Читать книгу Captivating The Witch - Michele Hauf - Страница 8

Chapter 3

Les Douze was French for The Twelve. And something about that moniker rang a bell in Ed’s memory. Perhaps he and Laurent had discussed it once? But why, and what did it mean?

After searching for hours through the database his office maintained—hacked from Hawkes Associates—Ed learned The Twelve had been a coven of witches from the eighteenth century who had been accused of witchcraft by the locals and burned to death in the Place de Grève, which was now the Place de l’Hôtel de Ville, or city hall. A remarkable and grisly event that the human Parisians had talked about for decades and the real witches would never forget.

That verified what Ed suspected. He rubbed the small, solid black circle sigil on his forearm that had burned when he’d first landed in the cemetery. Indeed, those creatures had been witches. But what sort? Witches were generally alive. Not even generally, but rather, exclusively.

Those things after Laurent had been remarkably zombielike. With skin falling from their limbs, their only audible sounds had been grunts and groans. Strange, metallic gray stuff had oozed from their mouths. But really? Had dead witches killed Laurent?

“But Les Douze were burned,” he muttered, closing his laptop and leaning back in his office chair. “They were reduced to ashes. Things don’t come back from the dead. Not usually.”

He’d heard the rumor about a tribe of revenant vampires who had been resurrected from the dead. And sure, he guessed dark magic could bring anything back to life. A dark witch or warlock could conjure such a monstrosity. But it would be a real zombie. Zombies were shambling bone sacks. Their brains had to be degraded or completely gone. A revenant could not feasibly survive for long.

As far as he knew.

Ed wasn’t up on zombies and dead things. He didn’t want to be, either. But he had watched his friend get torn, literally, limb from limb. He couldn’t ignore that horrific incident. And no doubt, Laurent had tried to communicate something about Les Douze.

The office was quiet and vast. Black marble stretched the floor and up all the walls. It was peaceful here six floors above the big bustling city. Sometimes too peaceful. But then again, something always happened to shake him to the core and exercise his diplomacy and survival skills. Like impossible zombie witches killing his friend.

Thinking about witches made Ed shudder. Demons and witches had a strange and volatile relationship. Most witches could not control a demon unless they had originally summoned that demon. Likewise, demons hadn’t much control over witches. But the most powerful witches could control demons and use them for nefarious means. Every demon child was told scary tales at bedtime, and Ed’s mother had loved to frighten him with tales of wicked witches.

There’s nothing you can do to outrun them. He recalled the creepy, dramatic voice of his mother, Sophie, as she’d lean over the bed and speak to the sheet he’d pulled over his head in fright. If you ever see a witch, Edamite, run!

Of course, then his mother would laugh and leave him shivering in bed, wishing his father were actually married to his mother and living with them so he could run to him for a sympathetic hug. It hadn’t been that his mother was vindictive. Ed guessed she simply never realized how those tales had freaked out her son.

Unfortunately, such childhood frights had not completely warned him off witches. He’d dated two. Two too many.

The first had been flighty and fascinated by his demonic nature, yet had only lasted so long as he could endure her silly human propensity to gossip, shop and text, text and text some more. The second had tried to enslave him and had come so close that he’d felt her power strip him of his innate magical defenses. It had been three days of relentless torture he would never forget.

But he was a grown man now. He was a high-ranked demon in the city of Paris, thanks to his not showing fear in the face of challenge and his tendency to take charge and get things done. He was respected and revered by his kind. And witches should walk a wide circle around him.

Not kiss him.

You were the one who kissed her.

Funny thing, that. She must have used magic to get him to lock lips with her. Why she would do that was beyond him. Must have been a distraction so he wouldn’t strangle her in retaliation for the binding. Weird way to go about shifting the balance of power. And how had she, a witch, controlled him when she had not summoned him?

“She must have great power,” he muttered.

But did it matter? He should not give another moment’s consideration to a pretty witch with wide green eyes and soft lips, whose derriere had wiggled teasingly in her tight skirt. He’d learned his lesson. Witches could never be trusted.

There were more important things on the table now.

Some very powerful magic had been present in that cemetery. It had torn Laurent apart. As well, he’d felt the air crackle with the unseen magic. A force greater than the creatures he’d witnessed, perhaps? He wielded demonic magic, but if the tales of demon/witch relations were accurate, it was never effective against witches for long. And he suspected his ability to use magic against witches had irrevocably weakened, thanks to his ill-fated romance with Witch Number Two.

Yet, if it were witches, he was going to need some powerful magic to figure this out. At the very least, provide him with answers, perhaps some suggestions as to how to approach the creatures he had seen.

Had Laurent’s death been a bizarre but singular event? Did he have to kill them? How to kill them? Only another witch’s magic might serve the killing blow.

Could he lower himself to work with a witch? There must be someone else who could tell him about witch magic. The werewolves and vampires Ed called allies likely wouldn’t know much. He considered contacting John Malcolm, the exorcist he kept on his payroll. The man was more versed in demons and ghosts. Though he had begun dabbling in witch finding. It was a medieval, yet very necessary, practice that few specialized in nowadays.

Ah hell. He’d give it a go and contact a witch. For Laurent’s sake. The man had been a good friend; he deserved the investigation, if not downright vengeance. And Ed would rather jump into a situation with a knowledgeable enemy than wait for a less informed ally to wander along and half ass the situation.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Inego, one of his field assistants. “I need you to find the most powerful witch in Paris,” he said. “Bring John Malcolm along.”

“The nutty one with the crazy eyes? Isn’t he an exorcist?” Inego asked.

“Yes, but he’s added witch finding to his oeuvre. He should be able to track one for you.”

* * *

Tamatha had encountered a corax demon. She wrote the term in her purple-glitter-covered notebook and underlined it. The breed was related, somehow, to the Corvus corax species of ravens. Perhaps the demon could shift to raven form? Many demons possessed shifting abilities. She’d have to look it up when she got to work on Monday.

What she did know was that the breed could be very grumpy following a kiss. And not at all friendly. She wasn’t going to write about the kiss in her notes, though.

She set the notebook aside and it automatically straightened on the bench to align with the painted brown wood. She pulled out from her purse a pair of black rhinestone-bespangled sunglasses. The high sun warmed the Luxembourg Gardens today. The air smelled green and alive. A nearby pear tree scented the air sweetly. Yet she wished she were inside, two stories belowground, sorting through dusty pages in the archives.

But she would follow her boss’s suggestion that she not return to work until Monday. Perhaps a relaxing weekend was needed. So to put herself in the vacation mood, she had given herself a mani/pedi this morning. The gray, sparkly polish glinted in the sunlight and went well with the silver rings she wore and her hair. She’d got her silver hair from her mother, whose shade had been slightly darker and tinted blue. Petrina had told her Grandma Lysia’s had been blue-black.

The park wasn’t as crowded as she’d expect on a sunny day. It was early yet and most were probably at home eating breakfast, save for a few mothers and their children scattered around the pond tracking sailboats.

Tamatha worshipped nature and was pleased she’d found a place to live so close to this lush garden escape. The few people who did wander about also soaked in the sunshine. When had the Parisian men started wearing such tight, brightly colored pants? Not at all garish, the style showed off some nice thighs and well-shaped derrieres. Had she really been away from the dating scene for so long? She preferred a stylish, gentlemanly look, groomed hair and maybe some stubble and a mustache.

“And tattoos,” she said with a smile.

She had many. Some were spell tattoos; others were personal, such as the Bellerose family crest she wore on her right biceps. It featured a bell-shaped pink rose surrounded by black and gray shaded arabesques, and the family motto Love Often was inked in Latin—Amor Modum Saepe.

She recalled the corax demon had tattoos on his neck. A vampire ward similar to the one she wore in white ink (more discreet). And the backs of his hands had been virtually blackened with ink, though maybe that had been the black leather half gloves creating the effect; she’d looked so quickly. That was the only body art she had noticed because he’d worn a suit and buttoned-up gray dress shirt, which had given him a GQ-with-an-edge look. And his black hair and brows had drawn her focus to his pale gray eyes.

Eyes that had briefly glowed red. She wondered now if the glow was something that happened without his volition. Was it controlled by emotion? Anger? Reaction to surroundings? Instinct? Was he aware when they turned red? All of the above?

So many questions and so many books to read to learn the answers. The prospect of research thrilled her.

She smoothed a hand over the volume on European demon breeds she’d taken from the Archives, thinking reading was pleasurable, but an afternoon sitting across a café table from a sexy demon, asking him anything and everything she wanted to know, would prove more desirable. Gazing into his eyes. Drawing in that interesting icy cedar scent...

Tamatha straightened abruptly and slammed the book shut. “You do not have a thing for him,” she admonished. “He called you vile.”

The guy must harbor the age-old hang-up most demons had toward witches. She thought it silly. But some habits died hard. And she knew more than many witches who still avoided vampires because the longtooths possessed the ability to steal a witch’s power through bloodsexmagic—biting, and draining them of magic while they had sex. Ugh. Nothing sexy about that scenario whatsoever.

She had never dated a vampire and generally preferred human men. They were easy enough to figure out. Though she never got too serious. The family curse and all. While she’d never been directly responsible for a death, there had been that time she’d mixed magics and a windstorm had uprooted a tree and sent a branch straight through her lover’s heart. He’d hit her once, and she’d feared him every time he’d walked through her door. Had he got what he deserved? It wasn’t for her to judge, but certainly she hadn’t cried over his death.

What she wanted was a challenge, someone to seduce and stimulate not only her mind, but her body, as well.

“I don’t even know his name,” she whispered, then sighed again. Chasing the mysteriously sexy demon out of her head was proving impossible. Ah well, a little daydreaming never hurt anyone.

Nearby the octagon pond, Tamatha heard a splash. She saw two feet upend over the edge of the pond and a sailboat bobbled frantically. A child had fallen?

Heartbeats thundering, she reactively touched her middle fingers together to activate her water magic and whispered a controlling spell. A whoosh like a tidal wave curved toward the pond shore, spitting the kid back onto the pebbled ground. A mother shrieked and rushed for her soaked child.

And Tamatha exhaled with relief. “Whew.”