes in the past. He’d learned from them. Hell, he’d even made
that
particular monster fuckup.

He didn’t need the refresher course. And he sure wasn’t going to repeat the lesson with Seraphine, no matter how his dick had gone from limp to raging hard-on the instant he’d met her. Christ, he could have hit a baseball out of the park with the wood he’d sported that day.

Just thinking about it was enough to have half the blood in his body heading south. He was screwed.

He sent a glower in the direction of the ring Aislinn had given him as a birthday present, one he still cherished despite Storm’s winding him up with the supernatural shit. The green glinted in the light, and yeah, what Trace and Aislinn had was the real thing, but he didn’t believe in heartmates or destiny.

Dylan hit the light switch. The bullpen was empty, not that it would have mattered if any of the other homicide cops were in. He’d still be heading out alone.

Conner, back from vacation and now shacked up with a fulltime woman he planned to marry.

Brady joined at the hip to a psychic, for fuck’s sake, one who read tarot cards and runes.

Miguel, gone from the bar scene—out of his mind in love with some woman he’d met only a few days ago when she’d shown up at the cookout over at Conner’s place. Not exactly a surprise when it came to Miguel. Poor fucker hadn’t made it a secret he
wanted
to be a married man. Conner had it right when he said his partner was carrying around a ball and chain, hot to engrave some woman’s name on it before shackling it to his dick.

Jesus.

And Storm—not that they’d ever been drinking buddies—out of the blue coming into work after they’d wrapped up the Anita Vorhaus, VanDenbergh Senior and Senator Harper murder cases and announcing she was married to a university professor.

There was something hinky about that situation, though he hadn’t figured it out yet. Hell, there was something completely wrong with the picture when it came to the homicide squad. Its members were like a row of dominos lined up and toppled—all except him.

“Resistance is futile,” Trace said out of nowhere, the downside of working with a partner so long, they got in your head.

“You quoting from
Star Trek
now?”

“Just saying. Call Seraphine.”

And the heat that charged down to his dick said,
Yes! Yes! Yes!

“Fuck no. Just because you’re happily married doesn’t mean all of us lean in that direction.”

But Jesus, sometimes when he saw Trace and Aislinn together, he couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to have what they had. And it didn’t even matter she owned a freaking shop selling tarot cards and crystals and runes and the kind of shit people who believed in that stuff went for.

They hit a turn into the homestretch toward the exit. An evidence room clerk coming from a different hallway emerged, stumbled, nearly collided with Trace.

“Surprised to see you’re still here, Katcher,” Trace said.

Dylan shook his head when Katcher turned beet red, like Trace was accusing him of being a nerd instead of a hard worker.

“Ugh…vacation,” Katcher mumbled. “Making sure everything’s good. Taking two weeks off.”

They pushed through the back exit and Katcher scurried off. Guy probably had married pussy waiting for him at home too.

Dylan threw the notion off. What did he care?

He ruthlessly squashed the lingering sense of aloneness that came with thoughts of the welcome Trace had coming. The cure was a few miles and few beers away. “See you tomorrow.”

He peeled off, going to his car and the cop bar that had been a favorite hangout since his rookie days. Something passing for music blared from the stage as he walked in. A look at the band and he thought at least one of the members must be some cop’s kid, barely legal and there under parental supervision.

Mettes and Patterson were in their usual corner. He snagged a beer at the bar before claiming a seat.

“Look who’s slumming tonight,” Mettes said.

Patterson laughed, turning more than one badge bunny’s head. “You kidding me? Hanging with Vice gives him a wider selection of women. The babes love our down and dirty.”

Mettes nodded. “You’re definitely right about that. Could be right about his reasons for joining us, though I’m starting to sweat here. They’ve got some kind of epidemic sweeping through Homicide from what I’ve heard.”

“Yeah, I heard that too. Guys up there, and gal, though Storm’s an ass kicker, vomiting out
I do
or on the verge of it. That true, Dylan?”